Checkmate, My Lord

chapter Eleven


You had an urgent matter you wished to discuss, my lord?” Frederick Cochran eyed his companion with thinly veiled hatred. The man’s negligent facade masked a cunning mind and a merciless soul, not unlike Cochran’s, but Lord Latymer was a desperate man, one he would not underestimate, even while he exploited the source of the baron’s misery.

Summoning Cochran to this wretched gin shop in the middle of St. Giles, rather than communicating by messenger, spoke volumes of Latymer’s daring and of his desire to be quit of this situation. The authorities rarely entered the rookery, which made it an ideal location for a high-level fugitive to have a meeting. A bit of dirt on one’s face and a layer of tattered peasant’s clothing provided a believable cover in this den of despair.

Lose the formal address,” Latymer commanded, accepting a mug from a scrawny barmaid but making no move to drink from it. “You have not reported in for several days, a condition not to my liking. What progress have you made?”

As always, when in the baron’s presence, a dark shadow drifted through Cochran’s consciousness like the silent, inevitable approach of death. “I paid the lovely widow a visit a few days ago and impressed upon her the importance of obtaining the earl’s list.” He recalled the widow’s initial confusion and then her dawning wariness. He’d achieved the right balance between conveying the severity of the situation and not completely losing her trust. Not everyone could have achieved such a delicate task. “If Somerton has compiled the list, I have no doubt the widow will deliver it before week’s end.”

No doubt.” Latymer stared at him over his steepled fingers. “Tell me, on the small chance your abilities have missed their mark and the widow fails in her task, what is your plan?”

His neckcloth became too tight and the room too warm. “She’s an intelligent woman. I am confident she will do as she’s told.”

Of course, you are.” The baron’s expression did not alter. “But what if she does not?”

The retribution Cochran had planned for the widow if she failed him glided through his mind in vivid detail. A familiar, exciting fever simmered beneath his skin, causing beads of sweat to form on his brow. He shifted in his seat, becoming more uncomfortable with each pulse of his heartbeat. “I assure you, sir. She is not without weaknesses.”

Do not wait long,” Latymer said, rising. “Every second I don’t have that list is another second lost to your dream. Our destinies are entwined. You would do well to remember that fact.”

Cochran watched the baron stride from the overcrowded room, knocking into prostitutes and footpads and defending his person against pickpocket after pickpocket.

After a fair bit of digging, he now knew why Latymer wanted the list so badly. The French were of course involved, but the baron had a more personal reason for betraying his country—and his friend. Now Cochran had to figure out how to best exploit the situation, so that the French got what they wanted and so did he. As for Latymer, the man was nothing more than a bothersome extra step that could be struck from the process.

Even in his borrowed clothes and soot-covered face, Latymer could be picked out of this crowd by a discerning eye. Not Cochran, though. He melded with the filth and vermin inhabiting the warren of interconnected buildings and overcrowded houses. Here, no one paid attention to a child’s screams from the next chamber or a woman’s whimper in a nearby passage.

Because this was a godless lot, and the devil could roam here unheeded. Cochran smiled and grabbed Latymer’s untouched drink. He belted back the watered-down brew and then crooked his finger at the scrawny maid.