Married to a Perfect Stranger by Jane Ashford

contacts to pursue. John made a quick bobbing bow.
    â€œYou’re a marvel, Bexley.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œLook at you. When you put on that gear, you stand differently, your face is…you look like another person entirely.”
    â€œThat’s the idea.”
    â€œStill, venturing into the slums… I suppose I’m to rally the troops if you don’t show up tomorrow.”
    â€œI’ll be here,” John replied. But the truth was, he’d confided in Conolly for this reason exactly. Someone had to know where he’d gone.
    John slipped out of the mostly empty Foreign Office building. He paused to make certain his coin was well secured and that the pistol in the deep pocket of his coat was easily accessible. Then he made his way carefully through dark streets.
    London’s Limehouse slums were full of sailors from across the world. Hired in their native waters for their knowledge of local currents and hazards in port, they were set down in London when the voyage ended, abandoned until they could sign on with another ship. They needed money, and many of them were willing to tell whatever they knew in exchange for small sums.
    Over the years, some of these sailors had settled and opened grogshops or doss-houses or brothels to cater to this continually shifting population. They gathered news from the tide of men who washed through their establishments, and they might be persuaded to pass it along to John for a price. Only once they met and trusted him, however. Such men had an aversion to writing things down—those who could write. Notes could go astray. Throats were slit for less.
    As arranged, John met his translator at a tavern called the Red Dragon at the edge of the district. He had discovered Henry Tsing, son of a Chinese sailor and a Limehouse whore, through an acquaintance of an acquaintance of Rolfe’s. Henry had learned Chinese dialects as a potboy in a grogshop, and John judged him suitable as a general ear to the ground around Limehouse. “Shen may have something,” he said when John appeared.
    John nodded. “ Hĕn hăo .” And they set off.
    Midway through the evening, it began to rain, turning the filth and litter in the narrow streets to a disgusting mush. John turned up his collar further and kept going. The hope for useful information just barely kept his spirits from sinking in the endless succession of dark, dirty holes, where men clutched their rotgut liquor or opium pipes in a desperate quest for solace.
    The circuit Henry led him through took longer than John had expected. They couldn’t hurry from place to place without drawing unwanted attention. Their progress had to appear dawdling and random. He’d planned to return to the office and change his clothing before going home, but by the end of the night, he was worn out. As he left Henry at the edge of a less disreputable district, John told himself that everyone would be asleep and he trudged homeward.
    Well after midnight, he crept through the alley behind the house and let himself in the back entrance. Shedding the filthy clogs and shapeless hat, he was filled with gratitude for this warm and peaceful refuge. How many men had he seen tonight who would never know such a haven? He dropped the ancient coat and stripped off mud-spattered stockings. He’d come down very early tomorrow and gather them up before they were noticed.
    Barefoot, he crept through the house and up the stairs. At the door of his bedchamber, he nearly jumped out of his skin when candlelight fell over him as Mary opened her door. “John?” she said.
    She stood in the opening, the small flame throwing golden light over her thin nightdress, her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders. Even bone-tired and dispirited and cold, he was stirred to his depths by the sight.
    â€œI was worried.”
    â€œI told you I’d be out late tonight,” he said.
    â€œYes, but…where are