They sat in silence until Winslow returned without a drink.
“Ladies, if you’ll please follow me?” the viscount beckoned.
“What is it?” Alenda asked concerned.
“Just please, come with me, this way.”
Alenda and Emily left the table and followed Winslow through the haze of pipe smoke and the obstacle course of dancers, dogs, and drunks to the back door. The scene behind the tavern made everything they endured so far appear virtuous. They entered an alley that was almost beyond comprehension. Trash lay scattered everywhere and excrement, discarded from the windows above, mixed with mud in a wide-open trench. Wooden planks, serving as bridges, crisscrossed the foul river of slime, causing the ladies to hold their gowns above their ankles as they shuffled forward.
A large rat darted from a woodpile to join two more in the sewage trough.
“Why are we in an alley?” Emily whispered in a quivering voice to Alenda.
“I don’t know,” Alenda answered, trying desperately to control her own fear. “I think you were right, Emmy. I should never have dealt with these people. I don’t care what the viscount says; people like us simply shouldn’t do business with people like them. I can just imagine what my father would think.”
The viscount led them through a wooden fence and around a pair of shanties to a poor excuse for a stable. The shelter was little more than a shack with four stalls, each filled with straw and a bucket of water.
“So good to see you again, your ladyship,” a man out front addressed them.
Alenda could tell it was the big one of the pair, but she could not remember his name. She had only seen them briefly through an arranged meeting by the viscount, which had been on a lonely road on a night darker than this. Now, with the moon more than half-full and his hood thrown back, she could make out his face. He was tall, rugged in feature and dress, but not unkind or threatening in appearance. Wrinkles, which may have come from laughter, tugged at the edges of his eyes. Alenda thought his demeanor was remarkably cheerful, even friendly. She could not help but think he was handsome, which was not the reaction she expected to have about anyone she might meet in such a place. He was dressed in dirt-stained leather and wool, and was well armed. On his left side, he had a short sword with an unadorned hilt. On his right, was a similarly plain, longer, wider sword. Finally, slung on his back was a massive blade, nearly as tall as he was.
“My name is Hadrian, in case you have forgotten,” he said and followed the introduction with a suitable bow. “And who is this lovely lady with you?”
“This is Emily, my maid.”
“A maid?” Hadrian feigned surprise. “For one so fair, I would have guessed her to be a duchess.”
Emily inclined her head and for the first time on this trip, Alenda saw her smile.
“I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long. The viscount tells me he and Mason were keeping you company?”
“Yes, they were.”
“Did Mr. Grumon tell you the tragic tale of his mother being run down by an insensitive royal carriage?”
“Why, yes, he did. And I must say—”
Hadrian held up his hands in mock defense. “Mason’s mother is alive and well. She lives on Artisan Row in a home considerably nicer than the hovel where Mason resides. She has never been a cook at The Rose and Thorn. He tells that story to every gentleman or lady he meets to put them on the defensive and make them feel guilty. You have my apologies.”
“Well, thank you. He was rather rude and I found his comments more than a little disturbing, but now,” Alenda paused. “Did you…I mean, do you have…were you able to get them?”
Hadrian smiled warmly, then turning he called over his shoulder in the direction of the stable.
“Royce?”
“If you knew how to tie a proper knot, I wouldn’t be taking so long,” said a voice from inside. A moment later, the other half of the pair emerged and joined them.
Alenda’s memory of him was easier to recall because he was the more disturbing of the two. He was smaller than Hadrian was and possessed elegant features, dark hair and dark eyes. He was dressed in layers of black with a knee-length tunic and a long flowing cloak that gathered about him like a shadow. Not a single weapon was visible upon him. Despite his smaller size and apparent unarmed state, Alenda feared this man. His cold eyes, expressionless face, and curt manner had all the warmth of a predator.
From his tunic, Royce drew forth a bundle of letters bound with a blue ribbon. Handing them to her, he said, “Getting to those letters before Ballentyne presented them to your father wasn’t easy. As far as races go, it was very close but ultimately successful. You might want to burn those before something like this happens again.”
She stared at the package as a smile of relief crossed her face. “I…I can’t believe it! I don’t know how you did it, or how to thank you!”