Page 88 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Not that he was letting his guard down. Someone called out from the nearby timber yard, and Michael whirled around, fists raised.
It proved to be an owl.
Anne gave him a sideways look but said nothing. “We’ll start by sweeping the area around the kiln,” she whispered, “looking for anything suspicious. We should question anyone we encounter, so long as they don’t look disreputable. Some people are likely to recognize me, so I’ll keep my head down and let you lead the questioning, at least to start. If anyone seems wary, we’ll use the cover Sarah suggested the other day, that you’re a young man out on the town, and I’m your—”
He cut her off, not particularly wanting to hear Anne refer to herself in those terms. “I remember.” He lifted his head. “It smells like we’re getting closer.”
“It does,” Anne agreed.
Indeed, as a row of cramped houses sprang up on their right, not only did the smell of charcoal become thicker, Michael began to detect a faint glow emanating from a building in the distance.
The open fields ended, and they entered a small neighborhood with a few streets of houses and a brewery. They passed what looked to be a basement gin shop. A couple of women lingering on the corner cast Michael suggestive smiles, which he ignored.
“This should be it on our left,” Anne whispered.
They made a quick circuit of the kiln, finally finding the entrance to its yard on the far side of the building. Michael was given to understand that Eleanor Coade’s company made bespoke statues for the wealthy out of some sort of ceramic material (the exact composition was a closely guarded secret), that looked like marble and were completely weatherproof. He saw examples of Mrs. Coade’s handiwork strewn about the yard as they approached the kiln—a recumbent lion here, an urn there, a statue of Poseidon that seemed destined for a fountain in the far corner. It was disconcerting to see statues that looked like they could be ancient treasures sitting in the mud, but there they were.
“Oy,” a sharp voice called, “what’re you two doing?”
Michael wheeled around and saw a night guard approaching. He immediately stepped in front of Anne. She squeezed his arm. “Question him,” she whispered.
Michael nodded. “Good evening. Apologies for having startled you—”
“You can’t tup her here,” the man said, cutting straight to the chase. “Go find someplace else.”
Michael’s hands clenched into fists. He willed himself to calm down. Although he hated the insinuation the guard had just made, it was their cover story, after all. “That’s not why we’re here. We’re looking for a little boy who’s been kidnapped. We’ve reason to believe he might have been brought to this neighborhood. Have you seen anything suspicious? Say, men bringing young boys to one of the nearby houses at all hours?”
The guard snorted. “A wise man don’t see nothing he’s not meant to. Now get out of here.”
Anne was already tugging at his arm. Michael let her lead him away. “We’ll get nothing from him,” she whispered as they stepped back into the street.
They continued north past more houses and more industrial yards. There came the sound of footsteps against the cobblestones, and a little old woman clutching a basket to her chest emerged from the shadows.
Before he even realized her intention, Anne had slipped her hand from his arm and crossed the narrow street. “Anne!” he hissed, hastening after her.
She stepped directly into the woman’s path, pushing back the oversized flaps of her cap. “Forgive me for detaining you, but I was wondering if you could help me. I’m Lady Wynters—”
“Lady Wynters?” The woman’s eyes flew to Anne’s face. “Blimey, it really is you.”
“Would you mind if I asked you some questions?” Anne asked.
The woman gave a nervous chuckle. “Can’t imagine what use I’d be to the great Lady Wynters, but ask away.”
“I’m looking for a boy who’s been kidnapped. I’m trying to track down a man who’s been selling little orphans as apprentices to chimney sweeps. Have you seen any boys being brought to a particular house? We think they’re delivered in a shiny black carriage with a crest of two wild boars.”
The woman’s expression turned stony. “I don’t know nothing about any of that,” she said, staggering back a step before hurrying past Anne. “Beg pardon, m’lady,” she called, already ten feet down the street.
“Can we just leave?” Michael muttered. “We’re not going to learn anything here.”
“I wonder if we just did.” At Michael’s quizzical look, Anne added, “She was glad to talk to me. She seemed eager to help… until I brought up Lord Gladstone’s carriage. It makes me wonder if she has seen it.”
“Even so, we can’t knock on every door within smelling distance of the kiln.” He steered Anne around a man who was lying against a building, reeking of gin and muttering to himself. “And this isn’t the best neighborhood.”
“We’ll look just a bit longer,” Anne said, turning toward a narrow alleyway. “Let’s check in here.”
“I’m going first,” Michael muttered.
After a few feet, the side street opened up into a tiny brick courtyard. Little light filtered down to street level due to all the washing hung between the rows of buildings. Most of the windows were either boarded up or covered with paper and rags. Michael knew this was a common practice to get out of paying the window tax, but the ubiquity of the practice also provided a convenient cover for those who didn’t want anyone to see inside.
