Page 57 of Stolen By the Rogue
She stared up at the dull and surprisingly dirty exterior of number eighty-two. It was in sharp contrast to the rather newish-looking sign that hung over the door and shone in the early morning light.
The RR Coaching Company.
“The rogues of the road,” she muttered.
As far as she was concerned, they may as well have called themselvesThe Thieving Criminals Companyand been done with it.
“Let’s go around to the stables. I want to know if anyone is here this morning before we get started,” said George.
With the chest wrapped up in a blanket, hidden inside a bag, George hoisted it over his shoulder. Huffing with the effort of carrying the heavy weight, he led Jane down a narrow path which ran between number eighty-two and number eighty-four.
“This reminds me of the markets in Constantinople. Lots of narrow laneways,” she observed.
But far less clean and without the delicious aroma of freshly baked Baklava or spices.
She pushed the thought away. It didn’t remind her of the great Ottoman city at all. It was just another filthy part of the dirty cesspit that was London.
“Have you ever thought to travel back to the east?” he asked.
“No,” replied Jane. That life was over; she was quietly praying that George would be the basis of her new one.
Reaching the end of the walkway, they stepped out into a surprisingly spacious mews. There was even a coach standing in the yard.
George nodded toward it. “That’s the new one we bought with money that Alice brought to her marriage. The other one will be somewhere. Gus and Stephen are more than likely using it.”
A middle-aged, grey-haired man wandered out from the stables and gave George a chin tip in greeting.
“Anyone else about, Bob?” asked George.
Bob gave Jane a once-over glance then, obviously deciding she wasn’t going to cause any trouble, sniffed and replied, “No. The other coach might be back later today.”
George pointed toward Jane. “This is Miss Scott. She is with me. We are going to examine the state of the floor in the stables.”
At the sight of the large bag slung over George’s shoulder, a sly grin crept across Bob’s face. “My normal fee applies, of course.”
George sighed and nodded. “Yes, of course. And will you be wishing to use your regular account at Coutts?”
Coutts—as in the bank to the rich and powerful? How can a stable hand afford to have an account with them?
Bob frowned. “Actually, I was thinking I might diversify my investments. Some shares in the Bank of England could be nice. What do you think?”
“Let me talk to the Duke of Monsale when he is back in town. You know he likes to make sure your pension fund is in good order. The bank does sound a sensible idea. I shall let you know what he advises,” replied George.
Bob gave a nod and went into a nearby shed. He returned a moment later brandishing a rifle, which he cocked. To Jane’s surprise, George didn’t seem to find this behavior the least bit odd and he continued on. Bob, meanwhile, made himself comfortable in a chair which faced the rear laneway, the loaded weapon rested across his lap. From out of the shed, a dog wandered over and took up a spot next to the chair.
Jane peered at the dog. It appeared to be missing a leg. She hurried after George as he headed into the stables.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“The man or the dog?” replied George.
“Both.”
“Bob and Snick. Bob gets a cut of all our jobs, while I am led to believe Snick receives a steady supply of sausages and good meat.”
Inside the stables, George made his way over to the last stall. He brushed away the clean straw on the floor in the far left-hand corner, and to Jane’s surprise she caught sight of a wooden door.
“Stand well back. It’s heavy, and when I open the door, it will drop onto the bricks.” He placed both hands on the door’s large iron handle and lifted. The strain of the weight was obvious in the set of his shoulders. The door fell open with a large bang.
