He began to move, slowly, and she did give it her very best effort, but before the cold winter dawn arrived, she also gave in to silent, wrenching tears.

*  *  *

Low ceilings, roaring fires, and bodies densely packed on settles and benches ensured that the average London tavern was warm even on a winter evening. Jack Naylor found that loitering at the Bull and Baron was still a challenge for a man with a functional nose.

The stink of wet wool, mud, sweat, and worse filled the pub’s air. As long as Jack nursed a pint—and a lady’s pint at that—the innkeeper said nothing, though his wife cast Jack many a chiding glance. She was small, dark-haired, and nondescript, also as quick as a bullwhip with a hard word for an overly flirtatious tavern maid.

Jack would have found friendlier surrounds, but this was one of several pubs catering to the clerks and accountants employed at the nearby banks and counting houses. He sat at the end of a long communal table and listened for word of anybody getting ready to quit his post or any business that might be hiring.

So far, the effort had been fruitless. The Bull and Baron was his last stop, the taverns closer to the City having been a waste of coin and time.

“Mind if I join you?”

The gent was too well dressed to be a clerk. His gray wool greatcoat had three capes, and his walking stick looked to be carved mahogany with a silver handle and a brass—not gold—ferrule. His attire spoke of prosperity and good taste, rather than great wealth.

A manager then, or investor of some sort.

“Please have a seat,” Jack said, opting for public school accents. He was in his accountant’s attire, shabby around the edges but proper enough.

“You’ve been working on that pint for nearly an hour,” the gent said. “Might I buy you another?”

Another pint was good, failing to notice an observant stranger was bad; but then, Jack had been focused on the clerks and working men, not the occasional swell.

“Thank you kindly,” Jack said, extending a hand. “Jason Tolliver, at your service.”

“Mr. Tolliver, good evening. You may call me Mr. Edwards.”

A lie for a lie. A promising start to a conversation. “Evening, Mr. Edwards. Beastly cold out.”

Edwards signaled for a waitress and ordered two pints and a plate of toasted ham and cheese sandwiches.

The hour was growing late by the standards of workingmen, which meant Jack and Mr. Edwards had their end of the table to themselves.

“Are you in the banking line, Mr. Tolliver?”

“As it happens, I am an accountant, sir.”

Edwards put a pair of fur-lined black gloves on the table. “Do you perchance work for Dorset and Becker? I am new to London, but have heard good things about them.”