Into Thin Eire

by Sheri Cobb South

  “Mr. Pickett?”

  As he took the letter from his magistrate’s hand, Pickett realized he was being given the opportunity to put his tormentor in his place, and resolved not to let it go to waste. He took a deep breath. “Before Mr. Carson joined us, sir, I asked you where Dunbury was, and you told me it was in the West Country.” Pickett would not pretend to prior knowledge he had not possessed, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t point out, however indirectly, Harry Carson’s failure to ask. “Given the distance involved, the fact that it was delivered this morning would seem to indicate that it was mailed the day before yesterday—assuming, of course, that it was sent from Dunbury, and not from some other location.”

  “A valid point, Mr. Pickett, but probably a safe assumption,” Mr. Colquhoun said, acknowledging it with a nod. “Have you any other observations?”

  “The quality of the paper suggests that this Mr. Brockton is a man of means,” Pickett continued, “but one without connections amongst the aristocracy, given the lack of a frank. A member of the gentry, perhaps, or a well-to-do merchant. As for the contents, there’s no way of knowing until we meet with the fellow. ‘A matter of some delicacy’ might mean anything from a death under suspicious circumstances to a daughter who has eloped with a fortune-hunter.”

  “Not bad,” remarked Carson, cocking one eyebrow at the younger man who was his superior at Bow Street. “Keep it up, and you might amount to something by the time you grow up, Mr. Pickett.”

  Pickett thought of the position awaiting him, with living quarters in Carlton House and the possibility of a knighthood at some future date, and gave Carson a rather smug smile. “That’s ‘Lord John’ to you.”

  PICKETT’S THOUGHTS took a very different turn, however, after he left the Bow Street Public Office and set out for the Bolt in Tun in Fleet Street, where he paid fares for two passengers to Wells, the stagecoach stop nearest the village of Dunbury, before heading home to Curzon Street. In spite of the good news he had to impart, his steps began to flag as he approached the modest but elegant Mayfair residence. Granted, he liked the idea of the position he was being offered—to rise, in less than a dozen years, from picking pockets in Covent Garden to having rooms in the royal residence of the Prince of Wales was heady stuff, and Pickett would be lying if he said the prospect held no appeal. Then, too, it would be highly gratifying to be able to offer his wife a title—not so high a title as the one she had held before marrying him, it was true, but a title nonetheless.

  The reality of such a change, however, was a very different matter. For one thing, he was not at all sure he deserved to be rewarded for his actions in the Lake District. Indeed, he could not think of those events for very long without feeling sick to his stomach. There was also the matter of the work he would be called upon to do. Every day at Bow Street brought something new and unexpected—and, occasionally, dangerous. Not that he enjoyed putting his life in jeopardy, precisely, especially now that he had a wife and a child on the way. Still, it kept him on his toes—not unlike the criminal days of his youth, in fact, but with the satisfaction of knowing that he now worked on the right side of the law.

  But this new position, if he chose to accept it, entailed one task, and one task alone: protecting the portly person of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. He had never met the prince, of course—even Mr. Colquhoun, wealthy as he was, didn’t move in such rarified circles as that. And although Pickett had seen His Royal Highness on one occasion, across Drury Lane Theatre on the night it had burned, his attention on that occasion had all been for Julia, Lady Fieldhurst, and the marriage which they had both fully expected to be annulled.

  Still, one did not have to be acquainted with the prince, or even to move in the highest circles, to have heard the rumors that swirled about him: his profligate spending habits and the largely unsuccessful attempts of Parliament to rein him in by controlling his purse-strings; his youthful (and quite unlawful) marriage to the twice-widowed Roman Catholic Maria Fitzherbert, and his legal but disastrous marriage to Princess Caroline of Brunswick, from whom he had been estranged for more than a decade; his susceptibility to flattery from those who hoped to sway his opinions; and, finally, his string of aristocratic mistresses, whose husbands were apparently fully cognizant of their wives’ illicit connections with the prince. In fact, it would be difficult to summon any degree of respect, still less admiration, for his prospective employer.

  On the other hand, Pickett reasoned, his present position often required him to seek justice for murdered men who had been less than admirable while they were alive—his wife’s first husband and her former brother-in-law among them. If a dead man, whatever his defects of character, was deserving of Pickett’s best efforts, then surely a living one was no less worthy. Granted, Pickett had never been obliged to live beneath the roof of any of those dead men, to say nothing of being wholly at their beck and call—or being obliged to wear a uniform of their design, he reflected, remembering with distaste the yellow boots of the 10th Hussars, and the contempt with which these were regarded by the other regiments. Still, he would be well paid—lavishly paid, in fact—for the loss of personal autonomy, and the possibility of laying a more exalted title at Mrs. John Pickett’s feet, especially in the light of all she had given up in order to be with him, was a powerful motivator.

  And so it was that, upon arriving at Curzon Street, he waited only long enough to greet his wife of four months with a lingering kiss before asking, “You’d like being married to Sir John Pickett, wouldn’t you?”

  2

  In Which John Pickett Prepares for a Journey

  Julia had discovered early in their acquaintance that her young Bow Street Runner possessed an appealingly self-deprecating sense of humor, and four months of marriage had only reinforced this conviction. That being the case, it seemed oddly out of character, his apparently laying claim to a knighthood. Or was he referring to an imaginary baronetcy? She regarded him for a long moment, studying his face for some clue as to the nature of the jest (for jest it surely must be) before saying, “I like being married to you, no matter what you may choose to call yourself.”

  “But you’d like to be Lady Pickett, wouldn’t you?” he persisted. “Granted, it wouldn’t be so exalted a title as Lady Fieldhurst, but it beats plain ‘Mrs. Pickett’ all hollow, doesn’t it?”

  “I will not allow you to denigrate ‘Mrs. Pickett,’ ” she protested, giving the lapels of his coat a possessive little tug. “I’ve become rather fond of her. But John, darling, pray cease funning and tell me what you are talking about!”

  “I’m not funning,” he insisted. He told her, then, all about the unexpected visitor to Bow Street and his incredible errand, concluding with, “It sounds like someone’s idea of a joke, doesn’t it?”

  The news had been enough to make her extricate herself from his embrace so that she might sit down somewhat unsteadily on the nearby sofa, but at this question, she came fiercely to his defense. “Not at all! Why should you not be given such an opportunity? Who would be better qualified, pray?”

  Someone who hasn’t been responsible, however unintentionally, for a woman’s death, Pickett might have told her. Aloud, however, he merely cautioned, “He never made any promises about the knighthood, mind you. Still, even if it never comes to pass, the rest of it—the five hundred quid a year and rooms in the royal residence—well, that’s nothing to sneeze at, is it?”

  “Not at all,” she assured him warmly. “Although I feel I must warn you that, if you found this house overwhelming, only wait until you see the grand staircase at Carlton House.”

  He winced. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “In all seriousness, John”—she rose from the sofa and laid an imploring hand on his arm—“if you don’t want to take the position, don’t feel you must do so on my account. I haven’t the slightest objection to remaining ‘Mrs. John Pickett’ for the rest of my life. Indeed, I expected nothing less when we married.”

  “ �
��Nothing less’?” he echoed, seizing upon the expression as he took her into his arms. “I didn’t think there was anything less.”

  “That is a matter of opinion,” she informed him, lifting her face to be kissed.

  He was happy to oblige, but felt compelled to ask, upon completion of this pleasant exercise, “My lady, have I ever told you that you have very poor judgment?”

  “Many times. Still, I have no regrets. Well,” she amended, “only one regret, in any case.”

  This criticism, mild though it was, was sufficient to wipe the smile from his face. “Oh? What—?”

  “I shall always regret that I never had a proper proposal of marriage from you.”

  “Did you not?” he asked in some consternation. “Surely I must have—”

  “As I recall, you were too busy enumerating for me all the reasons why I could not possibly wish to marry you.”

  This claim held an undeniable ring of truth. Aside from the fact that his memories of the event were vague, given that he had been recovering from a head injury at the time, it still seemed strange, even after four months of marriage to think that she, a viscountess, could fall in love with a Bow Street Runner, let alone want to marry him. “I’m glad you didn’t listen, anyway,” he said, seeing some response was called for.

  “Of course, it’s never too late,” she observed.

  “What do you mean?”

  She regarded him expectantly. “You could make me an offer of marriage now.”

  He gave a little laugh, hoping she was funning, but very much afraid she was not. He could think of few things that would make him feel more foolish than the idea of going down on one knee to offer marriage to a woman who was already his wife—a woman, moreover, who was four months gone with child. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

  Her thoughts must have been running along very similar lines, for she pressed one hand to her abdomen. The gentle swell was still concealed by her skirts, at least for now, but that state of affairs was growing more precarious by the day. “It isn’t as if I can turn you down, you know.”

  “In all seriousness, Julia, I didn’t come home just to tell you about the prince’s offer,” Pickett said, changing the subject with some relief. “I have to pack my bags. I’ll be leaving London first thing in the morning.”

  “Oh,” she said, somewhat daunted by this revelation. In an effort to lessen the bleakness that threatened to descend upon her at the prospect of his absence, she added in a lighter tone, “Surely it isn’t necessary to go to such lengths as all that, merely to avoid making me a proposal of marriage.”

  His smile flickered briefly, but he said only, “I wish I could take you with me, but I’m afraid I can’t. The letter requested two men, so instead of my beautiful and clever wife, I’m stuck with Harry Carson of the Horse Patrol.”

  “What’s wrong with Harry Carson?”

  “Other than the fact that he’s not you? I don’t suppose there’s anything ‘wrong with’ him, exactly. It’s just that he seems to consider everything a joke—and few jokes are funnier than the idea of me, married to a lady.”

  “Is he the one who dubbed you ‘Lord John’ then?” Upon receiving an answer in the affirmative, she urged, “Pay him no heed! It is obvious to the meanest intelligence that he is jealous.”

  “It’s certainly obvious that he has reason to be.” He drew her into his arms and propped his chin on the top of her head, resting it in a nest of golden curls. “But there’s no reason why you should stay here alone, you know. I’ll be in Dunbury, not so very far from your parents. If you’d like to go to them, I might be able to ride over to see you from time to time.”

  She could not read the expression on his face, as her own face was buried in his chest, but a slight stiffening of the figure in her arms, as well as something in the offhand manner in which he had spoken, suggested there was more to this offer than might at first appear. Still, she spoke in a jesting tone that matched his, trusting that he would confide in her when he was ready to do so—and not one minute before. “Ride? My dear John! Are you truly offering to come to me on horseback? I am quite overcome! But I seem to recall your telling me once that you could be back in London before all the plans for my own travel were in place.”

  “Yes, but then I knew what I was looking for—or at least, I was reasonably sure that I would know it if I saw it,” he amended. “But I don’t know how long I may be gone this time. It might be a fortnight or more.”

  “Two days will be too long, let alone two weeks,” she said, releasing him with some reluctance. “Still, I daresay it won’t be the last time you will be obliged to travel, so I might as well accustom myself to being on my own. Besides, I had thought to entertain a few ladies to tea. Not a large party, you understand, only a few acquaintances from before my marriage—before our marriage, I should say.”

  Her own studied nonchalance would have instantly aroused Pickett’s suspicions, had his mind been less troubled. “I don’t like leaving you alone,” he confessed.

  “I shall hardly be alone in a house full of servants,” she pointed out.

  “Not quite full, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to take Thomas with me. I’ve put the fellow off too many times already.”

  “He’ll be over the moon,” she predicted.

  She was quite right.

  “I—I’m to come with you, sir?” Thomas stammered, upon being informed that he was not only to pack his master’s bag for the journey, but to accompany him on his travels.

  “Yes. Mind you, it’s only to Dunbury,” Pickett added, seeing that his valet, recently promoted from footman, appeared to be laboring under the delusion that he was about to embark upon the Grand Tour. “It’s not as if we’re going to Paris or Rome.”

  “It might as well be to me, for I’ve never gone beyond Hampstead. Not that I’ve any particular wish to visit a place full of frogs or dagos in any case,” he added hastily, apparently fearful that his loyalty to his homeland might be called into question by his apparent eagerness to leave it.

  “There is one other thing,” Pickett cautioned. “I won’t be traveling alone.”

  “Will Mrs. Pickett be coming with us, then?”

  Pickett sighed. “No, not Mrs. Pickett, but another man from Bow Street. His name is Harry Carson. Most Bow Street Runners don’t travel with servants”—Most Bow Street Runners can’t afford them, he might have added—“so I’m afraid you may be obliged to do for him as well as for me.”

  “I’ll do my best not to disappoint, sir,” Thomas declared stoutly, then moved to the clothespress and began extracting the garments Pickett might require for an extended sojourn. He hesitated over a dark blue tailcoat and a waistcoat of white brocade. “Will you require anything for evening wear, sir?”

  Pickett hesitated. It was true that he’d attended evening entertainments while investigating previous cases, but he’d been accompanied by his wife on those occasions. In fact, it had been Julia who had given him the entrée; Harry Carson’s presence was unlikely to produce the same effect. Moreover, Carson’s response were he to discover such garments in Pickett’s bag (much less upon his person) Pickett could only too easily imagine. On the other hand, he would—as he’d pointed out to Julia—be within reasonable riding distance of her parents. If Julia should happen to write to them, mentioning his presence in the vicinity, would they feel it incumbent upon them to invite him to dinner? If so, he would be obligated to accept, and he refused to give Lady Runyon further reason to despise him by appearing at her dinner table in his boots.

  “Best pack it, just in case,” he told Thomas, who was clearly awaiting an answer. “I may not need it, but I suppose it’s better to be prepared.”

  “Yes, sir,” Thomas said, although whether this was in obedience or agreement, Pickett could not be sure.

  Once his valet was embarked upon the task of packing his things, Pickett turned his attention to one additional arrangement necessary to his comfort, and to th
is end, sought out Rogers, the butler.

  “Rogers, I shall be obliged to leave London first thing in the morning,” he began.

  “Yes, sir. So I had heard,” the butler said, leaving Pickett to wonder (not for the first time) how servants managed to know everything that went on in the house almost as soon as it occurred.

  He had not long to consider the matter, however, for he had more important things on his mind. He glanced around the hall to make sure Julia was not within earshot. He saw no sign of her, but lowered his voice nevertheless. “Tell me, Rogers, do you know how to use a firearm?”

  If Rogers found this question at all surprising, he did not betray it by so much as the flicker of an eyelash. “I do, sir.”

  “There is a pistol in the bottom drawer of the bureau,” Pickett told him. “Don’t hesitate to make use of it, if you should need it.”

  “No, sir, but—begging your pardon, but is there any reason why you should think some form of defense might be necessary?”

  “I—I don’t like leaving Julia alone,” Pickett confessed.

  Manfully overlooking his master’s faux pas in referring to the mistress of the house by her Christian name in front of the staff, Rogers permitted himself an avuncular smile. “I’m sure your sentiments do you credit, sir, but I can assure you that Mrs. Pickett will not be entirely alone.”

  “No, of course not,” Pickett agreed, dismissing his qualms with a shake of his head. After all, the man he feared was in prison, awaiting execution. For all he knew, the fellow might already have kept his appointment with the hangman, and word had not yet reached Mr. Colquhoun, who had requested to be informed of the event. Or perhaps it had, and Mr. Colquhoun—a busy man with many interests in addition to his duties as a magistrate—had merely forgotten to pass the information along to him. He wished he had made inquiries before leaving Bow Street, but it was too late now. “Pay me no heed, Rogers. I suppose I’m being foolish.”