Page 59 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
If Georgie had gone back to London, with all the risks that city held for him, there had to be a reason, and Lawrence didn’t doubt that Georgie had a plan. And he had a grim sense of foreboding that he was going to do something dangerous. Something noble.
And damn it all to hell if Lawrence wasn’t going to do the exact same thing.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
As soon as the smugglers set him ashore, Georgie stripped off Courtenay’s sodden greatcoat and pawned it along with the contents of the stolen saddlebag: a silver hairbrush, an ivory and tortoiseshell shaving kit, and a proliferation of shirt studs. He didn’t even bother to change into dry clothes before boarding the stagecoach for London. Likely he looked and smelled like a stowaway, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
When, two days later, Georgie climbed down from the stagecoach in Charing Cross, he was greeted by the odor of coal fire and a blanket of fog that bleached the city to the color of dust. Tired and disoriented from the long, uncomfortable journey from Cornwall, he somehow hadn’t expected it to be winter in London. He had missed all the good parts of autumn while he was at Penkellis, alphabetizing papers and falling in love.
Georgie had always been careful not to let people at any shop or tavern get too used to the sight of him. Impermanence was almost as good as invisibility. He slipped in, he slipped out, and he didn’t retrace his footsteps for a good long while, lest anyone start to wonder why Gerard Turnbull looked so much like that rascal Geoffrey Tavistock and what either of them had to do with Georgie Turner.
Today he would ignore his inclination towards secrecy and subterfuge, to say nothing of his instinct for self-preservation, and do his best to attract notice. He walked slowly eastward from Charing Cross, deliberately lingering near the busier thoroughfares and walking twice around some blocks. He arrived, cold and aching, at his destination: a coffee house on Wych Street that was frequented by people from all walks of life. If he sat there long enough, bareheaded and in plain view, somebody would recognize him. And then all he would have to do was wait.
At a table near the door, he sipped his coffee, jarringly hot and bitter after so many weeks without it. Alert for a narrowed glance, a low whisper, a too-quick flash of movement, he had to remind himself that he wasn’t hiding, that he welcomed every stray gaze and curious look. The constant hum of chatter, the almost musical clinking of cup and saucer and spoon, seemed uncomfortably loud after the quiet of Penkellis. The swarm of people in and out of the coffee house and along the street outside was foreign and unsettling. He felt like he was seeing the world through Lawrence’s eyes; everything was loud and busy and fast, pregnant with danger.
All the more reason to leave Lawrence in peace. By going to London, Georgie would keep Brewster from going to Penkellis. It was an old trick, doing something flashy and obvious to put a mark’s attention precisely where the confidence man wanted it. Georgie had known that principle before he knew his letters.
There were more direct ways to attract Brewster’s notice. Georgie could have walked right up to the front door of Brewster’s house, a nondescript building in Whitechapel. Or he could have gone to the old warehouse Brewster’s gang used as a place of business. But those methods made it too convenient for one of Brewster’s men to kill Georgie behind closed doors, dispose of his body, and call it a day’s work. Georgie might be reckless, but he wasn’t suicidal.
He finished his coffee and ordered another.
All told, it took four hours before he felt a tap on his shoulder, an ominous pressure between his shoulder blades.
He forced out a slow breath, striving for a semblance of calm. He shot a look out of the corner of his eye and saw enough of his assailant to know it wasn’t Mattie but one of his men.
“I thought for sure he’d want to talk to me,” Georgie murmured, too low to be overheard by the other patrons. “I won’t have much to say if you do anything drastic with that knife, friend.”
“He doesn’t want to talk.” Georgie recognized the voice as belonging to Tom Vance, a man who unloaded cargo from ships and made sure some of it disappeared. They had worked together only once, when Georgie helped dispose of a stolen crate of silks. “He offered twenty pounds for your body.Deadbody, Turner.” Tom stood behind Georgie’s chair, bending companionably to Georgie’s ear, the knife concealed between their bodies. Georgie darted a look around the coffee house. Tom had come alone. “Twenty pounds,” Tom repeated, as if daring Georgie to argue with him for valuing a spot of murder as well worth the sum.
“Seems a waste,” Georgie said blandly, without turning his head. “I earned him hundreds of pounds last year alone.” If he could only persuade Tom to bring Mattie here or somewhere else too public for bloodshed, then Georgie could do what he did best. He could lie and connive and somehow bring Mattie around. Somehow.
Failing that, he was going to run like hell. Every bone in his body told him to run now, now, before that knife made the decision for him.
“That was before you nearly got the lot of us transported. Damn it, Georgie. We thought you had scarpered. You ought to have, damn it.” There was regret in Tom’s voice, but the blade on Georgie’s back didn’t drop. “He can’t let you caper about the city after that trick you pulled. Otherwise it makes it too easy for any of us to turn our backs on one another the next time we get picked up. And you know it.” He was right. Georgie knew it. He always had. “Why the hell did you come back?”
Georgie took a sip of coffee, forcing his hands to remain steady despite the audible scratch of steel against the wool of his coat. “Take me to him, Tom. I’ll talk to him, make him see it my way. And then he’ll be grateful to you for—”
“Not this time, Georgie.”
There was a silence that stretched out too long. Georgie understood that Tom was trying to figure out what to do next. Stab Georgie in the middle of the coffee house and let the chips fall where they did? Drag Georgie outside and stab him in the nearest alley? Bring him somewhere more convenient for murder? Georgie didn’t wait to find out.
With a single movement, he pushed his table over, moving with it as it fell. That put a healthy distance between his back and the knife and caused enough confusion for Georgie to slip out the door without a backwards glance.
Spending three days in a carriage was a hellish prospect, but Lawrence needed to get to London. Even thinking about it, he felt his chest constrict and a wave of heat spread across his skin. He had to remind himself that this miserable state was temporary, not the prelude to a permanent state of madness. It didn’t feel the least bit temporary, though. It felt like doom itself, and Lawrence desperately wanted to retreat to his study.
Instead, he cleared his throat and attempted a casual tone. “Simon, how would you like to go to London?”
The boy looked up eagerly from the game of cards he was playing with Courtenay near the hearth. “With you?”
“Yes, I have a small matter of business I need to conduct in person, but after that we can visit Astley’s Amphitheatre.” Filled with people, noise, and animals, visiting Astley’s was an objectively terrible idea, and it wasn’t even the most unpleasant task he’d face in London. “I’ve never been.”
“May I visit Astley’s?” Courtenay asked, affecting an air of hopeful innocence.
Simon clapped his hands together, an expression of undiluted merriment on his face. Lawrence was simultaneously jealous of the child’s affection and reluctantly glad the two seemed to get on so well. “Oh yes, Father,” Simon said. “Please can Uncle Courtenay come too?”
Lawrence went rigid. Simon had never before called himFather. Hewasn’tSimon’s father, and from what he gathered, the child knew it. Which, paradoxically, gave the term that much more meaning. He felt a warm rush of pride and happiness that nearly displaced his anxious fear.
Lawrence grunted his assent. Of course he would agree to anything Simon asked.
