A Dangerous Game (Regency Spies & Secrets Book 2) Laura Beers (best summer books .txt) 📖

Oliver pressed his lips together, not wanting to dignify Haskett’s question with a response. A peculiar odor of unwashed bodies hung in the air, making him decisively not hungry. He couldn’t imagine how filthy he was, and he had only been here overnight.

He brought his leg up and rested his arm on it. A long soak was in his future when he arrived home. More importantly, he wondered how he was going to make this up to Emmeline. He had promised her that he would return home and accompany her to her late father’s solicitor. Furthermore, he remembered that it was her birthday, and he had yet to purchase her a gift.

Blazes! It was rather difficult to keep promises when he was an agent. He never quite knew what to expect.

The sound of a door creaking open could be heard in the distance followed by booted footsteps. Glancing towards the sound, he saw a guard approaching his cell with keys jingling in his hand.

The guard stopped outside of the cell. “Lord Oliver,” he said as he unlocked the door, “you are free to go.”

Follet jumped up to his feet. “What about me?”

The guard gave him an unimpressed look. “Who are you again?”

Squaring his shoulders, Follett replied, “I am Mr. Samuel Follett, the eldest son of Viscount Rodgers.”

“Oh,” the guard said, “no one has posted bail for you yet.”

“Has my father been notified?”

The guard shrugged. “That is a good question, but I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that. After all, I only just arrived for my shift.”

Follett reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “I would appreciate it if you could get word to my father.”

The guard accepted the coin and replied, “I will see what I can do.” He slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.

Rising, Oliver took a moment to stretch his back before he walked over to the door. The guard stepped back, allowing him to exit.

Once the guard closed the door, Haskett came to the front of the cell and placed his hands through the bars. “Will you send word to my father?”

Oliver nodded. “I will see to that the moment I arrive home.”

“Thank you,” Haskett sighed.

As Oliver followed the guard down the dimly lit pathway between the cells, his eyes strayed towards all the filthy men that were huddled together. He continued to follow the guard as he led him through an open courtyard towards an iron gate that kept the prison secure.

The guard stopped next to the gate and reached behind him to reveal a pistol. “I have been instructed to return your overcoat pistol to you,” he said, extending it towards him. “For obvious reasons, we could not let you keep your pistol on your person here.”

“I understand,” Oliver replied, grateful they hadn’t discovered the muff pistol in his boot.

Oliver tucked the pistol into the waistband of his trousers and waited patiently as the guard opened the gate just wide enough for him to exit. Then, it was slammed behind him and locked.

A black coach was waiting outside of the jail, and a footman jumped off his perch to open the door. He approached the coach cautiously until he saw the familiar face of Corbyn staring back at him.

“Get in,” Corbyn ordered.

Oliver ducked into the coach and sat opposite of Corbyn. He waited for the door to be closed before saying, “Thank you for seeing to my release.”

Corbyn gave him a disgusted look. “You smell terrible.”

“That is to be expected, since I spent the night in jail.”

“By chance, did you roll around in excrement?”

Oliver brought his arm up and took a sniff of his sleeve. “I do smell rather unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?” Corbyn repeated. “I daresay you should burn your clothes after you remove them.”

“I may just do that.”

Corbyn reached over and opened the window. “You should know that all the charges against you have been dropped.”

“How were you able to accomplish that?”

“It was no small feat, and I was forced to involve the undersecretary of the Alien Office,” Corbyn explained. “The Runners were adamant that you were to remain in jail.”

“Why?”

“Because they are blasted Runners, and they truly believe that they are God’s gifts to fighting crime,” Corbyn scoffed.

“Did you speak to Guy Stewart?”

Corbyn nodded. “He claims that you and your friends were willing participants of a violent protest.”

“He said that?” Oliver asked in disbelief.

“That he did.”

“He is lying.”

Corbyn frowned. “Clearly, but the magistrate will take the Bow Street Runner’s word over a radical schoolboy any day.”

“How does the case look for my friends then?”

“I hope that they know a good barrister.”

Oliver rubbed his stiff neck, then said, “Guy Stewart laid in wait to set a trap for unsuspecting members of Society, and he is going to get away with it.”

“Runners do this all the time,” Corbyn replied. “It is how they earn their blood money.”

“It is wrong of them.”

Corbyn huffed. “That it is, especially since it makes our job of finding legitimate radical groups that much harder.”

“Stewart is a bloody nuisance.”

“I agree, but you must forget about him,” Corbyn said. “The truth of it all is that Runners are the bane of our existence.”

Oliver turned his attention towards the window and relished in the fresh air. “What would you have me do now?”

“Are you terribly unhappy in your assignment?” Corbyn asked.

“It does get rather irksome going to gambling hells and social events to spy on everyone,” Oliver admitted.

With an expectant look on his face, Corbyn inquired, “Would you care to be reassigned?”

Oliver grew silent as he pondered the question, and the image of Emmeline came to his mind. “That might be for the best, now that I am married.”

“That is what I assumed.”

“Are you terribly disappointed?”

“I am not,” Corbyn replied. “I have a never-ending pile of assignments and not enough agents to fill them.”

“That is most unfortunate.”

“The war with Napoleon has taken its toll on the people, and it has caused uprisings to spout up all over England,” Corbyn said. “A credible source has