taste for brandy."
Alistair looked amused. "It has an excellent flavor, Marcus."
"Then my sense of taste has definitely been ruined by the disgusting swill that passes for food inside," Marcus said, sighing. "I thought as much. A man must be desperate indeed to tolerate such appalling slops."
Alistair grinned. "Just like Harrow, as I recall. But did you discover what you wanted?" He gestured with his brandy glass. "Did you find Warwick—and his criminals? You must know that I am expiring with curiosity. Tell me all."
Marcus stretched out his long legs toward the empty fire grate. He felt as chill as the house, cold and empty. One of the reasons he had been able to spend three months in the Fleet was that there was no one to notice his absence. In the years since his wife had died, he had traveled widely. No one was in the least surprised when he disappeared for months on end, and positions in his service were eagerly sought since his servants had the longest holidays in London.
In the three days since his release from the Fleet Prison, he had noticed more than ever before the emptiness of Stockhaven House. It was odd, for previously his solitude had never disturbed him. Now, however, he felt that he wanted more— although he was not sure exacdy what more was. A house full of servants did not seem the answer.
"I discovered that the prison is a fertile ground for the recruitment of men to the criminal fraternity," he said, in reply to Alistair's question. "Debtors who are desperate for their freedom will promise anything to those who buy them out of jail."
Alistair pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "Just as you thought. But surely it would be better to recruit a bunch of hardened criminals in Newgate rather than the Fleet?"
Marcus shook his head. "What is the point of recruiting a man who may well hang the next day? The debtors of the Fleet are a better class of criminal. Some may not even be criminals at all. But all are frantic for lack of money, and the man who can buy them out of prison has a hold over them for the rest of their lives."
"Is Edward Warwick one such?" Alistair asked.
Marcus nodded. Hunting Warwick, a criminal mastermind, was the reason he had gone into the Fleet in the first place. "He is certainly one of the main players," he said. "I spent three months in a cell with men who were terrified of his very name. All my cell mates were too afraid to tell me more than the merest scraps of information about him. I learned that Warwick buys a man's debts—buys their very souls—so that they dance to his tune."
Alistair narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "It sounds as though you were wise to make your inquiries incognito. You never met the man yourself during your time in the Fleet?"
"Unfortunately not, although he regularly visits the prison to recruit his men. But perhaps it was fortunate that Warwick and I have not yet met." Marcus's mouth took on a grim line. "We will one day and I would wish to be better prepared."
Alistair Cantrell nodded. "So did you discover anything useful about the fire at Salterton? Can you tie it to Warwick for sure?"
"Yes, I can," Marcus said. His gaze turned inward, away from the cold, dusty room. It had been bad, that winter night at Salterton six months ago. It was the night that his wife's mother, Lady Jane Southern, had died. He had been up at Salterton Hall trying to restore order and bring comfort to the servants, many of whom had served the Southern family for years. Marcus had been grief struck and bone weary, and when he returned to his own house in the grounds at nigh on midnight, he had wanted nothing but the oblivion of sleep. Instead, he had caught a lad in the very act of burgling his late wife's chamber. The boy had overturned a lamp in his attempts to escape. In a matter of seconds the tapestries and curtains were ablaze and so was the boy's clothing. The lad had made a desperate leap from the window in an attempt to escape.
The evening took on a
Alistair looked amused. "It has an excellent flavor, Marcus."
"Then my sense of taste has definitely been ruined by the disgusting swill that passes for food inside," Marcus said, sighing. "I thought as much. A man must be desperate indeed to tolerate such appalling slops."
Alistair grinned. "Just like Harrow, as I recall. But did you discover what you wanted?" He gestured with his brandy glass. "Did you find Warwick—and his criminals? You must know that I am expiring with curiosity. Tell me all."
Marcus stretched out his long legs toward the empty fire grate. He felt as chill as the house, cold and empty. One of the reasons he had been able to spend three months in the Fleet was that there was no one to notice his absence. In the years since his wife had died, he had traveled widely. No one was in the least surprised when he disappeared for months on end, and positions in his service were eagerly sought since his servants had the longest holidays in London.
In the three days since his release from the Fleet Prison, he had noticed more than ever before the emptiness of Stockhaven House. It was odd, for previously his solitude had never disturbed him. Now, however, he felt that he wanted more— although he was not sure exacdy what more was. A house full of servants did not seem the answer.
"I discovered that the prison is a fertile ground for the recruitment of men to the criminal fraternity," he said, in reply to Alistair's question. "Debtors who are desperate for their freedom will promise anything to those who buy them out of jail."
Alistair pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "Just as you thought. But surely it would be better to recruit a bunch of hardened criminals in Newgate rather than the Fleet?"
Marcus shook his head. "What is the point of recruiting a man who may well hang the next day? The debtors of the Fleet are a better class of criminal. Some may not even be criminals at all. But all are frantic for lack of money, and the man who can buy them out of prison has a hold over them for the rest of their lives."
"Is Edward Warwick one such?" Alistair asked.
Marcus nodded. Hunting Warwick, a criminal mastermind, was the reason he had gone into the Fleet in the first place. "He is certainly one of the main players," he said. "I spent three months in a cell with men who were terrified of his very name. All my cell mates were too afraid to tell me more than the merest scraps of information about him. I learned that Warwick buys a man's debts—buys their very souls—so that they dance to his tune."
Alistair narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "It sounds as though you were wise to make your inquiries incognito. You never met the man yourself during your time in the Fleet?"
"Unfortunately not, although he regularly visits the prison to recruit his men. But perhaps it was fortunate that Warwick and I have not yet met." Marcus's mouth took on a grim line. "We will one day and I would wish to be better prepared."
Alistair Cantrell nodded. "So did you discover anything useful about the fire at Salterton? Can you tie it to Warwick for sure?"
"Yes, I can," Marcus said. His gaze turned inward, away from the cold, dusty room. It had been bad, that winter night at Salterton six months ago. It was the night that his wife's mother, Lady Jane Southern, had died. He had been up at Salterton Hall trying to restore order and bring comfort to the servants, many of whom had served the Southern family for years. Marcus had been grief struck and bone weary, and when he returned to his own house in the grounds at nigh on midnight, he had wanted nothing but the oblivion of sleep. Instead, he had caught a lad in the very act of burgling his late wife's chamber. The boy had overturned a lamp in his attempts to escape. In a matter of seconds the tapestries and curtains were ablaze and so was the boy's clothing. The lad had made a desperate leap from the window in an attempt to escape.
The evening took on a
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