by L. C. Sharp
She considered. “The tickets will be sold. They must have gone weeks ago.” That would take the decision out of their hands.
“I already have some.” He smiled wryly. “Friends in high places sometimes prove useful.”
“Ah. Newcastle?”
“Yes.”
The Prime Minister’s brother lived close by, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Newcastle House drew many visitors, rich and poor, but the duke had shown kindness to Ash, after Ash had done what he termed “a small service” to the duke. She had not visited the house much before her marriage, her parents being in a different political grouping. Still Whigs, but the other faction.
“We should go. I like Mr. Handel’s music.”
“Then we will. Perhaps we’ll have solved the murder by then.” He stretched his arms wide, throwing his head back and yawning at the sky. “I never asked you if you enjoyed the fireworks.”
Nobody had bothered to ask her things like that before. She’d gone where she was told and did what she was told to. A thing, the passive recipient of orders and insincere compliments. Her enjoyment was immaterial.
“I did enjoy them. Though they were somewhat extravagant. I fail to see the need to show a whole army marching across the sky.”
“You were not impressed?”
“By the skill of the makers, most certainly. But not the sentiments. This is an uneasy peace.”
“Most certainly. But it should hold for a while, long enough for the country to rearrange itself and for the armaments makers to speed up their production.” He glanced at her, his head still tilted back. “I do not plan to join the army.”
“Good. You’d be wasted there.” His talents lay elsewhere. They’d die a hard death in the army, which did not encourage people to think for themselves.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sky full of stars,” he said softly. “Or I don’t remember it.”
She leaned back, too.
London, set in a valley, covered by its notorious cloud—a result of innumerable coal fires and the general miasma of the biggest city in the world—rarely offered an unencumbered view of the sky. Tonight, with the smoke from the firework display, all one could say of the sky was that it was dark.
“Have you never been to the country?”
He shrugged. “Occasionally. But I’ve never looked up.” He turned his head and offered her one of his rare, sweet smiles. “Perhaps we should go and watch the stars together.”
“Yes. I’d like that.” She could say no more. His friendship meant more to her than any other. The wonder of it all got the better of her sometimes.
The tips of his fingers touched her neck. The touch felt good.
Emboldened, she moved. Not away from him, but into his touch. His fingers caressed her neck now. Warm, unthreatening, even pleasurable. She concentrated on it, allowing and then welcoming it.
“Wouldn’t you grow bored in the country?”
His smile broadened for a second before it disappeared. “Perhaps. But crime happens in the country, too. It’s just that it’s concentrated here. Tonight, for example. If we hadn’t been there, the matter would have been cleared up by tomorrow morning. A robbery gone wrong, because superficially, that’s what it looked like. But I don’t think so.” He spoke as if unaware of what had just happened between them. But she knew he was.
“What makes you think that?”
He lifted his head and regarded her but left his hand where it was. “Why did the robber leave valuables behind? The fireworks muffled the shot; nobody came running. He had time. I’ve known thieves to cut the buttons off a person’s coat before now. He could have grabbed the man’s hat at the very least. The gold braid would be worth selling. Or dip into his pocket for more than his purse, watch and perhaps snuffbox. A thief wouldn’t miss that. And the weapon is a gentleman’s pistol, expensive.” He spoke quietly in the still of the night. “Either Coddington was killed with his own weapon, or he met a friend. A thief would not keep a weapon like that. He’d sell it and buy one just as serviceable.” He clicked his tongue. “But there’s something else, something I’m not seeing clearly at the moment. I sense it.”
“As you did when I told you I had not killed my husband?”
His fingers, stroking her neck softly, paused.
“Precisely. I knew something wasn’t right. Your experience had shaken you, but you were not to be moved into making a confession. You were so sure you had not killed him. Your situation, that would have broken a stronger woman, never broke you.”
“Yes. Just as he will not control my actions after his death. I am determined on it.”
“Yes.” He watched her as he stroked the side of her throat with the tips of his fingers.
“I’ve studied crime and criminals for a very long time. You have seen my study and the files I keep there.”
“I have... I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“More detailed than most, certainly, but that is part of the learning process.” Typical of him to shrug off the compliment. “They form a pattern, expected experience and the ways of behavior. They can be predictable. And eventually those patterns resolve themselves into something more solid, just as I feel something is not right in this case.”
A soft bump indicated they had finally reached their destination. Then their boatman had to wait his turn at the jetty. They bobbed on the water, the gentle sway evidently getting the better of a man two boats in front of them, who leaned over the side and vomited. Cries of “really!” and “Do you mind not doing that?” came from the vessels.
“We could try finding a cab or a chair for you, but if we walk further on, we’ll have a better chance of finding one,” he said.
Juliana knew the Vauxhall crowd of old, and she had no intention of waiting for hours for a vehicle. “I’m willing to walk.”
“I’m not going home immediately,” he told her. “I will visit the widow and break the news to her before anyone else does. I’ll see you home safely first.”
“I’d rather go with you,” she said. “Perhaps another woman will help her when she hears the sad news.”
A quick flicker of the corner of his mouth. “You are not too exhausted by the evening?”
“What kind of weakling do you take me for?” she demanded. “Exhaustion? Heavens, no!” A nearby church clock began the eleven o’clock chime, taken up by others all over the city. The solid, dependable chimes were one reason she loved this city. She barely took note of them anymore, but this time the sound stopped them talking further. By the time the bells stopped, they had reached the jetty.
Ash helped her out. Something of an undignified scramble, but her skirts remained mainly dry. They alighted on a rickety jetty that debuted on to Millbank.
“The widow lives on Great Jermyn Street. I know a likely spot where we may find a chair.”
She didn’t want to be shut into a fusty-smelling sedan chair. “I’ll walk.”
Since her marriage she disliked small spaces, the enclosed, trapped-in sensation they gave her. Walking on such a pleasant night was far preferable to that.
“We could get a link boy,” he added. “Someone will know Coddington’s precise direction.”
“Yes.”
Somewhere between fifteen and twenty link boys scurried around the jetties, their torches bobbing in a haphazard dance. In a dangerous city with narrow, unlit streets, only a beggar with nothing to lose, or an idiot, would go down them without a light. Hiring a link boy to light one’s way home was almost a necessity at this time of night.
“Boy” did not adequately describe them, except for their sex. From small children whose ages must be in single figures, to the bent old men with shaking hands, their torches flared, spots of intense light in the gloom.
One man stood apart from the rest, his torch steady. After a comprehensive visual sweep of the scene
, Ash made straight for him.
“Jack,” he said.
He knew a link boy by name? Juliana stood silently as the man gave Ash a gap-toothed grin and reeled off a string of incomprehensible words.
Jack was tall, lanky, and dressed in a colorful assortment of garments, from a blue velvet coat, worn in places, bright in others, with an astonishing collection of mismatched buttons, to a waistcoat that had probably been pink at some time in its life. A grubby neck cloth was tied loosely around his throat, and despite the bylaw forbidding all but members of the House of Lords to wear swords, he had one strapped to his side. His hat bore a collection of pins and brooches. She had no idea what he was saying, or what language he was using, until she picked up a few words she’d heard before. “Mort...nabbed...pigeon...” But she couldn’t string them together to make any sense.
“Watch the cant, Jack,” Ash said when he could get a word in.
Jack glanced at her, then Ash. “Ah. Thought you didn’t want the mort in on it.”
Ash grinned. “The mort is my wife, Jack. Remember I got married? If you see her out and about, show her some respect.”
Jack stepped back and swept a low bow, to the imminent danger of his person, as the torch nearly went with him until he held it upright. “My lady,” he said in perfect imitation of a lord.
Juliana barely stopped herself dropping a curtsey in response. This man had a gift for mimicry. She began to understand why her husband knew him. He would cultivate talent wherever he found it. “This is Cutty Jack,” Ash told her. “Colorful, a pickpocket, a scoundrel, but if there’s anything to know, Jack knows it.”
“Might have known you’d be there,” Jack went on, jerking his chin in the direction of the river. “Dead body, there you are.”
“You heard, then?”
They walked away from the press of people at the jetty. Jack led the way, but he had no problem tossing remarks over his shoulder while he was doing so. He had the flat, nasal intonation of the typical Londoner, but he’d shown no problem switching between thieves’ cant, which was almost a different language, and the kind of English Juliana could understand.
Jack scoffed. “Like I wouldn’t? I didn’t go over there because I thought I’d make more bits over this side. But they’re full of it, the people comin’ back.”
“That was fast,” Ash commented, but in a flat tone, as if the news didn’t surprise him. They walked in silence for half a street.
“Off home, guv’nor?”
“No,” Ash answered. “We’re visiting the widow. I want to reach her before she has time to prepare her response.”
Jack laughed, a sharp, harsh sound that echoed off the soot-stained brick either side of them. “Up to all the rigs, ain’tcha? The lady will not be receiving visitors tomorrow.” The last he spoke in a perfect imitation of a refined accent.
“A mimic, are you, Jack?” she asked, amused.
“It comes in ’andy. If you want, sir, I’ll take ’er ladyship ’ome after. We could ’ave quite the little chat.”
Ash shook his head. “No thank you, Jack. The lady is coming with me. Do you know where we’re going?”
“Great Jermyn Street,” Cutty Jack said.
“How the devil do you know that?” Ash demanded.
“’Eard that journalist sayin’ it. Ransom. Not that ’e’ll get into the ’ouse.”
Ash sighed. “Damn the man. I was afraid that sharp-nosed Grub Street man might know.”
His ease with her led him to use the words a gentleman rarely used before a lady. Juliana liked it. Day by day, she was easing into her new life. Seeing her parents tonight had only emphasized the way she slipped into this new life much better than she had the old one. Had she had a life before?
The walk must have been two miles, but at their brisk pace, it did not take too long. The church clocks chimed as they turned the corner into Great Jermyn Street. The redbrick houses looked above them, quiet under the near-black sky. Jack’s light danced and bobbed in front of them, until he stopped before one establishment. “Number seventeen,” Jack announced.
Ash tossed him a coin, which Jack snatched out of the air and pocketed.
“That’s not all for the torch,” Ash said. “Keep an eye on this place for me for the next few days. See who comes and goes. You know I’m good for more.”
“Are you watchin’ for anybody in particular?”
Ash shook his head. “Not at this stage. Just give me the pattern of visits and the names, if you know them. Don’t get into the house. Not yet.”
“Aye.” Jack winked at her. “Not sayin’ I’m a ladies’ man, but I do ’ave a bit of success with the maids. They’re bored when they’re not busy. A bit of flirtation ’elps the day go by.”
Having spent some months with Ash, Jack’s comment did not surprise Juliana. A London servant would gossip with anyone who called at the back door.
“Not here it doesn’t,” Ash said firmly. “Keep your distance.”
Jack shrugged. “As you like. Spoilsport.”
He stood in the street, holding his torch, lighting their way to the front door. Light flickered behind heavy drapery on the first floor, and torchères were set in their holders, either side of the shiny black front door. Half a dozen crested carriages waited in the street, and a couple of link boys stood a little farther away. Jack slid over to join them.
“She has company,” Juliana said. “But not a large gathering, or the street would be packed with crested carriages and chairs. Oh.” She stopped by one and studied the crest. “I know that, don’t I?”
“Yes” was all he said, but he marched up to the front door. He glanced around. “I wonder why Lady Coddington didn’t go to see the firework display.”
So did Juliana.
The thin sound of music came from the floor above their heads. A harpsichord, and a violin began, the sound threading into the night.
Then a female voice shredded the floating peace.
“That’s off-key,” Ash said when he could. “Decidedly sharp.”
The voice continued in the same key. She tried not to listen.
Lifting the heavy door knocker, Ash delivered three sharp raps. The door was opened almost immediately by a footman in livery.
“Yerse?” He looked them up and down insolently as he drawled the request, drawing the word out in a parody of a refined accent.
Ash drew out his card. “Sir Edmund and Lady Ashendon for her ladyship.” Just as if they were expected.
“Are you invited... Sir Edmund?” The man studied the card as if it was about to bite him.
“We have an urgent message.”
“I’m afraid her ladyship isn’t receiving uninvited visitors tonight, although I will ensure she gets your card. You may return in the morning, at a reasonable hour.”
Ash took the step up that brought him to the same level as the footman. Now he could look down on the man. Perforce, the footman took a step back. Another footman stood behind him, but did not make a move. At this rate, they’d be thrown out on their ears. But Juliana had faith in Ash. She’d seen him operate at all levels of society.
“Did I say the message was for Lady Coddington? Pray inform the Duke of Newcastle we are waiting for him.”
The footman hesitated, then opened the door wider. “Please wait.”
As they settled on the hard, unforgiving hall chairs, Juliana lowered her voice to address her husband. “The duke?”
“You saw his carriage. We might as well use him since he’s here.”
The Duke of Newcastle, leader of the House of Lords and brother to the Prime Minister, knew Ash well. Her parents did not like him or approve of his policies. Although she didn’t know for sure, Juliana guessed they disapproved of his extensive bribery to try to get his title continued after his death. Hypocrisy in the extreme, since her father had tried t
o do exactly the same thing.
As it was, the footman left them kicking their heels in the hall for a full seven minutes. Ash tapped his foot on the marble floor, the sound echoing through the large space. Above, a harpsichord tinkled and a woman sang.
The house was well furnished, from what Juliana could see, with the inevitable paintings of a fine country mansion and several people who were no doubt related to Lord Coddington or his wife. A long case clock ticked in the corner. Eventually the footman came down the stairs once more, a large heavyset man close behind him. The Duke of Newcastle, dressed in his usual finery, but with a frown creasing his brow.
“Ash?” He glanced at the servants. “You kept him waiting here?” He turned back to Ash. “If you’re invited to this devilish musicale, I would advise you to turn around and get out of here as fast as you can. And if you have no objection, I’ll come with you.”
Ash rose from his bow. “We need to see Lady Coddington, your grace.”
“I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with her ladyship.”
“We weren’t, not before tonight. The matter is urgent and delicate.”
The duke, reputed to be a slow-witted man, certainly showed none of that now. Turning, he addressed the nearest footman. “You there! Take us to a private room and inform her ladyship we need a moment of her time.”
Having suitably cowed the man who had fetched him from upstairs, but not the haughty specimen who’d opened the front door and now glared at them, the duke led them into what was obviously a breakfast parlor.
A long table with its extra leaves removed stood in the center of the room, and a matching sideboard and chairs indicated the room’s function, as did the serving dish and spirit burner laid out, presumably in preparation for the morning. After the servant had lit some candles, three in a branch on the table, and two in their sconces on the walls, the duke waved him away and pulled out a chair for her. “My lady.”
The footman left the room.
Smiling, she sat. She slotted back into her old world as if she’d never left it. But she had, and for good.
Ash pulled out a chair but waited for the duke to sit before he did so. “The visitors relegated to the empty room,” he said wryly. “We don’t want to disturb your evening, your grace.”
