by Amy Corwin
She frowned. Seven minutes had passed. She rose and rapped sharply on the door before opening it.
“Oh, what do you want?” Ned asked, his tone surly. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his jacket, and his brown hair stood up in oddly-twisted spikes all over his head.
“It’s been seven minutes. I’m sure Mr. Caswell is waiting for us by now.” She reached out and tried to smooth down his hair.
He twisted away. “Stop that!”
“You look like a beggar child, Ned. Do let me comb it.” An old comb lay on the dresser. Before Ned could refuse, Helen picked it up and ran it over his head.
“Ow!” He tried to duck, but she gripped his shoulder with one hand and smoothed down his hair despite his resistance.
“Now, at least you look fairly presentable.”
“I’m not going.”
“Why not? At least you’ll have a dry place to sleep and food. That’s more than you would get if you were roaming the streets of London.”
“Umm,” he replied, clearly unconvinced. He flicked a quick glance at her. “I want to visit Nelson’s grave at St. Paul’s!”
“When did you decide you wished to go to St. Paul’s?”
“I’ve always wanted to go. It’s why …. Oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter and we will go some other time, never fear. For now, we need to go to Ormsby with Mr. Caswell.”
He frowned but her argument did appear to mollify him slightly because he picked up his leather valise and followed her into the hallway. Once they started down the stairs, he sniffed and shuffled and thudded along behind her as if he were being led to the barber to have a tooth extracted.
“Cheer up, Ned. Last night, I asked Cook to pack us a lovely dinner. And if you smile, I’ll even let you have a bun for breakfast. They’re still warm, you know,” Helen said as they reached the ground floor. The butler awaited them, armed with the promised basket of food. She took it with a smile, but when she turned to the boy, he grimaced. She pretended it was a smile and nodded. “It’ll be a wonderful adventure, won’t it?”
“No,” he mumbled, following her out the front door.
Glancing along the street, Helen saw a small carriage at the end of the block. There was no mistaking the fair-haired giant standing next to the horses, rubbing their ears. Helen took Ned’s hand and pulled him along after her, her eyes fixed on Mr. Caswell’s broad back.
As they neared, he turned and examined them before opening the door to the carriage and helping them inside. For the second time that morning, Helen regretted her drab garb and severe hairstyle. Mr. Caswell did not appear to notice any change in her appearance, however, and never said a word about her efforts to appear like a properly downtrodden maid. Her chagrin deepened.
“Did you have any difficulties?” he asked, climbing in behind them.
“No.” She smiled at Ned before digging through the hamper filled with food. A small bundle wrapped in a linen napkin occupied one corner. The cloth was steamy and warm, exuding the yeasty fragrance of fresh bread. She pulled it out and handed it to the boy seated opposite her. He wasted no time unwrapping the buns and biting into one. “Ned overslept and missed his breakfast,” she explained.
When she glanced at Mr. Caswell, she was surprised to see him eyeing the bread with longing.
“Ned,” she said. “Give Mr. Caswell one of the rolls.”
Ned lowered his head and draped the loose end of the linen over them. Then he wrapped one arm more tightly about the buns and shook his head as he chewed.
“Ned! Don’t be rude.”
“Why not?” Ned asked after swallowing a large mouthful. “If he’s going to pretend to be my brother, than I ought to treat him like one, shouldn’t I?”
“He’s your older brother, Ned. Now give him a bun before he behaves like an older brother and boxes your ear.” She frowned at Ned, wondering if she ought to give him a discreet kick in the ankles as a warning to behave. What would they do if he acted so rudely at Ormsby? He would get them dismissed. A servant’s child would never be so lacking in manners.
Mr. Caswell grinned at Helen before reaching out and gently rapping his knuckles on the side of Ned’s head. It was not a hard knock, but it made Ned gaze at him in a very considering way before handing over one of the buns with obvious reluctance.
“Thanks, Ned,” Mr. Caswell said. He took a bite out of the buttery roll and lounged back in the corner of the carriage with his long legs stretched out diagonally. After a moment, he crossed them at the ankles, apparently unaware that he took up most of the room.
Helen tried not to stare at him, but she could not seem to find a safe place to rest her eyes. She finally turned to look out the carriage window.
“What is this object you lost at Ormsby, Miss Archer?” Mr. Caswell’s deep voice broke the silence.
Helen turned back to find his gray eyes twinkling at her. “I — um, a trinket.” She waved a hand airily.
“How did you happen to lose it?”
“It fell off. At Lord Monnow’s ball.” Her answers sounded curt, impolite. She smiled and then glanced away hurriedly at the answering gleam in his eyes.
“You were a guest at Ormsby, then?”
“Oh, no. That is, I was just invited for the ball. I stayed at my cousin’s house. They live near Oxford.”
“Aren’t you afraid someone may recognize you?”
“No,” she shook her head. “My cousins rarely travel beyond the end of their road. And no one pays attention to a maid. I’m hoping I can escape notice until I find the … uh, trinket and return to London.”
“But you know the other guests, don’t you?”
“Well, yes. That is, I was supposed to meet friends there. In fact, that is why I went. But Susannah’s father came down with pneumonia, and she could hardly abandon him just to go to the ball, which meant Clara and her sister did not go, either. And then the wheel on my cousin’s carriage broke, and I arrived late, so in the end I did not even meet my host. So really, I didn’t know a soul, except the few social acquaintances one meets at all those events.”
He nodded and appeared to understand her rambling explanation, even though, now that she considered her words, she realized she had made very little sense. Mr. Caswell’s steady gray gaze disconcerted her. She smiled nervously and glanced out of the window, thankful for the calming view as London’s busy streets gradually gave way to placid countryside.
They passed most of that day’s journey in trifling conversation. None of them knew one another well, and all were reluctant to reveal too much. When the sun began to set in streaming banners of coral and red, they stopped for the night at a small inn set a little way back from the dusty road. Helen shifted in her seat, waiting for the coachman to open the door. Her throat felt parched and when she touched her dry lips, they felt gritty with powdery dirt kicked up by the wheels of the carriage.
Before climbing down, Mr. Caswell held them back with his hand upon the door.
“Remember who you are,” he said, his gaze resting on Ned’s sleepy face. “As brothers and sister, we’ll need to use our Christian names. I apologize, Miss Archer —”
“Helen,” she replied. “And you are Hugh, correct?”
He nodded. “And one more thing. Since we’re travelling to go into service, someone may ask how we came to have a private carriage instead of travelling by mail coach. Lord Monnow’s lawyer, Mr. Petre, sent this coach to London for some unknown reason. We’ve been allowed to use it since it was coming back in this direction. Is that clear?”
“Oh, yes.” Helen waited patiently while Mr. Caswell — Hugh — studied both her and Ned. As if approving of their bedraggled appearances, he gave them a brief smile before lowering the steps.
Ned refused to wait any longer. He pushed under Hugh’s arm and jumped down, stalking off to the side door of the inn. Hugh glanced after him, but stayed to extend his hand to help Helen descend. She followed in the direction Ned had taken, half afraid he
would slip in one door and out of the other in order to run back to London.
The inn’s smoky interior rang with loud voices. Helen hurried through the short back hallway into the main room, stopping on the threshold. Her first impression was of a shifting mass of men, all crowded around sturdy tables or straddling chairs bumping up against the long bar. A few disheveled barmaids squeezed through the gaps between the tables, carrying trays overflowing with dishes and tankards, both full and empty. The air was thick with the suffocating, musty odors of spilled beer, burning tobacco and sweat-stained wool.
To her relief, Helen spotted Ned in the far corner, trying to right a table which had apparently been knocked over by two men who were jabbing at each other’s shoulders. The men grinned and cursed as each hit the other with a slightly harder fist, until one man slipped on a pool of spilled ale. The dark-haired man left standing laughed while his downed companion wallowed around in the sawdust before pushing himself up.
“Stay down, Tom, where you won’t hurt yourself.”
As the balding man on the floor righted himself, he snarled, “We’ll see who gets hurt here, ye hind end of a cur.” He staggered to his feet and took a more serious swing at his friend, who leaned back to dodge the meat-handed blow.
Unfortunately, the dark-haired man lost his balance. Windmilling, he fell back against the table which Ned was trying to rescue. The other customers, sensing the excitement, crowded around them, shouting encouragement to the two men.
“Get up and take ‘em, Jem!” a hoarse voice encouraged the dark-haired man.
Afraid that Ned might get hurt, Helen started to move forward when a large pair of hands gripped her upper arms. She jumped and glanced over her shoulder. Hugh gently moved her aside.
When he stepped past her, the men in his path just seemed to melt away like butter in the sun.
“There now. Enough.” He grabbed the collar of the man who had fallen and held him back to prevent him from hitting his younger opponent.
The other man, thinking to capitalize on the opening, hunched forward and tried to land a punch, but before his fist could connect, Hugh grabbed his shirt with his left hand. He straightened his arms, holding the two men apart. Deprived of their amusement, Tom, collar held in Hugh’s left fist, landed a short, vicious blow to Hugh’s stomach.
There was no sound except a muted thud.
Helen held her breath, along with every other patron in the place, waiting to see what Hugh would do. Since his back was to her, she could not see his face. But the two men held in his grip stared up at him and grew pale.
“Enough,” he repeated in his calm voice.
“Sorry, guv,” Tom said sheepishly. “Didn’t mean no harm. Just a friendly bit o’exercise.”
“Exercise somewhere else,” Hugh replied, giving them a final shake before letting them go.
Tom grabbed his friend’s upper arm and dragged him toward the bar, flicking nervous glances over his shoulder at Hugh.
Picking up the table, Hugh gestured at the chairs which Ned hurriedly collected. Helen flicked her handkerchief over the seat, trying not to notice the way it kept sticking to the brownish spots strewn over the surface. She sighed as she sat down and pretended she didn’t feel anything cold and nasty seeping through her skirts.
“I’m sorry, Helen, but we can’t afford a private room,” he said, catching her gaze.
She nodded. They were servants and as such, wouldn’t have the money for a private room, As it was, Hugh already seemed to be flush with more than adequate funds. “This is satisfactory,” she said in a cheerful voice. When she shifted, her skirts stuck.
The hush which had fallen over the place when Hugh broke up the fight vanished in a renewed din of men calling for more ale and food, and heaping insults upon the lineage of their closest and dearest friends. A thick miasma of tobacco smoke, damp wool, sweat, various kitchen odors and spilled beer filled the common room. Helen sniffed and felt a headache starting to form just behind her left ear. Surreptitiously rubbing it, she tried to appear happy — or at least content — when Hugh brought her a pint of golden beer.
“I’ve ordered supper. We’ll eat in here and then see what they have in the way of rooms.” He studied her. She dropped her gaze to the table, suddenly embarrassed for no clear reason. “We’ll have to share. I’m sorry.”
“That’s quite all right,” she replied. “It’s precisely what I anticipated.” That was a lie, but it sounded believable. In truth, she had foolishly expected to have her own room and a lovely, soft bed.
She would have to sleep in her clothing, of course, but with Ned in the room, it would be almost respectable. And even if it was not, as far as anyone knew, her name was Miss Helen Caswell, not Miss Helen Archer, sister to the Duke of Peckham and irresponsible misplacer of the fabled Peckham Necklace.
When Hugh raised a hand, a maid responded with surprising alacrity, bringing them more beer. After slapping the pints on the table, she coyly rested her empty tray on one hip and bent slightly in Hugh’s direction, giving him an excellent view of her cleavage.
Helen sipped the beer and imagined the maid turning and slipping on the brew she had dribbled in a winding trail to their table. With luck, she would knock out her sole remaining front tooth, although it was more likely she would fall with a laugh into Hugh’s lap.
“If you’re wanting anything else, sir, just you ask,” she said. “We’ve some lovely pudding —”
Hugh grinned and winked. “We’ve more than enough, thank you.”
The coin he dug out of his pocket and flipped into the maid’s quick hand was enough to have paid for a private room and fine dinner. If he wanted people to think of him as a servant, he ought to be more circumspect, she felt.
She frowned, shifting again on the wobbly chair. His masterful handling of the two men engaged in a public brawl and the alacrity with which the men had responded to his orders would be remembered, too. If she hadn’t met him at an inquiry agency, she would have assumed that he was a military man or low-ranking member of the nobility. He seemed well used to commanding.
If anyone gave away their masquerade, it was likely to be him.
“Were you a second son?” she blurted out, while Hugh sipped his beer.
He gazed at her over the rim of his tankard, his brows rising in surprise. “A second son?”
“Well, yes,” she said, trying not to blush over her foolish question. The words echoed in her ears. The fact that the name of the inquiry agency was Second Sons did not mean they only employed the useless, spare sons of the aristocracy. “I did n0t mean ….”
He laughed. “I understand. Second Sons.”
Relieved, she smiled back and took another sip of beer. Then she realized he hadn’t answered her question. He had simply re-phrased it. Clever man.
“Well, are you?”
“No. I was the eldest.”
“Was?”
A shadow passed over his face, leaving his jaw hard and brows drawn together. “I don’t have any living brothers. Or sisters.”
“I’m sorry,” Helen said, briefly touching his arm with the tips of her fingers. “I was tactless —”
“No. You did not know.” He let out a breath before gulping down his beer. “What about you?”
“Me?” she asked, nearly knocking her mug off the table. She caught it at the last minute and clutched it in front of her. Why had he asked about her family? Had someone at the agency recognized her? Had they guessed?
Or had the curse of the Peckham Necklace been re-awakened? At various times during the necklace’s long and not always illustrious history, it had caught the attention of fortune hunters and newsmen who had liked to enhance the legends more than the Archers appreciated. Although she was positive — or at least very nearly sure — that Hugh was trustworthy, she could not forget a few of the more recent, unfortunate incidents. Her uncle had been beaten over it.
Then there was the simple greed. She trusted Hugh, but she also did not want t
o place him in a position where he might forget and mention it — or worse — become interested in it. Temptation made men into exceptionally frail creatures when it came to jewels.
“What about your family?” Hugh asked, his tone patient.
“My family?” Helen glanced at Ned, who had polished off his supper and was eyeing the one remaining roll in the basket on the table. She pushed the basket in his direction. He grabbed the offering with alacrity and stuffed half of it into his mouth. At least he wouldn’t be able to answer for her, although to be honest, he had only met Lord and Lady Dacy once and might not even remember their names. Most likely, Ned wouldn’t associate them with the Duke of Peckham, either.
“I live with my sister,” she replied cautiously. “Ned and I stayed with her last night.”
“Any other sibling?”
“A brother — an older brother.”
“A brother? Last name of Archer?” Hugh sat back, one arm hung over the back of his chair and his face smoothing out in thought.
“I’m sure you’ve never heard of him.”
“Archer — the name sounds very familiar.”
She laughed uneasily. “Really, we’re not at all important. Archer is a very common name.” Her heart thumped at the lie. Well, she was not of any consequence. And if their cousin had survived long enough to father children, Nathaniel, the current Duke of Peckham, wouldn’t have been of any consequence, either.
“Do you have an uncle —”
“Everyone has uncles,” she interrupted him, racing to change the subject. Oh, why had she gone to Second Sons when she knew Uncle John used them regularly to get him out of scrapes of his own making? Why did she have to have an uncle who was notorious for making the most foolish wagers and then inventing outrageous schemes to get him out of the ensuing difficulties?
She turned to Ned and smiled brightly. “What about you, young man? What about your family?”
“Haven’t got one,” he mumbled, his cheeks stuffed as full as a squirrel’s.
“You must have someone,” she pursued the subject doggedly. “You must have lived somewhere before we met. You said you had a guardian.”
