“Your father’s business?” Matthew asked, motioning toward the sign.

“The same,” said Julian, who gave it not a glance.

“Shipping what kind of cargo?” was Matthew’s next question.

“Slaves,” said Julian. “Every slave bound for the colonies passes through Bristol. Hundreds so far, I understand. Soon likely to be thousands.”

They left Garrett Devane’s slave company behind. Two more streets east of the harbor there stood a building of red bricks with a barn behind it and at the side a fenced enclosure holding four horses. In front a coach was already hitched to a team of four sturdy-looking steeds, and a pair of workers were loading articles of luggage into a canvas-covered baggage compartment at the rear. Matthew followed Julian past the coach and through an oak door inset with squares of frosted glass. Within the office where a fireplace warmed the air a sharp-nosed clerk at his counter looked up from a ledger with an incurious gaze. “Help you gentlemen?”

“We want to hire a coach,” said Julian. “London would be the destination.”

“Ah.” The clerk pushed aside his ledger and drew closer a leather-bound notebook. He opened it and dipped a quill pen into an inkwell. The pen was poised over the paper. “Passage for two, then? The next coach I have available will be going out tomorrow morning. Does that suit—”

“It does not.” Julian angled a thumb toward the door. “Where’s that coach going?”

“London, sir, but it’s a private hire.”

“Oh, dear.” Julian gave the man the wicked smile that Matthew dreaded to witness. “Oh dear, dear me.” He withdrew his sword, which caused the clerk’s arm to jump. The pen made a scrawl across the pristine paper like a black wound. Julian set the sword atop the notebook, its tip pointed at the clerk, and produced the money belt from the scabbard. He slapped one of the guinea coins down upon the wood. “There’s our fare, and I’m sure it’s more than enough.”

“Yes … well, sir … you see … Lord and Lady Turlentort are two of our best customers. I mean to say—”

“Say what?” Julian took hold of the sword’s grip.

“I don’t … think they would appreciate sharing a coach. In fact I know they would not.”

“Are they already in the coach?”

“No, sir.” He nodded toward the office’s grandfather clock but Matthew noted he kept one nervous eye on the sword. “They’ll be arriving within the hour, and due to leave as soon as they board.”

“I think,” said Julian to Matthew, “that we’re talking to the wrong man.” He retrieved the guinea and removed a second coin from the belt before the belt went back into the scabbard. Then he sheathed the sword and was going out the door so fast he seemed to Matthew to be naught but a blur.

“You the driver?” Julian asked one of the men, who was busy lacing up the canvas.

“Shooter,” was the reply, meaning he was the armed guard. “Benson’s the driver.” He gave Julian a long hard look. “You ain’t Lord Turlentort, so who the hell are—”