“If you’re about to try and tell me I can’t do something, I’m walking away right now.” Pursing her lips, she gave him a sidelong look. They both knew it would be a painfully slow stumble away, but she’d damn well do it. “I’m going to find him whether you help me or not. And it’s in your interests to help me because if I get caught, they’ll wonder how I got out.”

With a deep sigh, Knigh changed course and took her to an upmarket inn a couple of streets away.

“We shouldn’t stay on the road too long.” He glanced left and right, a frown shadowing his eyes. “The longer we’re out here, the more likely it is you’ll be spotted and recognised.”

“Warning noted and ignored.” With a tight smile, she nodded and removed the cloak and shawl, thrusting them into his hands. “Wait here. I won’t be long. And I won’t kill him, but I need to borrow this.” She slid his dagger from his belt and dropped it into her pocket, hilt-first so it wouldn’t tear the fabric.

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, only sank into a dark doorway to wait.

A Visit

Drawing a deep breath, she smoothed her hair, arranged a lock of it over her shoulder, and adjusted her stays, making her cleavage heave at the neckline of her gown.

It was late, but the inn was bright with candlelight and felt full, even though only half a dozen officers sat at one end, bent over a game of cards. Swallowing, she angled away from them. On the way, Knigh had said her description had been in every newspaper along with reports on the trial. Back to the officers, she approached the bar. Behind it stood the innkeeper, watching Vice with a raised eyebrow, smoothing hands down a scarlet gown.

Biting the inside of her cheek to avoid wincing, Vice bowed to the lady. Every muscle and tendon groaned at the movement, but she held in the grunt that threatened in her chest. “Madam, I’ve been sent by Mrs Pettigrew to provide entertainment to a Captain FitzRoy.”

“Ah, one of Mrs Pettigrew’s”—the innkeeper’s pale eyes surveyed her—“you’re a bit skinny, aren’t you?”

Charming. Smile fixed in place, Vice tilted her head. “I’ve been ill.”

“Hmm. I suppose some like them skinny.” Lips pursed, the woman nodded to a back door, presumably leading to the staircase. “Room 3. Though you might have made a wasted journey—the state he was in when he went up, I’d wager he’s already asleep.”

Perfect. “I’m sure I’ll be able to rouse him.”

“I could use entertainment, if this FitzRoy’s indisposed,” one of the men called, his friends laughing and slamming their drinks on the table.

Not perfect. If they saw her face …