Once back in familiar territory, Barrow took the lead, secretly hoping on every street corner they’d encounter unmentionables that would curry particular favor toward the portly John Ross and carry him away for their supper. The younger Ross had especially sharp sight however and bade them hold their breath or sink into the shadows when a shambler of London’s fairer district dragged on by.
In due time, they’d reached the darkened houses, slipping through the unlatched garden gate to the tiny courtyard. As he’d expected, there wasn’t a single trace of the young Irishman except for a dropped Lady’s bag. James Ross took the loss hard, but restrained his emotions as a proper young gentleman should, with a stiff upper lip and a quiet sniffle. The elder Ross placated his nephew by adding, “the kindest thing to do for the lad is to end his service as an emissary of Satan, if you’re fated to meet again.”
Barrow thought it a load of hogwash and wished this whole mess hadn’t been started in the first place. Particularly when Mrs. Barrow’s carriage had overturned somewhere in London, no one had stopped to aid her, only through a liveryman whom had fled, had he learned of her preeminent demise.
They failed to see the trail of gentlemen’s cases and ladies things leading the opposite way.