Fortune Favors the Wicked Read Free

He grinned, a sliver of sunshine.
    Ha. She had more than his word for the latter; she had her own response. She had a weakness for strong men, for men who grinned at her as though she were delightful. A sunrise smile always made her want to open like a flower—a response that had led more than once to her plucking.
    Benedict Frost cut a figure of rough elegance: hair dark as soot, and as curling as Charlotte’s was stubbornly straight. A strong jaw, a sun-browned complexion. Broad shoulders and ungloved hands. A cane that demanded a person look at him; a voice low enough to allow him to listen.
    â€œThough I have naught but your word,” she replied, “the fact that you admit it is in your favor. In a coaching inn, no one knows anyone else. We all must go on faith that we are what we seem.”
    Not that he should have a bit of faith in her, as she added, “I am called . . . Smith.” She could not give him the name familiar to the locals. And too many in London knew the assumed name of Charlotte Pearl; a sailor who hadn’t been in the navy for some years might well be one of them.
    He took a long drink of his ale. “Well, Mrs. Smith, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. But I haven’t the leisure for going on faith.”
    â€œI don’t think the situation is so dire as to require that, ” she said lightly. “These crowds are not here because of faith, Lieutenant Frost. They are here because of evidence.”
    â€œThe evidence of the serving girl,” he agreed. “And please, mister will do.”
    This mention of the serving girl was timed excellently, for Nance had been persuaded by a table of soft-bellied cits with Bloomsbury accents to relate her encounter with the cloaked figure. Again. “Eyes like a cat, he had!” the young woman exclaimed. “They glowed in the dark.”
    Never mind the fact that her previous retellings had mentioned the afternoon sun picking out the coarseness of the mysterious customer’s cloak. He had left the gold coin at an hour much like the present one, divided in time by seven days. If only Charlotte had been here to see the truth for herself.
    â€œThe coin was real enough,” said Frost. “Yes, we have that evidence.” He spoke quietly, held his hands deliberately: first tracing the arc of the table before him, then sliding them to find the tankard. They were careful hands, a careful voice. As of one trying to hear rather than be heard.
    He could not see—or not well. She was quite sure of that now, and relief drew from her a tension that left her shoulders aching.
    â€œShe thought it a guinea at first,” Charlotte said. “Nance, the barmaid. She hasn’t mentioned that in her tale lately, but she swore to it when the Bow Street Runner questioned her yesterday morning.”
    The London officer had grown more and more impatient as Nance’s tale failed to yield identifying clues. Perhaps this was why each retelling now popped with a surplus of detail.
    â€œHasn’t mentioned it for a day, hmm,” mused Frost. “So she’s ashamed. Maybe that she did not know the difference between one gold coin and another.”
    â€œOr,” Charlotte continued, “maybe she’s ashamed of the fact that she did know the difference, took a coin she knew to be stolen, and then lied to a Bow Street Runner. One or the other must be the case.”
    â€œThere is not much one won’t hide to escape trouble. Or for the promise of reward.” He took another long pull from his tankard.
    Charlotte had been unable to do more than sip at her ale; she had let herself grow fastidious during her London years.
    All part of the job.
    â€œYour name isn’t really Smith, is it?” he asked.
    Charlotte pressed a hand to the anchoring wall at her side, the rough mortar and brick cold through her glove. “Why . . . should you think such a thing, Mr.