Page 18 of Duke of Bronze
Fisher straightened, and his eyes narrowed in assessment. "Plain, Your Grace? If you mean understated, yet of the finest quality, certainly."
Colin shook his head. "No. I mean clothes that would make me unremarkable in the East End."
Fisher's eyes widened. "Might I enquire as to why such a request is necessary?"
"I am uncertain myself."
Fisher's frown deepened, but he nodded. "If it is true plainness you seek, then I believe Robinson, the footman, is close to your size. His garments would be better suited."
Colin gave a curt nod. "Fetch them."
Minutes later, Fisher returned, carrying a bundle of clothing—a coarse linen shirt, worn breeches, and a dusty brown coat that had seen far better days.
"Perfect," he murmured.
Fisher watched in silence as Colin changed, donning the garments that stripped him of his any hint of his station. He turned to the mirror, raking a hand through his sandy hair until it was completely disheveled.
"You hardly look yourself," Fisher observed, arms crossed.
"That is the point."
Colin then crossed his bedchamber to a bureau, where he pulled open a drawer. His jaw clenched as he retrieved a pistol.
Fisher stiffened. "Your Grace?—"
"If anything happens to me," Colin interrupted, tucking the weapon into his coat, "find a man named Roderick in Whitechapel."
Fisher's eyes shadowed. "That does not inspire confidence, Your Grace."
Colin met his valet's eyes. "Then pray fate favors us all."
With that, he departed from the manor.
Colin stepped into the Flying Crow, and his gaze swept the establishment, noting the hunched figures nursing their drinks and the occasional dart of wary eyes in his direction.
The barman stood behind the counter, wiping a glass with a rag that had long since seen better days. Their eyes met, and without a word, he lifted a hand and pointed toward a shadowed corner of the room.
Colin followed the gesture and saw him—a hefty man seated alone at a battered table. When the man rose, Colin noted that they were of similar height, but where Colin was lean muscle, with a body that had been honed by years of boxing and fencing, this man was all brawn. His fists were like anvils, his shoulders broad enough to eclipse the candlelight behind him. A black eye stood out against his ruddy complexion, and this heightened Colin's suspicions.
The man inclined his head, then gestured to the chair opposite him. A silent invitation—or command.Who knows?
Colin approached, careful to school his features into one of disinterest, though every fiber of him was taut with awareness. He sat, his movements deliberate, his posture deceptively relaxed.If this is a game, then I am ready.
A moment later, the barman approached, eyeing Colin expectantly. "What'll it be?"
"Nothing," Colin replied coolly. The last thing he needed was a drink dulling his senses when every instinct warned him to remain on high alert.
The barman gave a lazy shrug and walked away, leaving Colin alone with the stranger. He turned his attention back to the man. "Are you Roderick?"
The man nodded. "Roderick Millard," he confirmed. "But in these parts, I'm known as Stone."
Colin arched a brow and let his eyes move over him again. "Fitting." He waited for the man to elaborate, but Roderick offered nothing more.Taciturn, then. Wonderful.
Colin leaned forward slightly. "You've sent for me. Ordered me, if we are being precise. So, tell me; what is it that you want? What do you know about my father?"
Roderick's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "The matter concerning your late father requires discretion. That's why I told you to come as you did."
Colin's wariness deepened. "What matter?"
