Page 111 of A Dangerous Lord (Regency Spies & Secrets 3)

“I am,” Sanders replied.

“What happened?”

Sanders reached for his tankard and took a long drink. “I was asking questions about the forged banknotes, and these two men grabbed me off the street. They took me to a building on Dupress Street, near the docks.”

“Did they say what they wanted?” Stewart asked.

“They roughed me up a bit,” Sanders responded. “They wanted to know why I was asking questions about forged banknotes.”

“What did you tell them?” Corbyn inquired.

“Nothing.”

“You told them nothing?” Corbyn repeated.

“No, sir,” Sanders said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been tortured.”

Stewart lifted his brow at that remark. “It’s not?”

“Every good agent has been tortured at least once,” Sanders remarked, wincing as he touched his swollen right eye.

“Can you tell us anything about the men who abducted you?” Corbyn asked.

Sanders dropped his hand to the table. “They were rough-looking, and they had hard looks in their eyes,” he shared. “They fit in well with the men at the docks.”

“Would you be able to identify them, if you saw them again?”

Sanders nodded. “I won’t be forgetting their faces anytime soon.”

“Did you interact with anyone else?”

“No.”

Corbyn tapped his fingers on the table. “Not even someone with a large scar on his right cheek running down to his neck?”

Sanders shook his head. “I’m sure I would have remembered someone like that.”

“Yes, I suppose you would have,” Corbyn admitted.

Stewart spoke up. “Could you show us what building you went into on Dupress Street?”

“That’s easy,” Sanders replied. “It has a worn sign above the door that says ‘Worthington’s Furniture Store’.”

“That should be simple enough to distinguish,” Stewart responded, glancing over at the window. “But it might be best if we raid it tomorrow.”

“I agree,” Corbyn said. “It’s getting rather late, and I need to assemble a team to ensure we are not outnumbered.”

“I could go,” Sanders suggested.

“I think not,” Corbyn stated. “It would be best if you stayed home tomorrow to rest.”

“No, that isn’t necessary—”

“That is an order, Agent,” Corbyn barked.

“Yes, sir,” Sanders muttered.

A serving wench sauntered over. “Can I get ye anything else?”

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