by Brenda Hiatt
“Julian?” she called, her voice squeaking with worry. “Mary?”
When another minute passed with no response, she tried to force the door but without success. Fearful that the hackney driver might tire of waiting, she hurried back downstairs and was relieved to find him still there.
“Pray take me to the nearest posting inn,” she breathlessly told him, blessing her foresight in bringing plenty of money. It appeared she was going to need it.
It was near midnight when a knock came on Rush’s front door. As he’d already sent his butler off to bed, he hurried to open it himself and was relieved to see Lord Peter standing there.
“You got my note, then?” He opened the door wide for his visitor to enter.
“Yes, and I apologize for my lateness,” Peter replied, unfastening his cloak. “Sarah and I were out so I did not see your message until we returned. You said you have new information?”
Rush led the way to his library. “Not much, but more than we had to go on before. Miss Turpin confessed to me this afternoon that Bigsby did indeed boast to her of being the Saint of Seven Dials. I should not be surprised to learn he concocted the whole scheme in order to ingratiate himself with her, for she’s never made any secret of how she idolizes the Saint.”
Peter moved to one of the large armchairs near the fire while Rush took the other. “Sounds like he’s our man, then. Has she any proof beyond what he’s told her?”
“That’s the rub,” Rush said. “She claims not, though he apparently flashed a calling card like the Saint’s for her to see at some point, no doubt to cement his claim. If we could discover a stash of those cards on his person or at his lodging—”
“We’d at least have something to take to the authorities,” Peter finished.
“Exactly. Though after our failed ambush the other night, he may well have destroyed the cards.”
Peter pondered for a moment, then shrugged. “We can but hope he is not that clever. Certainly his thefts have indicated no formidable intellect. I propose we find out. Tonight, if you are willing.”
“More than willing.” Rush rose. “How are we to discover where he lodges?”
“Flute’s young cohorts have already done that much,” Peter said with a grin. “It’s not in the best part of town, so we should dress down, so to speak.” He glanced ruefully at his apricot coat and the chartreuse waistcoat beneath it.
“I can lend you an old cloak of mine to conceal your, ah, more noticeable attire,” Rush assured him. “It will only take me a moment to change.”
Hurrying upstairs to his dressing room, he quickly donned the garments he wore when working with his horses, then returned to the library. Both men pulled on nondescript cloaks, then went outside to hail a hackney. That would be less likely to arouse Bigsby’s suspicions than a crested carriage.
They had the driver set them down a street or two shy of the pawnbroker’s shop above which Bigsby lodged. The rest of the distance they covered on foot, hoping thus to avoid the attention of any interested passersby who might give the alarm. The shop itself was closed, of course, but in back they discovered an unlocked stairwell that led to their objective two stories above.
“Here it is. Number six,” Peter whispered a few minutes later.
Rush joined him by the door. “Shall we knock, do you think?”
“I suppose that would be the polite thing to do.” Accordingly, Peter rapped smartly on the door. When there was no answer after many seconds, he rapped again, then tried the handle. “Locked, of course. Fortunately, Sarah and her brother have taught me a trick or two.”
Removing a thin strip of metal from his pocket, Peter fitted it into the lock and twisted it first one way, then another. Only a few seconds passed before he was rewarded by an audible click.
“Ah. There.” Cautiously, he turned the handle and pushed the door open—into darkness. “Our host appears to be from home,” he remarked, stepping inside the apartment.
“Careful,” Rush advised him. “If he’s here and hiding, he could have a weapon.” Following Peter inside, he glanced around.
A narrow window admitted just enough light for him to locate a candle and tinderbox. Soon, with the assistance of a wavering flame, they were able to explore the apartment. It proved to be a squalid place that clearly hadn’t been scrubbed in months, if not years. It also proved to be quite empty.
“Already scarpered, as Flute would say,” Peter remarked, holding a second candle high to survey the open wardrobe and chest. Both were bare but for a few oddments, suggesting a hasty departure. “Let us see if he left anything useful behind, shall we?”
A more thorough search revealed a rumpled jacket in a corner that Peter snatched up with a triumphant exclamation. “Aha! I do believe this may be precisely what I hoped to— Yes, I was right. Look.”
Pulling a scrap of cloth from his trousers pocket, he held it against the jacket. Leaning closer, Rush saw that the scrap exactly matched a torn spot near the hem in back.
“So he did not dispose of it after attempting to rob me after all,” Rush commented with satisfaction. “We likely need look no further, though I wonder…” He checked the jacket’s pockets and was rewarded by finding four calling cards, all marked with a black numeral seven topped by a gold-ink halo.
“Taken together, I believe we have our proof,” Peter said with a grin. “Of course, I’d have preferred to turn the man himself over to the authorities. Pity he seems to have escaped.”
Rush agreed. He’d quite looked forward to having Bigsby hauled away and tried for his crimes. “We can make some inquiries. He was still in Town last night, so he may not be completely out of our reach just yet.”
As they left the flat, another door in the hallway opened. “’Ere now, what’s all the commotion about tonight?” an unkempt old woman demanded. “First that fancy piece bangin’ on the door and shouting, and now you two. What’s that pretty fellow what lives here done that everyone wants to talk to him in the middle of the night?”
Rush frowned at her. “Do you mean to say there was a woman here earlier this evening?”
“Aye, not half an hour since. High-born she looked and sounded, not the sort we often see in these parts.”
“Can you describe her?”
The woman tilted her tousled gray head to one side, considering. “She wore a cloak and hood, but I seen her face clear when she turned, though she didn’t see me. Pretty thing she was, with lots o’ dark curls tumbling out from under the hood.”
Rush froze, assailed by a sudden vision of Violet as she had appeared in the mews behind his house Saturday night—cloaked and hooded, her dark curls refusing to stay concealed.
“Did you see where she went? Did Bigsby open to her?”
“Dunno,” she replied with a shrug. “Shut me door quick when she started to look my way, I did. Didn’t hear much after, so I reckon he either let her in or she left. And then you lot show up and a body still can’t get no sleep!”
“Our apologies, madam,” Lord Peter said with a bow. “We’ll take our leave now and I trust you’ll be bothered no more this evening.”
Rush wanted to ask the woman more questions but Peter seized his elbow and tugged him toward the stairs.
“Doubt we’ll get much more out of her,” he whispered as Rush relented and followed him. “But perhaps someone on the street saw something.”
They hurried back down the stairwell, Peter carrying the incriminating jacket under his cloak. Once outside, Rush looked frantically about for someone, anyone, who might be able to corroborate the old woman’s story and tell him where Violet had gone from here.
A scrawny urchin slouched around a nearby corner, then stopped to stare at them before beginning to back away.
“Wait!” Rush took a step forward.
Peter put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “I’ve a shilling for you, lad, if you can answer a question or two,” he called to the boy.
The urchin paused, then moved cautiously towar
d them. “A shillin’? What kind o’ questions? I’m no snitch.”
“Not to worry,” Peter assured him, holding out the promised shilling so the boy could see it. “We don’t want to know who you work for or with. We’re simply hoping you can tell us whether there’ve been any, ah, unusual visitors to this place tonight?”
“Other than the two o’ you?” The lad’s face split into a grin. “Aye, there was another gentry mort ‘ere not long ago, a lidy. Come in a hack, she did, and had it wait for her, too.”
Rush’s heart began to pound. “Can you describe her? Did she leave alone or with someone else?”
“Right comely she was. Curly dark hair, gray cloak. She weren’t gone more’n a few minutes before she come back and left again, off that way.” He pointed. “Didn’t see no one with her, but she looked to be in a terrible hurry. Heard her talkin’ to someone, but it coulda been the hack driver, I s’pose.”
“Thank you, my boy. You’ve been most helpful.” Peter handed him the promised shilling.
The urchin pocketed it, tugged a lock of hair at his forehead and scurried off. Peter turned to Rush.
“Miss Turpin, you think?”
“It must have been,” Rush replied. “I can’t imagine why she would come here, especially knowing how Bigsby deceived her… Unless he threatened her in some way? The only way to know is to find her. Them.”
He felt a horrible conviction that she had not left here alone, that Bigsby had used some means to persuade her to…what? Elope with him? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d run off with a fortune hunter.
“I’ll try to hunt down that hackney.” He spoke decisively, trying to keep his sudden anguish at bay. “See if I can discover where it went. Probably hopeless, but—”
“Perhaps not.” Peter laid a hand on his arm, his sympathetic expression making the weight in Rush’s stomach even heavier. “Do what you can while I continue to look for clues here. Good luck, old chap.”
With a terse nod, Rush strode off in the direction the boy had pointed, thinking hard.
It was possible, of course, that Violet really had left alone. Impulsive as she was, she could have come here to confront Bigsby about his deception and discovered him gone, just as they had. If so, she might already be safely back in Cavendish Square. As he could hardly call at the Simpson house at this hour to confirm that, however, he needed to rule out other, more ominous possibilities.
If his worst fears were true and Bigsby had used charm, threat or force to persuade her to elope, they could not have taken a hackney carriage to Scotland. They would need a proper coach—which meant his first stop should be the nearest place they could have hired one.
He did not know this section of London well, but vaguely recalled passing a coaching inn on the way here. Quickening his steps, he retraced their route and ten minutes later found the inn he sought. A weathered sign above the door of the small, ancient-looking thatched building proclaimed it “The Brown Dog.”
Though the windows were dark, he tried the door, then pounded upon it. Long seconds passed before a harried-looking man opened to him.
“Blimey, can’t a man sleep? You’re the second to knock me out of me bed tonight.”
Instantly seized by both hope and dread, Rush demanded, “Who were the first? Can you describe them?”
“Didn’t see no ‘them,’ just a ‘her.’ Pretty lass she was, lots o’ dark hair and eyes like purple vi’lets. Wanted to hire a coach on the spot and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I rousted one of the post-boys and did as she asked, since she had the blunt to pay for it.”
“She was alone then?” Rush asked, puzzled. “There was no man with her?”
The innkeeper shook his head. “None I saw. S’pose she could have stopped for him somewheres else. So what’s it to be, then, guv? I’ve only got one coach left and the horses ain’t my fastest, but—”
“No. Never mind.” He would have a far better chance of catching them up in his own traveling coach, with his own, undoubtedly faster horses. “What color was the coach? The usual yellow?”
The man nodded, rubbing his eyes.
“Thank you,” Rush said. “I apologize for disturbing your sleep. Is there a hackney stand nearby?”
“Aye, just there, two streets over.” The man pointed. “G’night, then guv’nor.”
Rush strode away before he could close the door.
Trusting that Lord Peter could find his own way home, Rush hurried to the hackney stand, where he offered double the usual fare for the fastest possible ride back to his house. Once there, he stopped only long enough to get a change of linen for his journey. On impulse, he also snatched up the gown Miss Turpin had left there Saturday night, now clean and dry. If he were fortunate enough to catch her, she might have need of it…after he killed Bigsby.
Adding the gown to his satchel, he headed back downstairs and out to his stables, where he caused a flurry of activity by demanding the light traveling coach and his best pair to be harnessed at once. Though he chafed at every delay, very few minutes actually passed before he was able to take the ribbons and whip up his pair, heading for the road that led north out of London.
Soon, he was barreling along the turnpike, stopping to inquire at each toll gate he passed. Unfortunately, several yellow post-chaises had come that way over the past few hours and no one was able to offer a positive identification.
Toward morning, when his pair showed signs of tiring, he stopped at a coaching inn to change horses and make more thorough inquiries. There, while paying a premium for the fastest pair the inn could boast, he learned that a young lady matching Violet Turpin’s description had also changed horses there some two hours previously.
The ‘ostler could not claim to have seen Bigsby, but allowed as how she must have had a gentleman with her.
“Can’t see a lady like that traveling on her own, m’lord. She were in a terrible hurry, though, so I didn’t ask no questions.”
Rush thanked the man and continued on with the fresh pair. His presumption had clearly been correct, but whether he could catch them up in time to prevent Violet’s ruin was likely to depend more on chance than anything else.
“How much longer will it take to get another pair harnessed?” Violet asked in exasperation.
Already she’d been above an hour at the posting house. At this, her second stop to change horses, she’d been glad of an opportunity to partake of a hasty breakfast and relieve herself. Now, however, she was anxious to be on her way. Based on her inquiries, Mary and Julian were more than three hours ahead of her. Not for the first time, she wished she had headed straight for Scotland rather than making that fruitless visit to Julian’s lodging.
When the coach finally got underway again, she also wished she’d had the foresight to bring a change of clothes. Though she dared not stop long enough to take a room and sleep at an inn, she would certainly not be fit to be seen by the time she reached Gretna Green. That, however, was an exceedingly minor concern compared to poor Mary’s fate.
Sometime in the early afternoon she fell asleep, curled into a corner of the less-than-comfortable seat, only to be awakened an hour or two later when the carriage stopped for another fresh team and postillion. Yawning, Violet stretched and stepped out of the coach to see about getting something to eat. As she had at the last two changes, she also went to inquire whether the Simpson traveling coach had been seen to pass through.
“Aye, miss, a coach such as you describe left this morning and I saw the blonde lady you mentioned as well. Right pretty little thing she was.”
“This morning!” Violet exclaimed. “Are you certain?”
The man nodded. “Happen it were four or five hours ago now.”
Far from catching them up, she had fallen even farther behind! At this rate, they would almost certainly be married before she could stop them. She knew of no way to travel any faster, however. Dispirited now, she thanked the man, then purchased a few meat rolls and a jug of ale from his wife, to br
ing along for the next stage.
She was just turning to leave with the required items when she heard a clatter out in the inn-yard.
“Here? Are you certain?” came a man’s voice. A strikingly familiar man’s voice.
Hurrying outside, she beheld Lord Rushford himself speaking with the ‘ostler. At her appearance he turned and strode toward her.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “Miss Turpin, are you all right? I will take you back to London at once. Too late to avoid a scandal, I’m afraid, but—”
“What do you mean?” she asked, still stunned to see him here. “I cannot go back, not yet.”
He frowned, glancing over her shoulder. “You must. However Bigsby contrived to bring you this far, he’ll take you no farther. If he tries, I’ll shoot him where he stands. Where is he?”
“Nearly five hours farther along the road, from what the innkeeper just told me,” she replied, more puzzled than before. “Though I see no way I can possibly catch them in time, I must try, for this is all my fault.”
Now he looked as confused as she was. “Catch them?” he repeated. “Catch who?”
“Why, Julian Bigsby and Mary Simpson, of course. He has persuaded her to an elopement, which he never could have done had I not introduced them and then encouraged her to— Oh, there is no time for explanations! I must continue after them at once.”
“Then…you did not elope with Bigsby yourself?”
If she had not been so worried about Mary she would have laughed. “Me? Elope with Julian? Of course not! I admit he did ask, but I refused even before I knew the truth about him. How can you think I would do such a thing now?”
“I, er, I’m sorry, Miss Turpin.” He still looked somewhat dazed. “When I learned you were seen at his lodging and had hired a post chaise from a nearby inn, I assumed… But I am exceedingly happy to have been mistaken, I assure you.”
Though still indignant, she realized he had drawn rather a logical conclusion based on what he knew of her earlier behavior. Not that it mattered at the moment.
