Morgan took a small side street and then turned right onto a larger lane. The curricle coasted over the cobblestones and then came to a stop in front of a very ordinary black door. Upon his arrival, a man stepped out from the building and studied Morgan coolly. “I’ll see to your horse,” he said after a moment, his voice deep and gravelly.

“I’ll take the lad inside, see if he remembers anything important,” Morgan replied, then indicated with his head to the door. Joan stepped from her perch, fleetingly taking note of how odd it was to have no help alighting from the carriage.

She kept several paces behind Morgan as they approached the door. It was maddening, for she wanted to ask Morgan a million questions but she had to wait, silently filing them in her mind for later. How did the man know that the groom, who was usually the one to mind the horses, was the one who had information? Had Morgan sent a missive ahead? Or had this been the plan all along? She wouldn’t doubt the latter. Irritating that he had worked out this adventure in his head long before approaching her to participate, as if he’d known she’d agree.

Which, of course, she would.

And had.

But that wasn’t the point, was it?

She pushed her thoughts aside and took in her surroundings. The hall floor creaked with each step, and the scent of pipe tobacco hung in the air. The walls were a dingy white with plaster peeling where they met the ceiling. Morgan stopped beside a door and opened it, revealing a worn wooden table and four chairs.

“Sit.” He motioned to a seat and then took one beside her. “Now, let me explain what is going to take place,” Morgan whispered softly, as if the walls were thin or had ears. “I will bring in another gentleman. He will be an assistant, should the person you are to see become belligerent. I’ll remain by your side, and I ask you don’t speak. Your voice will give you away. Merely listen, and when you have what you need, lay your hand on the table and drum your fingers, agreed? Oh! I nearly forgot. Keep your gloves on. Those dainty hands of yours will tell our secret quicker than a word.”

Joan nodded, her heart beating fast.

“Charles,” Morgan called, and soon there were footsteps echoing in the hall. The door swung open and two men came in, one in handcuffs. The handcuffed one was set in a chair across the table, a wide toothless smirk distorting his features with sarcastic mirth.

“Ah, James. We meet again.” Morgan reclined in his chair, giving the appearance of one utterly at ease.

“Ya got more questions? I tol’ ya, I won’t sing.” The man crossed his beefy arms and then turned his attention to Joan.