and nose need tending.” Matthew rounded into the crowd with the boys following suit and disappeared.
A humid wind blew in from the wharf, feathering Coleman’s pulsing skin. He made his way back to the milling fence and stood there, amidst the dust and shouts, staring at nothing in particular.
He probably shouldn’t have given Mrs. Walsh all ten dollars. Informants were anything but cheap and expected at least a dollar apiece.
Coleman momentarily closed his eyes, knowing what needed to be done. All that mattered was doing right by those girls and the countless others like them, and giving them the chance he never got when he was their age.
Reopening his eyes, Coleman slowly pulled out the crumpled advertisement from his wool coat pocket and stared at the words well rewarded. He didn’t know who the hell this Duke of Wentworth and Lord Yardley were or why they were looking for Nathaniel after almost thirty fucking years, but he did know one thing. He would swallow what had once been and use these men to get as much money as he could, to set him and the Forty Thieves up to help anyone in a similar predicament to these girls.
Everything in life came at a price. And knowing there were children whose very lives depended on whatever he and Matthew could buy, it was a price he was more than willing to pay.
CHAPTER TWO
Distinction of rank is of little importance when an offense has been given, and in the impulse of the moment, a Prince has forgot his royalty, by turning out to box.
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
The Adelphi Hotel
Evening
LEANING AGAINST THE silk embroidered wall of the hotel lobby, Coleman scanned the polished marble floors and rubbed his scabbed hands together.
“Sir?” a hotel footman called out, holding out a white gloved hand. “Could you please not lean against the wall? It’s silk and damages easily.”
Coleman shifted his jaw and pushed away from the wall. Although he’d scrubbed with soap and shaved around every scab from his last fight, his patched wool clothing lent to a dirtiness no soap could touch. He was used to it, but sometimes, just sometimes, it still agitated the hell out of him when others treated him like some thug. He was a boxer. Not a thug. There was a difference.
Quick, echoing steps drew his attention.
An older, dashing gentleman with silver, tonic-sleeked hair jogged into the foyer of the hotel, dressed in expensive black evening attire from leather boot to broad shoulder, save a white silk waistcoat, snowy linen shirt and a perfectly knotted linen cravat.
Skidding in beside that older gent was a good-looking man of no more than thirty, whose raven hair had also been swept back with tonic. A black band hugged the upper biceps of his well-tailored coat.
Apparently, everyone was in mourning these days.
It was depressing.
They faced him, their brows rising in unison at realizing he was the only person waiting for them in the lobby.
Coleman knew the best and only way to go about this was to make these men believe Nathaniel was dead. Because that part of himself was.
Adjusting his wool great coat, Coleman strode toward them. “I’m here on behalf of Nathaniel. You have two minutes to convince me you’re worth trusting.”
Both men stared, no doubt weighing his words.
The younger of the two approached. “Two minutes? I suppose we had best talk fast.” Grey eyes, that eerily reminded him of someone he once knew, searched his face. “Are you— What happened to your face?”
Agitated by the question, Coleman widened his stance. “The same thing that’s about to happen to yours, if you don’t tell me who the fuck you are and why you’re looking for Atwood.”
The man leaned back. “I can see you’re exceptionally friendly. Which would explain the face.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his evening coat. “The name is Yardley. Lord Yardley.” He gestured with an ungloved hand toward the older gentleman. “That there is my father, His Grace, the Duke of Wentworth. We, sir, are Nathaniel’s family. Close family. If he is still alive, as you are leading us to believe, we would like to speak to him in person. Not through another person. If you don’t mind.”
What if these men had been sent to hunt Nathaniel down? To silence him? It was possible. “I never said he was alive. But if you want further information, it’s going to cost you.”
“How much?”
“A thousand.”
“A thousand?”
“Yes. Dollars. Not pennies. Consider it a bargain. You look like you can afford more.”
“So you actually know something?”
“Yes.”
Lord Yardley lowered his shaven chin against his silk cravat. “You wouldn’t be the first claiming to know something. The question is, do you?”
Coleman wasn’t about to trust either of these men to shite. “I need a thousand before I say another word.”
Lord Yardley narrowed his gaze. “Keep at this and I will personally ensure you forget your own God-given name. The information comes first. Money last.”
The Duke of Wentworth approached. “Yardley. Enough. Calm down.”
Swinging away, Yardley threw up both hands. “These people are leeches. Every last one of them. All they want is money. What happened to humanity wanting to help others for the sake of goodwill? I’m going for a walk down Broadway. It’s the only thing that ever calms me down.”
The duke pointed. “No. No walks. Not now. You will stay and finish whatever this is.” Brown eyes that were surprisingly intelligent, albeit solemn, observed Coleman for a moment. “We have been in New York, sir, for months making endless inquiries. We are beyond exhausted and are hinging a breath of hope on the possibility that you may know something. Do you?”
Coleman shifted away from the duke, trying to distance himself from the eerie reality that the past was tapping on his shoulder. “It depends on what you want with the information.”
Those features tightened. “If Atwood still lives, which we hope he does, inform him that his sister’s husband and her son are here to collect him. If, however, he is dead, we also wish to know of it. All we want is information that will lead us to resolve this matter and give it peace.”
Coleman stared, his plan to claim the money crumbling with every word. This man was married to his sister? It wasn’t possible. Trying to keep his voice steady, he confided, “Allow me to speak to his sister first. I will decide then.”
The duke swiped his face. “I cannot produce her.”
“Why not?” he demanded, unable to remain calm.
“She died.” That voice, though well controlled, bespoke a deeply rooted anguish.
Coleman
