by Joan Smith
Miss Donaldson disappeared to make herself decent. In the interest of speed, she just put her street mantle on over her nightdress and brushed her hair. Samantha pulled the patterned shawl tightly around her shoulders to hide the green satin gown. She had hoped to dispose of it before meeting Miss Donaldson. The chaperon returned to the saloon and handed Edward the note. It was a ragged piece of paper torn from the corner of a journal.
“When did this come?” he demanded.
“About six o’clock in the evening. I quizzed the lad who brought it. He said a man had handed it to him in Hyde Park and gave him a crown to deliver it. And promised I’d give him another to make sure he did bring it. The description of the man sounded like Darren. The writing is certainly his, though one can see he was distressed when he wrote it.”
In her eagerness to read the note, Samantha went to peer over Edward’s shoulder. “ ‘Dear Sam and Miss Donny, Don’t worry about me. I’m fine, but I can’t join you at the moment. You go on home to Oakbay. I’ll see you there within a week.”
“How does he think we are to go home with no carriage and no money?” Miss Donaldson inquired in a rhetorical spirit,
“Of course we shan’t go home without him,” Samantha said. She looked to Edward. “Do you think he’s all right?”
“I suspect he knows very well that Bow Street is after him, or why wouldn’t he come here? Fletcher wasn’t on his tail. He’s been following us.”
“Who is Fletcher?” Miss Donaldson asked. As the excitement abated, she noticed that Sam wasn’t wearing the gown she had left in. Nor did Salverton look at all his usual elegant self. “And what happened to your clothes?” she added in confusion.
The lengthy explanations were made as brief and innocent as possible, which still left plenty of occasion for Miss Donaldson to lift her eyebrows and exclaim in bewilderment. Between their driver being locked up in jail for murder and the pair of them apparently purchasing worn clothing from an inn that did not sound at all the thing and their being followed home by a jailbird, one could not help wondering if she had been remiss to let Samantha go alone with her cousin.
“Wanda married the whole time, and to a thieving murderer. I never heard of such a thing,” she said weakly after the tale was told. Had Samantha’s companion been anyone but Cousin Edward, she would have said a good deal more.
“I made sure it was Sir Geoffrey that Darren was trying to hide from,” she said a moment later. “Dead, imagine that! One must pity him, but there’s no need for hypocrisy. Decent men don’t get murdered in their own homes. The man was a lecher, when all’s said and done. His death makes the matter of the stolen thousand pounds a little less dark for Darren. How are we to find him? Should we go to Hyde Park tomorrow to look for him?”
“We don’t want to lead Fletcher to him,” Edward said. “Jonathon suggests we lure Fletcher into a trap. I’ve chosen Berkeley Square as the safest place.” He outlined Sykes’s suggestion.
The only thing more shocking than Edward’s taking counsel from a jailbird like Sykes was that Edward was willing to use his own home for such a low purpose. It could only be love that was leading him so far from his usual stodgy path. And doing it all with such carefree abandon, almost as if he were enjoying it.
“So you hope to entrap Wanda’s husband tomorrow morning. I hope your plan succeeds, Cousin. Most kind of you to look out for our interest in this manner. Of course you will let us know at once when he has been apprehended,” Miss Donaldson added.
“I plan to be there,” Samantha said. Before her chaperon could object, she added, “I am a necessary part of the plan, Auntie. Edward thinks Fletcher will be hovering about here at Grosvenor Square. You would not feel safe with him on your doorstep. Edward will call for me and we’ll lure him into the waiting hands of Bow Street at Berkeley Square.”
“I’ll see that nothing happens to Sam,” Edward assured her. Sam! The romance had obviously progressed nicely.
“If you say so, Cousin,” she said meekly, and lowered her head to conceal the triumphant gleam that entered her shrewd eyes. “At least there is no need to worry about Darren. We know he is safe.”
“Or was when he wrote this,” Samantha said. “One can only hope Wanda hasn’t put him on to those ‘spots’ Jonathon spoke of. It would be fatal if Darren and Fletcher ended up in the same hidey-hole.”
“I wish I had asked Jonathon where these hiding places are in London,” Edward said. “I could make a tour of them now. We could use Jonathon’s expertise, could we not?”
“Now you appreciate him,” Samantha said with a saucy smile.
“We appreciate different aspects of Jonathon. You were taken in by his handsome phiz; it is his expertise that I admire. And his eagerness to help. If he were here, he’d make the arrangements at Bow Street for me, and save me that trip before I go home tonight.”
“Poor Edward,” she said with a teasing smile.
Miss Donaldson considered retiring to her room. But no, she must keep some shred of common decency in the proceedings. She stuck like a barnacle until Salverton eventually took his leave. She was the only one who was smiling as she went to bed. Cousin Edward was certainly in love with Samantha. A blind man would know by the heat coming from him that he was scarcely able to control himself. It would certainly come to a match—if only Darren didn’t ruin it in some manner. Any public humiliation of Darren might be enough to cool Cousin Edward’s fire. The future at Oakbay would be gloomy indeed with a heartbroken Samantha to deal with as well as a disgraced Darren.
Samantha was less hopeful. Edward hadn’t said a word that indicated he meant to jilt Lady Louise. The very word would be anathema to him. She worried, too, that Darren and Fletcher might end up in the same disreputable rooming house that night, but only one of them would walk out of it in the morning.
Salverton, being in charge of the operation, tried to keep his mind on business. After they caught Fletcher would be time to consider the future. At Bow Street, Townsend came up with the notion of having Sykes brought under guard to London at once to assist him with the case.
“The easiest way of getting him out of jail. It avoids a deal of paperwork,” he explained.
After Salverton had made all the arrangements with Bow Street and was lying in his own bed, he did allow himself a period of joyful contemplation of life after Wanda.
Chapter Eighteen
The neighbors had no cause to complain of Lord Salverton’s toilette the next morning, whatever of his activities. He looked unexceptionable in an exquisitely cut jacket of blue superfine when he climbed into his carriage at a quarter to nine. The cravat at his throat was more fashionably arranged than was his wont, and his curled beaver sat at a more dégagé angle, but such details were not noticed at a glance. The only divagation from the ordinary was the hour of his departure. He didn’t usually call for his carriage until nine-thirty, for the trip to Westminster.
He didn’t drive directly to Upper Grosvenor Square, but around the neighboring streets first, trying to spot Fletcher. When he espied the hackney cab loitering at the corner of Culross Street, he stopped a moment to make sure he was seen. When the hackney followed his carriage at a discreet distance, he felt certain it held Fletcher.
Samantha was so eager to see Edward that she was waiting at the window. Fletcher, being a block behind, escaped her notice. She met Edward at the door.
They looked at each other in the uncertain but acutely conscious way of undeclared lovers, each remarking that the other had made a special toilette. Edward thought Samantha looked particularly fetching in a simple sprigged muslin that she regretted having to wear, as her better gowns had been packed off to Oakbay. She noticed Edward looked more dashing than usual.
“I see you’ve dispensed with the green gown,” he said after they had exchanged greetings.
“Miss Donny threw it in the dustbin, but Mary retrieved it.” After a brief pause she said, “Has it all been for nothing, Edward? I didn’t see any sign of Fletc
her.”
His smile gave her heart. “He’s taking some pains to remain unseen, but I spotted his rig at the corner. Where’s Miss Donaldson?”
“She’s with Mary. I’ll say good-bye to her.”
The hopeful chaperon had decided to give the two a moment alone, but she was not so neglectful of her duties that she was in the kitchen. She was listening from her bedchamber and joined them without being summoned.
“Is Bow Street ready to pounce?” she asked Edward.
“They have my place surrounded with men disguised as gardeners and postmen and footmen cleaning the neighbors’ brass door knockers. Townsend himself is in my saloon with his eye glued to the street. I doubt a fly could slip through the net. Bow Street has been extremely obliging. Townsend feels Fletcher cheated Jack Ketch the last time he was in court, and is determined to get him this time.”
“Then you’ll be going directly to Berkeley Square.”
“Yes, we’re off,” Samantha said. “Wish us well.”
Miss Donaldson gave her charge a little hug. “Good luck,” she said. “You’ll let me know at once—”
“Of course. And you let us know if you hear from Darren.”
“Don’t let him go to Berkeley Square if he should turn up,” Salverton added.
“You’d best not tell him what is afoot, or he will come,” Samantha added.
“I’ll not say a word,” Miss Donaldson promised.
* * * *
While this was going forth, Darren Oakleigh was sitting in the public dining room of a derelict inn in Cheapside. A man who had passed out in a drunken stupor the night before sat across from him with his head on the table. The inn was not one of the “spots” Jonathon Sykes would have recommended, but it was out of the way. Bow Street hadn’t found him, at least.
Darren was completely disenchanted with Wanda Claridge. She had led him a merry chase, pretending she wanted to marry him. But halfway to Gretna Green she had changed her mind, and decided she wanted to go to Ireland instead. Ireland, of all places, when his ancestral home was in Wiltshire! How could he tend to Oakbay from Ireland?
It was the thousand pounds that had made her so unbiddable. He wished she had never seen that thousand. Once she got her hands on it, she became very independent.
“Now, see here, my girl, I’ll not go to Ireland, and that’s that,” he had told her.
So she lit out without him, and she wasn’t headed for the west coast to catch a ship to Ireland, either. She took the stage back to London. He had checked up, wondering if he should follow her and try to change her mind. He had returned to London, not exactly following Wanda, but once he arrived, he did call on a few of her friends—and it was as well he had.
Wanted by Bow Street for thievery! She had stolen that thousand pounds from Sir Geoffrey Bayne. When Darren had said, “Surely her own cousin wouldn’t set Bow Street on her?” Liz Eaton had laughed out loud.
“Cousin, is it? Dutch uncle, more like. She was his mistress. Sir Geoffrey’s set Bow Street on the pair of you. You’re wanted by the law, mister.”
“But I didn’t take the money!”
“You was with her. You’re an assessory. You’ll be lucky to get away with five or ten years. Keep your head down, mister. It ain’t only Bow Street you must watch out for, either. Fletch got out last week.”
“Out of where? And who the devil is Fletch?”
That was the final betrayal. Wanda was married, and to what sounded like an extremely ugly customer who was jealous as a green cow of his wife and had sworn to “get” anyone who had touched her.
Things had gone straight downhill from there. It seemed Fletch knew that he had been seeing Wanda, and was coming after him. Darren had no idea what had happened to Wanda. She was likely hiding out somewhere. Who could blame her? Perhaps she had decided to go to Ireland after all. That was fine for Wanda, but what was to become of him? He couldn’t spend the rest of his life lurking about such dens as this.
He daren’t go back to Upper Grosvenor Square. Wanda’s friends might have given Fletch that address. Liz had let him know you gave Fletch whatever he wanted if you knew what was good for you. He couldn’t go to Bow Street for help, or he’d end up in Newgate. He had nowhere to turn, including Oakbay. Fletch would have that address as well. He couldn’t have the scoundrel near Oakbay, pestering Sam and Miss Donny.
He sat staring into a greasy mess of uneaten gammon and eggs, occasionally taking a sip of the turbid brew they called coffee. What could he do? Where could he turn for help? He knew what Miss Donaldson would say. “Speak to Cousin Edward. He’s extremely well connected. He knows everyone who matters.” P’raps Salverton knew a good lawyer. Darren was beginning to think a lawyer was his best bet, but good ones didn’t come cheap, and Wanda had pretty well cleaned him out.
He’d have the expense of hiring a hackney to get there. The inn wouldn’t let him take his rig out until he’d paid his account. The rattler and prads were being held hostage for his bill. It might be safer in a hired cab anyway, in case Fletcher had a description of his carriage and team.
Salverton was family. He’d lend him the blunt to settle his account here at the inn, and hopefully give him a bed until it was safe to be seen in public. He’d go to call on Salverton. He had a mansion on Berkeley Square, as Miss Donny never tired of reminding them. Darren had visited it once years before with his papa. He didn’t remember much about it except that it was the biggest house on the street.
He laid a few odd coins on the table, all the money he had left after Wanda’s depredations on his purse. Hardly even enough to hire a cab. He’d walk halfway there. No, better to get a drive half-way there, and walk through the more civilized part of London. Fletcher would hesitate to attack him in the polite West End.
* * * *
Fletcher was wise and well experienced in the ways of tailing a victim. He remained a block and a half behind Salverton’s carriage. As it wended its way southeast, he assumed Salverton was taking Miss Oakleigh to his own mansion. The lady’d be better entertained there than in those few rooms on Upper Grosvenor Square, while his lordship continued looking for Darren. Fletch decided to drive along Bruton Place, down Bruton Lane, and meet his lordship when he came out to continue his search.
Darren Oakleigh was somewhere in the city, and sure as God made oaks and acorns, his high-and-mighty friends would be looking for him. It was just at the corner of Bruton Lane and Hay Hill that Fletcher spotted the young fellow scuttling along, looking over his shoulder as if afraid he was being followed.
He assessed the fellow against the description he had gotten from Wanda’s friends. A handsome young man, tall, well set up, with chestnut hair. It couldn’t be a coincidence that this lad matching the description, and frightened to death into the bargain, was legging it toward his lordship’s mansion.
So this was the jackanapes that had dallied with his wife. An unlicked cub, still wet behind the ears. Wanda always had a colt’s tooth in her head. He’d just wait a minute and see if the lad turned right at the corner. Because if he did, he was going to Berkeley Square—and he must be Darren Oakleigh. Fletch smiled to think of beating the whelp to a pulp with his bare hands. A bullet was too good for him.
At the corner, Darren looked right and left. He was on Berkeley Street, but was Berkeley Square north or south? He hadn’t seen Berkeley Square as he came up from Piccadilly, so it must be north. He turned north, and almost immediately the hackney cab drew up alongside him.
Darren had no definite description of Fletcher. “An ugly customer” was all Liz had said, but if ever there was an ugly customer, the man looking at him from the carriage window was it. He looked more like an animal than a man. A bull, with a bull’s massive neck and heavy, sloping shoulders. He had a mat of shaggy hair sticking out from under his hat and the most ferocious eyes Darren had ever seen. There was murder in those eyes.
Darren took to his heels before the man said a word. The carriage door flew open and the man came houndi
ng after him. Darren was lighter and in better condition. He ran, his heart hammering in his throat, up the west side of Berkeley Square. The bull didn’t overtake him, but he didn’t fall behind, either.
The footman polishing Lord Montroy’s brass knocker heard the pounding feet. He dropped his rag and joined in the chase. A postman suddenly came down the staircase of the house next door. He dropped his bag and joined in. Within seconds there were five men following Darren. He didn’t stop to count them, but he could hear the flying feet and the shouts ringing after him. Curious faces appeared at windows. Berkeley Square had not seen such excitement since a mounted policeman had ridden his horse up the steps of Lansdowne House in pursuit of a highwayman in the last century.
Darren felt that all of London was after him. It was some sort of trap. Bow Street had discovered that Salverton was his cousin, and figured out that he’d go to Cousin Edward for help. It was all over, but at least he’d try to make it to Salverton’s door. His cousin might hire him a lawyer. But which house was it? There! The yellow brick one, the biggest, grandest house on the street.
He went, gasping, up to it. As he reached the steps leading to the door, Fletcher tackled him. He caught him by the ankles and brought him to the ground just at the foot of a plane tree. At the same moment, the door flew open and Cousin Edward came out, brandishing a pistol. A swarm of footmen, postmen, and gardeners rolled about on the grass. Curses and imprecations rang on the air.
“I arrest you, Mortimer Fletcher, in the name of the law,” the postman declared.
“Here, that’s my ankle, ninnyhammer!” a gardener exclaimed, shaking his foot free of the postman’s clutches.
“Hands off, Williams. He’s mine!” the footman said. “I get the reward for this one!” The footman clamped a set of manacles on Fletcher and said, “He’s mine, lads. You can run along now.”
“Bring him inside. Townsend is waiting,” Edward said, then he turned to Darren. “Oakleigh? Yes, I recognize you. You’d best come in as well.”
