Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(21)

“I wasn’t bickering. I was having a discussion.”

“You were bickering,” Morgan insisted, “in a way that could be construed as flirtation.”

Ross scowled. “I was discussing an issue of safety, Morgan, which is vastly different from flirtation.”

Morgan smiled wryly. “Whatever you say, sir.”

Deliberately Ross lifted his mug of coffee and drained half of it in one swallow. Rising from his chair, he picked up his coat and put it on.

Morgan viewed him with surprise. “Where are you going, Cannon?”

Ross pushed a pile of documents across the desk to him. “To market, of course. Look over these warrants for me, will you?”

“But… but…” For the first time in Ross’s memory, Morgan seemed bereft of speech. “I have to prepare for court!”

“It won’t start for a quarter hour,” Ross pointed out. “For God’s sake, how much time do you need?” He suppressed a grin as he left the office, feeling strangely light-hearted.

Having accompanied Eliza to the Covent Garden market on a few occasions, Sophia was familiar with the famous square, two sides of which were lined with arcades called piazzas. The best flower, fruit, and vegetable stalls were located beneath these piazzas, where nobility, thieves, theater folk, writers, and strumpets mingled freely. All class distinctions seemed to vanish at Covent Garden, creating a jovial carnivallike atmosphere as business of various kinds was conducted.

Today a troupe of street entertainers wandered about the square—a pair of jugglers, a clown-faced tumbler, even a sword-swallower. Sophia watched aghast as the man slid a sword down his throat and extracted it skillfully. She flinched, expecting him to expire on the spot of internal wounds. Instead he grinned and bowed to her, deftly using his hat to catch the coin that Sir Ross tossed to him.

“How does he do it?” Sophia asked the Chief Magistrate.

He smiled into her wide eyes. “Most of the time they have previously swallowed a length of tubing that acts as a scabbard once the sword is inserted.”

“Ugh.” She shuddered and took his arm, tugging him toward the fruit stalls. “Let’s hurry—I will be surprised if any apples are left by now.”

As Sophia moved from one stall to another, Sir Ross accompanied her obligingly. He did not interfere with her transactions, only waited patiently as she bargained for the best prices and quality. He hefted the considerable weight of the market basket with ease, while she filled it with an ever-growing assortment of fruit and vegetables, a round of cheese, and a fine turbot wrapped in brown paper.

The moment the market crowd realized that the celebrated Chief Magistrate of Bow Street was present, chattering Cockney voices rose in a cheerful cacophony. The stall-holders and marketgoers held Sir Ross in high esteem, calling to him, reaching out to touch the sleeve of his coat. They all seemed to know him personally, or at least pretended to, and Sophia found many small gifts being pushed at her—an extra apple, a bundle of kippers, a sprig of sage.

“Sir Ross… ‘ere’s a relish fer ye!” was an oft-repeated phrase, and Sophia finally asked him what the cant words meant.

“A relish is a small gift, usually considered to be a luxury, as a return for a favor.”

“You have done favors for all of these people?” she asked.

“Many of them,” he admitted.

“Such as?”

His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “A few of them have sons or nephews who have run afoul of the law—thievery, vandalism, and the like. The usual punishment for such offenses is to flog a boy, hang him, or send him to a prison where he will be even further corrupted. But I had the notion to send some of these boys to the navy or merchant service, to train as officers’ servants.”

“And thereby give them a chance at a new kind of life,” Sophia said. “What a splendid plan.”

“It has worked well so far,” he said offhandedly, and sought to change the subject. “Look at that table of smoked fish—do you know how to make kedgeree?”

“Certainly I do,” Sophia replied. “But you haven’t finished telling me about your good deeds.”

“I’ve done nothing all that praiseworthy. I’ve just used a bit of common sense. It is obvious that putting a mischief-making boy in prison with hardened criminals will result in his corruption. And that even if the law makes no distinction between the crimes of adults and juveniles, some consideration must be given to those of tender age.”

Sophia turned away, pretending to look over the row of stalls while blind rage consumed her. She felt almost sick with it, choking on suppressed fury and tears. So he had found a way to avoid sending young boys to prison—he no longer condemned them to the torture of the prison hulks. Too damned late, she thought with freshly spiking hatred. Had Sir Ross come to this realization earlier, her brother would still be alive. She wanted to scream and rail at him, at the unfairness of it. She wanted John back; she wanted to erase every excruciating moment on the prison ship that had led to his death. Instead he was gone. And she was alone. And Sir Ross was responsible.

Averting her anger-hardened face, Sophia went to a flower cart filled with a variety of blooms, including pink primroses, purple lilies, blue spired delphiniums, and fragile white camellias. She breathed in the perfumed air and forced herself to relax. Someday, she comforted herself silently, Sir Ross would have his comeuppance—and she would deliver it personally.