Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(61)

“I would rather not say,” Ross replied quietly. “And I would ask that you keep his name private, and do not mention the records search to anyone else at Bow Street.”

“Not even to Sir Grant?” Vickery’s surprise was evident.

“No one,” Ross emphasized, giving the clerk a meaningful stare.

While Vickery conducted his search, Sophia helped Ross with a deluge of work. In addition to his usual responsibilities, he was engaged in planning a series of raids at the outskirts of London to clear out hives of vagrants. Furthermore, he was unexpectedly called upon to act as arbitrator in an impassioned demonstration for higher wages staged by a majority of London tailors.

Amused and sympathetic, Sophia listened to Ross’s grumbling as he prepared to leave the office. “Will it take long to resolve the dispute?” she asked.

“It had better not,” he said darkly. “I’m in no mood to tolerate hours of squabbling.”

She smiled into his scowling face. “You will be successful. I have no doubt that you could persuade anyone to agree to anything.”

His expression softened as he drew her against his tall form and bent to kiss her. “You’re proof of that, aren’t you?” he murmured.

Just as Ross began to take his leave, however, Mr.

Vickery knocked at the door. Sophia went to open it, and her stomach did a peculiar flip when she saw the triumphant glow on the clerk’s face. He held a yellowing records file in his hands. “Sir Ross,” he said with visible satisfaction, “by a stroke of luck, I have found the information you requested. It could have taken weeks, but somehow I happened upon the right box before I was even a quarter of the way through the records. Now, perhaps you might tell me why—”

“Thank you,” Ross said evenly, stepping forward to accept the file. “That will be all, Vickery. You have done well.”

The clerk’s face was etched with disappointment as he realized that no further information would be forthcoming. “Yes, Sir Ross. I suppose you will read it after you return from the tailors’ dispute—”

“The tailors can wait,” Ross said firmly. “Close the door when you leave, Mr. Vickery.”

Obviously perplexed at why an ancient court record would take precedence over the tailors’ demonstration, the clerk complied slowly.

The quiet click of the door caused Sophia to flinch. She stared in morbid fascination at the file in Ross’s hands, the blood draining from her face. “You don’t have to read it now,” she said scratchily. “You should attend to your responsibilities.”

. “Sit down,” Ross murmured, coming forward to rest his hand on her shoulder. Obeying the gentle pressure, she sank into the nearest chair and gripped the arms tightly. Her gaze locked on his impassive face as he went to his desk and spread the tattered file across the scarred mahogany surface. Still standing, Ross braced his hands on either side of the court records and leaned over them.

The silence in the office was smothering as his gaze scanned the pages. Sophia fought to keep her breathing steady, and wondered why she should be so nervous. After all, she was fairly certain what the records would reveal, and as she had said to Ross, it no longer mattered. She had forgiven him, and had found a measure of peace in the process. However, her body felt like a watch that had been wound too tightly, and she dug her nails into the chair arms when she saw the frown that pulled at Ross’s forehead.

Just as Sophia thought she would go mad from the tension, Ross spoke with his gaze remaining on the court records. “I remember it now. I was the sitting magistrate that day. After hearing the case, I sentenced John Sydney to ten months on a prison hulk. Considering his crime, it was by far the lightest punishment I could deliver. Anything less would have aroused such public outrage that I would have been forced to step down from the bench.”

“Ten months on a prison hulk because of picking someone’s pocket?” Sophia asked incredulously. “Surely the punishment far outweighed the crime!”

Ross did not look at her. “Your brother was not a pickpocket, Sophia. Nor had he fallen in with a group of petty thieves. He was a highwayman.”

“A highwayman?” She shook her head in bewilderment. “No. That isn’t possible. My cousin told me…”

“Either your cousin was not aware of the truth, or she thought it was kinder to keep it from you.”

“But John was only fourteen!”

“He had joined a gang of highwaymen and embarked on a string of increasingly violent robberies, until all four were brought before me and accused of murder. For some reason Sydney never mentioned his title—he identified himself as a commoner.”

Sophia stared at him blankly.

Ross met her gaze then, his face impassive as he continued in a monotone. “They stopped a private carriage containing two women, a small child, and an elderly man. Not only did they rob the ladies of their watches and jewelry, but one of the highwaymen—Hawkins—took a silver sucking-bottle from the child. According to the women’s testimony, the child began to wail so piteously that his grandfather demanded the return of the silver bottle. A scuffle ensued, and Hawkins struck the old man with the butt of his pistol. The grandfather fell to the ground, and whether he died of the injury or his excitation is not clear. By the time the gang was captured and brought before me, public sentiment was greatly aroused against them. I bound the older three over for trial, and they were condemned and executed in short order. However, in light of John Sydney’s youth and the fact that he had not personally attacked the old man, I managed to give him a lesser sentence. I had him sent to the prison hulk—which earned a great deal of public fury and criticism, as most were calling for his death.”