Garrick took her chin in his bony fingers. “And no gin until the job is done.”

“No gin. Not even a tot.”

“Very well, Lacey,” said Garrick, releasing his grip on the woman. “Off to Old Nichol with you. I have business here.”

Lacey rubbed the fingermarks on her chin. “Is you placing a wager, Mr. Garrick? If so, think twice, sir. Otto Malarkey always fixes the odds so he can’t lose.”

Garrick patted his coat and trouser legs, checking the blades concealed in secret pockets all about his person.

“Even the great King Otto can’t fix these odds. He has started a fight that he cannot win. So if I was you, I would quit this place in case the blood flows onto the street.”

Lacey Boggs hitched up her petticoats as though the blood already pooled about her feet. “I am making myself scarce, sir. I am an employed woman with a job to do.”

Garrick watched her go, and he knew that the news of a bounty for Riley would sweep through the city faster than cholera through a rookery.

If I know my boy, he will follow the pattern of his previous escape attempts. Riley will find himself a bolt-hole, with a view to making a run for it when his trail has cooled. In this case, he will run for the future, and there are only two doors leading that way. One is in the basement of Half Moon Street, but I could be there waiting for him; or I could have simply dismantled the apparatus, so he will give it a few days, then make for Bedford Square. And that’s where I shall be, just as soon as I have myself a little chat with Otto Malarkey.

Inside the Hidey-Hole the revelries continued until the wee hours, when Otto Malarkey called a halt by abruptly losing his temper, as he did, regular as clockwork, just before sunrise, urging anyone who did not wish to bear a stripe of his riding crop to find themselves a hammock out of his sight.

“Except you, Mr. Farley,” he called to the elderly tattoo artist. “I would have you update my price list as I doze.” It was a testament to the man’s tolerance for pain that he intended to sleep while Farley labored over his chest tattoo.

The enormous room cleared slowly as the weary shuffled toward their resting places. Malarkey snagged a bottle of brandy from the grip of an unconscious sailor on the floor and staggered to Farley’s corner.

“How now, my faithful artist,” he said, dropping into the tattoo lounger, which creaked alarmingly under his enormous bulk. “I need you to update my price list. Add a pound to every service. After all, I am king now.”