Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners #3)(29)

Reaching Morgan's office, Nick looked askance at the main court clerk, Vickery, who gave him an encouraging nod. "Sir Grant has not yet gone to morning sessions, Mr. Gentry. I am certain that he will wish to see you."

Nick knocked on the door and heard Morgan's rumbling voice. "Come in."

As massive as the battered mahogany desk was, it appeared like a piece of children's furniture compared to the size of the man who sat behind it. Sir Grant Morgan was a spectacularly large man, at least five inches taller than Nick's own height of six feet. Although Morgan was fast approaching the age of forty, no hint of silver had yet appeared in his short black hair, and his distinctive vitality had not faded since the days that he himself had served as a Bow Street runner. As well as having been the most accomplished runner of his day, Morgan was easily the most popular, as he had once been the subject of a string of best-selling ha'penny novels. Before Morgan, the government and the public had regarded the entire Bow Street force with the innate British suspicion toward any form of organized law enforcement.

Nick had been relieved by Sir Ross's decision to appoint Morgan as his successor. An intelligent and self-educated man, Morgan had worked his way through the ranks, beginning in the foot patrol and working his way to the exalted position of chief magistrate. Nick respected that. He also liked Morgan's characteristic blunt honesty and the fact that he seldom bothered with splitting ethical hairs when a job needed to be done.

Morgan guided the runners with an iron hand, and they respected him for his toughness. His only apparent vulnerability was his wife, a small but lovely woman whose mere presence could make her husband start purring like a cat. One could always tell when Lady Morgan had visited the offices at Bow Street, leaving a bewitching trace of perfume in the air and a happily bemused expression on her husband's face. Nick was amused by Sir Grant's obvious weakness where his wife was concerned, and he was determined to avoid such a trap. No female was ever going to lead him around by the nose. Let Morgan and Sir Ross make fools of themselves over their wives-he was much smarter than they.

"Welcome back," the magistrate said, leaning back in his chair to regard him with sharp green eyes. "Have a seat. I assume your return means that you have concluded your business with Lord Radnor?"

Nick took the chair across the desk. "Yes. I found Miss Howard in Hampshire, working as a lady's companion to the dowager countess of Westcliff."

"I am acquainted with Lord Westcliff," Morgan remarked. "A man of honor and good sense-and perhaps the only peer in England who doesn't equate modernity with coarseness."

For Morgan, the comments were akin to wildly effusive praise. Nick made a noncommittal grunt, having little desire to discuss the many virtues of Westcliff. "After tomorrow, I will be ready for new assignments," he said. "I just have one last matter to clear away."

Although Nick had expected that Morgan would be pleased by the information-after all, he had been absent for two months-the magistrate received his words in a surprisingly distant manner. "I'll see if I can find something for you to do. In the meantime-"

"What?" Nick stared at him with open suspicion. The magistrate had never displayed such diffidence before. There wasalways something to be done...unless the entire London underworld had elected to go on leave at the same time Nick had.

Looking as though he wanted to discuss some volatile matter but had not been given permission to do so, Morgan frowned. "You need to visit Sir Ross," he said abruptly. "There is something that he wants to communicate with you."

Nick didn't like the sound of that at all. His suspicious gaze met with Morgan's. "What the hell does he want?" As one of the few people who knew about Nick's secret past, Morgan was well aware of the agreement Nick had made three years earlier and the difficulties between him and his esteemed brother-in-law.

"You'll have to learn that from Sir Ross," Morgan replied. "And until you do, you will receive no assignments from me."

"What have I done now?" Nick asked, suspecting that some kind of punishment was being inflicted on him. Swiftly he mulled over his actions of the past few months. There had been the usual minor infractions, but nothing out of the ordinary. He found it infuriating that Sir Ross, despite his so-called retirement, still had the ability to manipulate him. And Morgan, damn his eyes, would never go against Sir Ross's wishes.

Amusement flickered in Morgan's eyes. "To my knowledge, you've done nothing wrong, Gentry. I suspect that Sir Ross wishes to discuss your actions at the Barthas house fire."

Nick scowled. Two months earlier, just before taking the commission from Lord Radnor, he had received an on-duty summons to run to the fashionable quarter near Covent Garden. A fire had started in a private house belonging to Nathaniel Barthas, a rich wine merchant. Being the first constable to arrive on the scene, Nick had been informed by onlookers that no one in the family had been seen to exit the burning building.

Without stopping to think, Nick had dashed inside the inferno. He had found Barthas and his wife on the second floor, overcome by smoke, and their three children crying in another room. After managing to rouse the couple, Nick had ushered them from the home while carrying the three screaming imps beneath his arms and on his back. In what seemed a matter of seconds afterward, the house had exploded into flames, and the roof had caved in.