The foul stench of the prison increased tenfold as they followed the unpleasant Knollys up some stairs and down a second corridor. Rows of thick wooden doors, each with a square metal hatch and a sliding shutter at eye level, lined the walls on either side. Noises emanated from some—inhuman moans, shouts, and foul curses. Others were ominously silent. Georgie pressed her handkerchief to her nose, glad she’d doused it in lavender water.

Knollys waddled to a stop in front of the final door in the row. His eyes glistened with a disquieting amount of glee.

“Found the lady a substitute, I ’ave.” He thumped the metal grate with his meaty fist and eyed Georgie’s cloaked form with a knowing, suggestive leer that made her feel as though she’d been drenched in cooking fat. She resisted the urge to shudder.

“Wake up, lads!” he bellowed. “There’s a lady ’ere needs yer services.”

Chapter 2.

Benedict William Henry Wylde, scapegrace second son of the late Earl of Morcott, reluctant war hero, and former scourge of the ton, strained to hear the last words of his cellmate. He bent forward, trying to ignore the stench of the man’s blackened teeth and the sickly sweet scent of impending death that wreathed his feverish form.

Silas had been sick for days, courtesy of a festering stab wound in his thigh. The bastard jailers hadn’t heeded his pleas for water, bandages, or laudanum. Ben had been trying to decipher the smuggler’s ranting for hours. Delirium had loosened the man’s tongue, and he’d leaned close, waiting for something useful to slip between those cracked lips, but the words had been frustratingly fragmented. Silas raved about plots and treasons. An Irishman. The emperor. Benedict had been on the verge of shaking the poor bastard when his crewmate let out one last, gasping breath—and died.

“Oh, bloody hell!”

Ben drew back from the hard, straw-filled pallet that stank of piss and death. He’d been so close to getting the information he needed.

Not for the first time, he cursed his friend Alex’s uncle, Sir Nathaniel Conant, Chief Magistrate of Bow Street and the man tasked with transforming the way London was policed. Bow Street was the senior magistrate court in the capital, and the “Runners,” as they were rather contemptuously known, investigated crimes, followed up leads, served warrants and summons, searched properties for stolen goods, and watched premises where infringements of bylaws or other offences were suspected.