Page 112 of The Truth Serum
“Leave my brother out of everything. He isn’t who you need.”
“And you are?” The man scoffed, and she had to agree. After all, she had no intention of helping him. So when she remained silent, he folded his arms across his chest. “Fletcher and I have made our arrangement. I’m a man of my word, so think of something else.”
He was not a man of his word, but she wasn’t going to quibble about stupidities. Instead, she nodded. “Tell me everything about how you make your money. I will show you how a woman can help you.”
It took him a minute to accept that. But then he started talking. He began with the smallest of his ventures—a simple bribery scheme wherein soldiers paid him for a position at the Tower of London, something he could influence, given his position on the Board of the Ordinance. “What,” he challenged, “could a woman do to benefit me in that?”
She rolled her eyes. “You accept money? That’s it? That’s the smallest thing people have to offer, especially poor soldiers.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about. What else could I want?”
“Do you not think these men have wives? Mothers or sisters? They have things to offer that are much more valuable than a few coins. If nothing else, they can sew your attire for free. But they also listen in important households, they clean important places.” She folded her arms in a mimicry of him. “You cannot talk to those people as I can. They will tell me which woman is desperate to sell her jewelry, who sleeps with whom, and much more. And you cannot tell a well-made coat from a poorly made one. That much is certain.”
“What?”
“Your seams are crooked and the thread weak.” It wasn’t more crooked than most gentlemen’s attire, but she knew he had never thought to look at the seams of his coat much less the threads before. “You could benefit from a woman’s eye.”
He frowned as he tried to see his seams. He couldn’t, not inside the carriage, but it was enough to make him think.
“Go on,” she prodded. “Challenge me to see where else I can help you.”
And so he did, speaking slowly and carefully as he revealed his schemes, one by one. Thank God the trip was taking so long. She would have a wealth of schemes to expose to Nate and the authorities.
Eventually, they arrived at the docks, the carriage stopped, and he pulled her out. The sun was setting, so it was hard to see, but it wasn’t long until he drew her into the back of a dark building.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“Shhh!” he snapped. And lest she try to delay by dragging her feet, he jerked her forward.
Fortunately, it didn’t take long for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. They were in a large building with crates and boxes. A warehouse, obviously, but not a large one. He made her crouch behind a stack of carefully arranged boxes while he peered over it at…nothing as far as she could tell.
Instead, she fingered a pile of fabric bolts. Silk, she believed, and of decent quality.
“Are these smuggled?” she whispered.
“Of course not,” he said as he turned back to her. “Merely an extra tip, so to speak, from the ships that store their goods with me.”
“Do they know they’re tipping you?” she drawled.
“What they do or do not know isn’t my business,” he said with a grin. Then he looked at the silk. “Do you know who best to sell that to?”
She nodded. She could think of several modistes who would jump at this fabric. “You need to sell it soon before the rats get to it.”
He nodded. “That shall be your first task, then.”
“So we are partners now?”
“You and your brother,” he said as he jerked his head to a side door where her brother was just now entering with another man.
“Is that your brother?” she asked, seeing a vague similarity between the baron and Fletcher’s companion.
“Bastardbrother.”
As if that made a difference when they were both betraying their country. “What are they carrying?” They set down two large crates, clearly heavy, between them.
“Shut up and watch,” he growled.
He wasn’t going to tolerate any more questions. And he wasn’t going to let her escape either, given the grip he had on her arm. So she remained quiet, listening as Fletcher and the baron’s brother traded small talk. It was mostly grumbles about the weight of the boxes and the weather. And how the Frenchies were late.
