Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(13)

Alec’s thoughts were broken when a man sat down next to him and gave him a sullen nod. He was dressed no differently than any in the tavern—linen shirt, homespun breeches, black shoes, worn coat.

But he was Scots, not English. He had the bearing that many Scots in London did, that he was in this country only because he needed the work, that he’d rather be toiling on his farm up north.

The sunny-faced barmaid brought the man a tankard and also carried one for Alec. She gave Alec a warm look and a shimmy of her skirts, but Alec wasn’t in the mood for a dalliance. The barmaid departed, looking in no way unhappy that her other services would not be required.

The Scotsman had dark hair scraped into a queue, a rather flat face, and light brown eyes. He took a pull of his ale, grimaced, and nodded at Alec.

“All right?”

“Aye,” Alec answered.

They slurped in silence. The ale was watery and tasteless, but that was usual for cheap backstreet taverns. The company wasn’t much better—tired men who wanted to drink and then crawl off to their beds.

The man set down his tankard after another long drink and motioned for Alec to follow him. Alec dropped coins for the ale on the table and walked out with him into the night.

They strolled in silence through dark streets lit only by those fortunate enough to have lanterns to guide them. These occasional lamps bobbed along like fireflies in the fog, winking out as their owners reached their destinations and ducked indoors.

Alec’s man led him with surety down streets Alec wouldn’t have walked alone, and so to the river. Alec had never been through these lanes before but his memory stored up each one, his ability to recall exact details of a place after seeing it only once ensuring he could reach safety in case this man proved to be an enemy. He wouldn’t tear around panicked and lost.

The Thames stank, the shingle that lined the shore just as rank. Boats plied the water, their few lights swaying. Alec could just make out the bulk of London Bridge with its pile of houses on top a way down the river, a smudge against the night.

The man halted. Alec kept his hand on his knife, which he could draw in an instant, but his guide did not seem inclined to attack. He spat on the rocks. “Bloody mucky city,” he growled in broad Glaswegian. “Stinks like a cesspit.”

“This river is a cesspit, lad,” Alec said. “All the shit gets dumped here. Before you start singing how beautiful and better smelling is our homeland, out with it, man. What do you have to tell me?”

The man spat again. “Heard of men being held,” he said. “Not tried, not killed, just held on to. Don’t know why.”

Alec drew a sharp breath then regretted it as the stench of rotten eggs filled his nostrils. He let it out again, forcing himself to remain calm.

“Held where?” he asked tightly.

The man shrugged. “Might be with a regiment. Might be in a big house of some aristo. Or maybe of a nabob.”

Nabobs, those interesting men who traveled to India or the islands of the Caribbean, made piles of money off the backs of slaves, and came home to live like aristocrats but without the title and ancestry. Alec’s father had much to say about nabobs, most of it obscene.

A big house—like the estate of a duke? “Whose house?” Alec pressed.

“Dunno.”

The man fell silent. Alec waited, but that seemed to be the extent of his knowledge.

Well, it was more than he’d had before. A house, with men held in it. Might be Scotsmen, Frenchmen, or men from the lands of China, for all Alec knew, and these men might simply work there.

But it was something, a tendril to grasp.

The Glaswegian watched Alec, beginning to glower. He’d delivered the goods—now he expected to be paid.

His information was likely worth nothing, but if Alec didn’t pay for it, word would get around, and Will’s contacts might be less than eager to seek him out.

Alec slid his hand into his coat pocket to find the one coin he’d brought for the purpose. He’d carried money for the ale and for this, not foolish enough to walk about with all his cash in backstreet London.

The moment Alec’s hand came out of his pocket, he heard a crunch of boot on gravel, the only thing that saved him.

He ducked out of the way as a cosh came down, the breeze of it brushing his face. Alec dropped the coin and grabbed his dirk, coming around with it up and slashing.

He heard a grunt and a curse, felt his knife bite. The darkness was nearly complete by the river, but the fog glowed faintly with moonlight, letting Alec see the glint of a blade, the swing of another cosh. He counted three men attacking them with deadly intent.

Alec’s companion grunted and went down. At the same time, Alec took a punch to his middle, which doubled him over, sending him down on one knee. He dodged as a long knife came at him, and rolled to his feet, striking with his own knife.

More grunts, curses, rancid breath as a man got under Alec’s reach, and Alec found knuckles in his face. His head snapped back, but he jabbed at the same time, rewarded with foul words in a broad London accent.

The man Alec had come to meet lay on the shingle and didn’t move. Dead? Injured? Unconscious?

The three men were now trying to put Alec into one of these states. He called up all the cunning he’d learned fighting in the streets of Edinburgh and Paris and then again in battle. Strength alone wouldn’t help him here, but the wily tricks Will and Mal had taught him would serve.