At 10 minutes past 1, the watchman passed, swinging his lantern, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel. Alaric counted to 60. Then he moved. He crossed the slick street in a dozen silent, rapid strides, pressing his back against the rough brickwork of the townhouse. He edged his way to the side alley. It was pitch black here, smelling sharply of wet rot and horse dung. He found the window, ground floor, the study.
Alaric pressed his gloved hands against the glass. It was thick, leaded, and locked from the inside. He didn't hesitate. He slipped a small jar of molasses from his pocket and smeared a thick layer onto the pane nearest the brass latch. He pressed a square of heavy canvas against the sticky syrup, waiting a beat for it to hold. He drew the heavy iron jimmy. With a sharp, controlled motion, he struck the center of the canvas. The glass broke. The canvas and molasses caught the shards, turning what should have been a loud shatter into a dull, wet crunch.
Alaric reached through the jagged hole, his sleeve catching on a sharp edge of glass, and flipped the brass latch. The sash slid up with a faint groan of wood against wood. He hoisted himself over the sill, dropping silently onto the thick wool carpet inside.
The study smelled like the man who owned it. A cloying mixture of expensive bay rum pomade, stale cigar smoke, and spilled brandy. The only light came from the dying embers in the fireplace, casting long, distorted shadows across the bookshelves.
Alaric moved to the desk. It was massive, a hulking piece of dark mahogany that looked more like a fortress than a piece of furniture. He dropped to one knee. The bottom drawer. He gripped the brass handle and pulled. Locked solidly. Alaric wedged the flat edge of his iron jimmy into the narrow gap between the drawer and the frame. He pressed his weight against it. Wood splintered. The iron bit deeper. He applied more leverage, his breath hissing through his teeth with a sharp crack that sounded like a pistol shot in the quiet room. The lock gave way.
Alaric froze. He stared at the ceiling, listening intently to the floorboards above. The laughter continued. No sudden footsteps, no alarm. He pulled the drawer open. It was entirely empty, save for a single item resting on the green felt lining. A small book bound in cracked red leather.
Alaric picked it up. It felt heavy in his hand. He carried it toward the faint light of the fireplace and flipped it open. His eyes scanned the columns of ink.
April 12th. Schooner Maria. Origin Riga. Timber: Baltic pine, unseasoned. Cost: £400. April 15th. Disbursed to Port Inspector Higgins: £50. April 18th. Billed to Admiralty. Timber: Prime Sussex Oak. Invoice: £2100.
Page after page. The arithmetic of treason. Hundreds of ships. Thousands of pounds. Enough rotting wood to sink a fleet. Penelope had been right. It was a noose bound in red leather. Alaric shoved the ledger into the inner pocket of his coat. He turned back toward the window.
The heavy brass handle of the study door clicked. Alaric dropped to the floor, rolling seamlessly behind the heavy velvet drapes flanking the window just as the door swung open. A wedge of bright hallway light spilled into the room, cutting across the carpet.
"I tell you, the prime minister is an idiot," a slurred, heavy voice muttered. Viscount Carlisle.
Alaric pressed his back against the wall. The cold draft from the broken window bit into his neck. He slipped his right hand into his pocket, his thumb resting on the hammer of the flintlock.
"You shouldn't speak so loudly, Carlisle," a second, thinner voice replied.
"In my own house, I'll speak how I damn well please."
Carlisle's heavy boots thudded against the floorboards. He walked straight toward the desk. Alaric stopped breathing. If Carlisle looked down. If he saw the splintered wood of the bottom drawer.
"Where is the damned humidor?" Carlisle grunted, a shadow crossing the light as he leaned over the desk. "I had a box of Cubans imported last week. The servants steal everything. Bloody vermin."
The sound of a wooden lid flipping open. The rustle of dry leaves.
"Here," Carlisle said. "Take one. Let us get back upstairs before that fool loses the rest of his estate to the bank."
"A fine cigar," the second man murmured. "Though I must say, your luck at the tables tonight is abysmal."
"My luck is fine," Carlisle snapped. "My purse is deep enough to weather a few bad hands. Come on."
The heavy boots retreated. The door clicked shut. The room was plunged back into darkness.
Alaric let out a slow, controlled breath. He didn't wait to see if they would return. He climbed through the window, vanished into the alley, and let the freezing rain wash the scent of bay rum from his clothes.
The First Lord of the Admiralty was a man who did not like to be awakened at 5 in the morning. He liked it even less when the man waking him was a duke demanding a private audience in his drawing room. Lord Melville sat in a velvet armchair, clutching a cup of black tea, a heavy woolen dressing gown wrapped around his aging frame. He looked at Alaric with a mixture of irritation and grudging respect.
"This is highly irregular, Cuddon," Melville grumbled, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. "I know you served with distinction, but bursting into my residence before dawn..."