by Edith Layton
“Deny it,” Lucian said wearily. “Simply deny it. No one can prove it. The girl he died attempting has fled. Mr. Corby says she’ll seek the same employment elsewhere, but who’ll believe such a slum rat even if she knew his name? The procuress lives in lively fear of the runner, she’ll say nothing. The giant who did the deed? He has an infant’s mind, and will obey the fishwife because he adores her.”
“And she?” his mother demanded.
“She wants to forget the whole, as we do.”
“She won’t try to get money from us for her silence?” his mother sneered, “I doubt that!”
“Don’t. She has more honor than most females I know. Far more than your brother, Ma’am.”
“Bah. My brother,” she spat. “I only wish he’d lived so I could tell him how disgusting he is. But what about the danger to Arthur? Someone’s been following him, and there was that night he was pushed into the street. How do you account for that? And your accident, that you’ve never enlarged upon, at least to me? Arthur said my brother might have had a low female as a lover. What if she still seeks vengeance—no—what if she looks for more now because he infected her too?”
Lucian shook his head. “Mama, think about it. If Uncle contracted a disease, it was likely from that mythical female, not the reverse. Any rate, I doubt that story. I sincerely do.”
“I do too,” Arthur said suddenly. “I think we’ve been jumping at shadows, Mama. I might have merely been pushed by someone accidentally. It was crowded. Lucian may have just been unlucky too.” He gave his mother a significant look. “He was out for a night on the town, you know, and that usually entails a bit to drink.”
Lucian frowned. The boy still didn’t understand him. But if it allayed their mother’s fear, he wouldn’t argue the point.
“What of the fellow you saw in the park across the street?” the viscountess asked Arthur.
“He may have had nothing to do with me.”
“Don’t worry,” Lucian said. “We’ll still take care. But the matter is over with and done. Although all may know, no one can prove a thing. Let it be buried with Uncle, and have done with it. But not a word of this to Nick. Never. Do you understand?”
“Do you think we’ve run mad?’ his mother snapped.
“I’ll leave now,” Lucian said. “I’m going to go about my business as usual. I suggest you do the same. No sense prolonging the period of mourning. We don’t mean it, and it will only remind people of the circumstances. Best forget and let it be forgotten.”
“Thank God Louisa doesn’t know,” his mother said fervently. “She was going to marry him for his money, no telling what she would do to get some of ours if she got her jaws on this bit of news.”
Lucian didn’t argue the point. He knew better and had heard enough. He merely bowed himself out. Arthur appeared in the hall as a footman was helping him on with his greatcoat.
“I hope you don’t mind what I said to Mama?” Arthur said when the footman left them. “About your accident? I was only trying to get her not to worry. This whole thing has got me thinking as never before. I was a fool to cultivate Uncle. You thought so. Don’t deny it. You were right. I was trying to make Mama happy—but well, dammit, Maldon, it’s you and I who ought to be friends, isn’t it? What was I doing trying to befriend that filthy old man? I feel soiled by the whole incident. Worse, because I was trying to be his intimate.
“Tell you what,” Arthur said, dropping his voice. “Lord, but this is hard to say…but the thing of it is, Maldon, Mama never wanted me close to you and so I never tried. It should have been your company I sought, not Uncle’s. Do you think you could find it in your heart to forgive me that, and start anew? I’d like to be your friend, if it’s not too late.”
“Of course I’d like that,” Lucian said, “and there’s no need to apologize.”
“Yes there is,” Arthur said in a rushed whisper. “The truth is she always says disparaging things about you, and frowned on us ever getting together, as brothers ought to do. I’m afraid I played right into that. It’s pleasant being mother’s favorite little lad,” he said on a broken laugh, “until you see it’s time to grow up. Maldon—let’s make amends. Let me, at least. Will you?”
“No need to ask such a thing. We’ll get together for dinner, soon. Or better yet,” Lucian said on a happy inspiration, “why not come with me tomorrow? I’ve a mind to see the Frost Fair one more time. It can’t last forever, you know.”
“Yes! Absolutely. I’ll come by and fetch you. About noon?”
“Yes, perfect,” Lucian said. “That’s when I was planning to go.”
“No!” Arthur said in chagrin. “No, damn, but I can’t. I’m promised to tea with Mama. Better still. Have dinner with me. In my rooms. I know you’ve a grander home. But I can entertain too. Let me show you. You mocked me for having Uncle to dinner. Help me take the curse off it by dining with me. But, Maldon… Only one favor? If you please, don’t tell Mama. I’m trying to grow up, but there’s no sense making it harder, is there?”
“None at all,” Lucian laughed.
“One more thing,” Arthur said. “I hardly know, and I’m embarrassed for it. But what is your favorite dish? Uncle liked kidneys—no, I refuse to think about him!”
“Don’t,” Lucian said, “because I won’t either.”
But he did, all the way home. It was over. But Lucian wished he could be sure of it. He was not. Something ticked at the corner of his mind, like a moth tapping at a window pane on a late summer’s night. But it was too dark to see.
Chapter Seventeen
Lucian woke feeling lighter than he had in weeks. The wintry darkness that had gripped his soul since his uncle’s death had vanished in the night. When his valet entered the room and drew back the curtains from his windows, the bedchamber filled with a pure white light. It had snowed again in the night, but now the sun was out again. Lucian sat up, realizing he was actually looking forward to the day.
His uncle was dead, but so was his concern and any lingering regret about it. The earth was well rid of the old villain. In time, with luck, he’d forget the man ever existed. He’d turn Uncle’s properties over to Arthur, little by little by stealth and design if he had to. But it was over.
He no longer had to see the runner, or the fishwife. Still, as he sat in the weak sunlight and let his valet shave him, Lucian decided that he chose to see the pair again today anyway. The thought pleased him. The only thing that nagged at him—and that only in a peripheral way—was the thought that since they no longer needed each other he’d doubtless never see them again after today.
But then he remembered he had promised to take Mrs. Pushkin to see Lousia. And he had to make arrangements to see the runner again as well, didn’t he? Because he certainly wouldn’t bring his reward money to the Fair. Lucian smiled, thanked his valet, and began to dress for what looked to be a delightful day.
He had a hearty breakfast, and read the newspapers. Then he went into his study and wrote a letter to Nicholas, filled with jests and promises for the fine spring holiday they would have together. He dashed off some more correspondence, looking up to consult the case clock in the corner every so often. They were going to be leaving Mrs. Pushkin’s at noon, Will had said.
When he put down his pen he saw he’d time and to spare. He’d tell them he’d decided to buy some gimcrack for Nicholas at the Fair. He would, because Nicholas would like that. But he liked the thought of their surprise at seeing him come along to the Fair with them again almost as much.
He glanced out the window. The new fallen snow was already melting. It was mild again, so he could take his curricle today. But if he did, Mrs. Pushkin and her staff would have to take a separate hackney… Lucian asked for his coach to be made ready. He shrugged on his greatcoat and selected one of his stoutest walking sticks. The ice at the Fair was treacherous stuff. He pulled on his kid gloves, tilted his hat just so, and grinning at his footman, went out the door—and almost walked into Arthur on hi
s top step.
“Lord!” Lucian said, his hand to his heart. “If it was night, I’d have screeched like an old lady.”
“You’re here, good!” Arthur said.
‘Well, but I was just on my way out.”
“Where?” Arthur asked.
Lucian hesitated. He hadn’t introduced Mrs. Pushkin to Arthur at the Fair because he’d been ashamed to be seen with the fishwife involved in his uncle’s death. Or perhaps, as a small voice insisted, because he’d been ashamed of being seen with a fishwife, no matter how they’d met. But she wasn’t here now. There were no feelings to be hurt. And no reason to tell his brother about her, either.
Lucian didn’t entirely understand the tenuous relationship he’d forged with the fishwife and the runner. And so he was suddenly relieved Arthur hadn’t taken him up on his rash invitation to accompany him to the Fair. He must have been overset indeed, he thought, to have proffered it in the first place.
“I’m off to run errands and such,” he said. “Now that I don’t have to look for assailants under every hedge, I can go anywhere.”
“So you’ve no set appointments? No one expecting you? Nowhere you must be?”
“No. That’s exactly it. I need to breathe some fresh and free air. Now that the temperature’s moderating and my wounds are healed, I’m eager to be off.”
“Well, good,” Arthur said happily, “because I’ve decided you’re to dine with me this very day.”
“Tell me the time, and I’ll be there,” Lucian said. He’d envisioned a different evening—but solaced himself by deciding that sharing Mrs. Pushkin’s dinner two nights in a week was far too much.
“Nuncheon, and now,” Arthur said. “I’ve breakfasted at your house often enough. And I decided dinner would bring back too many unhappy memories. That was for Uncle and me, and I don’t want to remember that. So, for us—a nuncheon. Don’t be disappointed. I’ve got into the habit of having a hearty one. Uncle was old-fashioned and country bred… No, not another word on that head. But I promise you a delicious meal. The first of many, I hope. The sooner the better, I thought. Since you’ve no other appointments, what better time than now?”
“Now?” Lucian said, thinking quickly. Well, but it could be done, after all. He’d meet them at the Fair later than he’d planned. He didn’t want Arthur to go along, but he might suggest it if he knew his plans. But this was a farewell, in a sense. And Arthur was, after all a stranger to the pair. And he didn’t know how Arthur would react to socializing with a fishmonger, did he? Why ruin things at the very last? And he certainly didn’t care to hear their mother’s opinion of it, and he would, if Arthur knew.
But that meant getting a message to Mrs. Pushkin and Will Corby. The Fair would be so thronged with people he’d have a hard time meeting his own shadow there if he didn’t set a time and place to do it. “Send away your hackney, I’ll just go round and get my curricle,” Lucian said., “I won’t be a moment.”
“Why don’t you send for it?”
“My dear boy, I don’t play the grand seigneur,” Lucian lied. “No reason I can’t walk three steps to the stables. Wait here, no sense the two of us getting our boots filthied. I’ll be back in a tick.”
He gave Arthur no time to answer, but stepped off his front step and strode into the long alley that led to his stables, alongside his townhouse. From the side of his eye Lucian saw a shadow slip into deeper shadows as he did. As he’d hoped, Spanish Will hadn’t yet retired his crew of watchful street urchins. The runner probably wouldn’t call them off until he’d explored every last loophole and avenue—or at least, until he was paid his reward.
“Here, boy,” Lucian said to the empty air in a low voice. “Come out. I know you’re there, and I know Spanish Will set you there. You’ve had my sympathies these past freezing days. But listen, I need to get a message to Mr. Corby. Double quick. Good lord, boy! Do you think you’re invisible? Come here, I said.”
A ragged boy emerged from the shadows, and stood, poised to run.
“Good,” Lucian said, now sorry he was seeing the lad clearly. Because this one was young, and rail thin. And though it was growing milder, it had snowed in the night. He could have invited the lad into his kitchens as Mrs. Pushkin had done…yes, he thought, with a wry smile, and have his cook commit suicide on his own knife if he did. A nobleman’s staff was notoriously proud of place. He’d perhaps been hanging about eccentrics like the fishwife too long, Lucian thought, amused.
“Now listen,” he said, smiling at his thoughts, “I judge Spanish Will to be at Mrs. Pushkin’s house now. That’s the fish shop in Little Buckle Street. He’ll be leaving for the Frost Fair by noon. That should give you time to reach him. Listen. Tell him the Viscount Maldon said he was planning to go too, but has just been invited to his brother’s rooms for nuncheon, and must go there instead. But tell him I said as I’m done I’ll meet them at the Fair. At the apothecary’s tent—that’s Abernathy the apothecary—at four, at the latest, half past the hour. I’d like them to wait for me there. Now, can you remember all that?”
The boy nodded. “You says as to how you’ll be at Old Abernathy’s tent at four or half past and to wait for you there.”
“Good. Now listen. If you get the message to him, I’ll present you with a guinea for your pains. Aye, that’s right. A golden boy. All for simply getting to him and telling him. All right?”
But the boy was gone and down the street too fast to answer.
*
“Devilish good to have you here at last,” Arthur said as he waved off his man and poured his brother a glass of wine himself.
He was flustered and fidgety, fussing with the bottle and glasses, his earnest young face deeply concentrated on each simple task. He was nervous as a new bride showing off her household, Lucian thought guiltily. “I ought to have come long before,” he said.
“No. I ought to have asked you,” Arthur answered. “It’s not that Mama frowned on our friendship, precisely. It’s more that…well, the strange thing is that I feel guilty meeting you like this even now without her knowing. I don’t think she’d approve. You know what I think, Maldon? I think she was afraid that if we two became friends there would be less room in my heart for her—which is nonsense of course.”
“No, it’s not,” Lucian said. “At least not on my part. We’re not close. To be honest, I don’t know her very well. To be more honest, I know she don’t care for me very much. I remind her of our papa. Theirs was not a blissful union.”
“That’s an understatement!” Arthur said. “Good. Everything’s ready. Come, sit down. We’ll dine. I’ve got ragout and shaved ham, fowl, fresh bread and a special treat. I don’t want to mention Uncle, but he was mad about a kidney pie the shop round the corner makes. And just because he liked something oughtn’t to damn it. You must try it. It’s extraordinary!”
Lucian seated himself. He wasn’t sharp set but hungry enough to do justice to a light repast. He raised his glass. “To a new friendship between brothers,” he proposed. “Thank you for inviting me, Arthur.”
“Thank you for coming, Maldon. Now, let’s get on with what we missed all these years.”
*
“They left,” the boy Will set to watch Maggie’s alley told the boy Lucian sent to find her and the runner. “You missed ’em, you did. Aye, Spanish Will, he come early, and the fishwife and her crew come piling out of the house like it were afire. They’re gone. Even that lucky dog, Jack. But she never seen me, so I still got to work.”
“Blow it!” Lucian’s thin boy exclaimed. “Now I got to try’n find him at the Fair!”
“Well, luck to you. ’cause you’re more likely to catch cold than Mr. Corby there. How you going to find him? All London’s there. You’re dreaming.”
But there was a whole guinea in it for him. So the boy took to his heels again. He wasn’t a fool or a dreamer. He was hungry, and had always been. Yes, he knew there were thousands of people at the Fair. But he also knew all the ones there w
ho were watching everything but the Fair.
*
The pace of the Frost Fair was frantic. The moderating temperatures spelled doom for it. The Fair was going to melt like the last traces of the dreadful winter, and all knew and wanted one last thrill from it. Five days of jubilation soon to be ended sent the festivities to a fever pitch. Spring was on the air, the cruelest winter anyone could remember was finally dying. The rides were whirling, the vendors shouting themselves hoarse, even the music was brighter. The printing presses churned out farewells, even a ditty called Madame Tabitha Thaw. London was giving its greatest Frost Fair a riotous good-bye.
But Spanish Will wasn’t enjoying himself. His expression softened now and again, when he saw the fun Maggie was having, just strolling and taking it all in. But something was niggling at him, something was nagging, and he couldn’t relax.
“It’s vexing you too, isn’t it?” Maggie asked unexpectedly.
“What?” Surprised, he looked down into her upturned face.
She grimaced. “The baron’s death. I can’t get it off my mind. It’s coloring everything today. It doesn’t all fit. Oh, I believe Flea took him to my doorstep and left him there when he died. I know he was dead then too. Otherwise Flea wouldn’t have hit him. That makes me feel some better. Flea’s simple, but clever in unexpected ways. Be sure, he knows what dead is and is not. But the way of it puzzles me. My grandmother tended the sick, and I helped her. There’s things I know.”
Her rusty eyebrows came down, and she frowned as she thought aloud, ticking off her reasons on her gloved fingers.
“If a man’s heart gives out, he feels pain before he falls. He clutches his chest or his arm, and he gasps. But he doesn’t writhe. If his brain’s struck, he seizes up. It’s like he was thunderstruck. And if a man has a fit, he seldom dies of it. The baron was thrashing about, Flea said. Shouting too, which a man with a fit does not do.” She frowned. “What the baron was doing when he was taken was so ugly I haven’t wanted to think about it. But now I am, and now I wonder if that’s what killed him after all.”
