by Anne Gracie
Chapter Six
"Miss Kit?"
"Hmm? Yes, Maggie?'' Kit was busy fashioning a new reticule to match a green double-silk pelisse decorated with an exotic design in black and silver beads. She planned to make a matching reticule and hat from black satin, embroidered with green ribbon, black beads and silver thread.
"There's been people asking questions."
Kit glanced up, then put down her sewing. "People? What people?"
Maggie's brow furrowed. "I don't rightly know. Men, mostly. Askin' some of the others below stairs questions about you and me."
"Men? What sort of questions?"
Maggie shook her head grimly. "About when we arrived in London, how, and where we lived before that."
Kit looked worried. "I don't like the sound of that. Who can find such stuff of interest?''
Maggie snorted. "One fellow even had the cheek to accost me the other day! Came up beside me as I was walking to the market. Me! I'm a decent woman and so I told him. I don't talk to strange men and I don't gossip with no one,
let alone a nosy great jackanapes!" She tossed her head indignantly at the memory.
Kit watched the gesture and smiled to herself. “Was he handsome, this jackanapes?"
Maggie sniffed.
Kit's lips twitched. He was handsome. "Big fellow, was he?" Maggie had ever an eye for a big man, respectable to the core though she was.
Maggie sniffed again. "Big clumsy ox. Nearly tipped my shopping out! Tried to carry me basket! As if I was the feeble sort. Or feeble-minded. These Londoners—no more trustworthy than those scoundrels in India."
Oho, thought Kit. The man who had accosted Maggie on her way to the market had apparently been allowed to escort her home again, if he'd attempted to carry her full basket. How very interesting. Maggie was so strait-laced, she'd never encouraged a man before—not even several very respectable Englishmen they'd met abroad. On the other hand, she'd never seen Maggie in England before. Perhaps her rigid standards had relaxed a little in her home environment.
"Offering to carry your basket? He sounds like a gentlemanly fellow to me."
Maggie sniffed for the third time. "Gentlemanly, my foot! All he wanted was to pump me for information about you, Miss Kit. Oh, he wasn't as obvious as some of those others, but it was 'Oh, Miss Bone, are you newly come to London?' and 'Oh, do I detect a hint of an accent in your voice, Miss Bone, some fascinating, exotic country no doubt?'" She snorted. "I soon put him right!" Fascinatin' exotic accent, indeed! Nothing but good honest Yorkshire in my voice, and so I told him—the cheek!"
Kit giggled.
Maggie glared at her. “It is not funny, Miss Kit. He was well out of order, speaking to a respectable woman without
a proper introduction. The jackanapes! And, what's more..." she added awfully "...he had the cheek to ask me when my half-day was!"
"And did you tell him?" Kit enquired mischievously.
Maggie bridled, tossed her head and did not deign to reply. She gave Kit a withering look of great dignity and stalked from the room.
The manner of her exit set up wild speculation in Kit's mind. Clearly her intensely proper maid had not directly informed her inquisitive swain of her half-day, but her heightened colour and something in the stiffness of her carriage made Kit suspect that when Maggie's half-day came, Maggie would not be too surprised if the big clumsy jackanapes would be waiting at the kitchen door.
Perhaps, for the first time in her life, starchy, proper, middle-aged Maggie Bone had acquired a beau. Kit certainly hoped so. Maggie had given up so much for Kit's sake; she should not miss out on the chance of love, too.
Kit returned to her sewing. Despite her delight in this new development in Maggie's life, the thought that people were questioning the servants about her could only be unsettling. She wondered who was behind it, for someone most certainly was. Maggie was no fool. And poor people did not generally go to extreme lengths to satisfy curiosity about strangers unless they were paid to.
And though she racked her brains to think of who might be investigating her, she could not come up with any obvious suspect. It could not be Mr Hugo Devenish. He had no reason to be making any further enquiries about her; she had broken all connection with his nephew. So who could it be?
Kit felt very uneasy. It was one thing to know who was pursuing you; it was another to have an unknown adversary. Or possibly several.
This task her father had set was becoming increasingly fraught with difficulties. She thought of the six compartments in the false bottom of the camphor wood trunk which sat upstairs in the bottom of her wardrobe. Two compartments were filled already; the two smallest ones, to be sure, but still...
If all went to plan, the third small compartment would be filled tonight—she'd done all the groundwork for it— and then she would be halfway there. Halfway to freedom.
The last three compartments were much larger and consequently more difficult to fill, but she refused to dwell on that. One thing at a time.
Mr Devenish stood in the shadows, cursing himself silently. It was but a short distance from the clubs in St James to his home. He had no business being in this neighbourhood at all.
It was not a good sign, he told himself. He was not a green youth in the throes of his first calf-love. It was pathetic for a grown man to behave like this. He'd not stood mooning outside a woman's house since...well, and that had been a long time ago and it had ended in his complete and utter humiliation.
His back itched as if his very skin could remember. It probably could, he thought. One did not easily forget a public horsewhipping.
He'd been twenty-two, a romantic youth, just returned to his homeland after a dozen years of virtual exile. And while he'd known quite a lot about barmaids and dockside whores and sailors' wives, he'd never met a true English lady.
He'd come home, with money in his pocket for the first time ever—the ship he'd bought with his mother's legacy had come in with a rich cargo. And though his so-called family hadn't welcomed him, others of the ton certainly had no trouble accepting the legitimate offspring of a mill-
owner's daughter and an English lord. Not when he had money in his pocket.
Hugo sighed mentally over his younger self. What a fool he'd been. He'd been prepared for cruelty, corruption and vice. He'd seen and experienced it in almost every port in the world. He'd been educated in a rough, hard, ruthless, school—the life of a seaman. And he'd survived, as tough and hard and ruthless as the rest of the world he'd lived in since he was ten. Hugo Devenish was no pigeon to be plucked, no victim for whore, pickpocket or cutthroat.
But all his hard-won defences had dropped at the sight of a true English lady. A respectable English married lady. She had effortlessly peeled away the calloused outer layer and found the needy boy within, the boy who yearned for a gentle touch, who'd been snatched from his home unprepared and still wanted to believe in love. That poor stupid boy had had no defense against gentility and tenderness and kind words.
Ahh, but she'd been a beauty, so refined and delicate and sweet. He'd never felt anything as soft as her hands, as her skin, so pale, so smooth, so fine. She was everything he'd never known—clean, pure, precious, vulnerable. And he'd fallen for her tales of her husband's cruelty, and had conceived a desperate, hopeless plan to rescue her.
What a gullible fool he had been! The older Hugo recalled his youthful self with a sense of incredulity and scorn.
It had been a game, of course. She'd played it often. The tender refinement concealed the soul of a harpy—she'd led him by the nose into her dainty trap and then the enraged husband had burst in on them with his grooms, and they'd held him down and horsewhipped him, out in the street, in full view of his wife and the world.
And she'd laughed and taunted him. And when it was all over, the husband had carried her up to bed, laughing, while Hugo was left out in the street, to crawl away as best he could, bleeding. With his soul more thoroughly flayed
than his skin ever could be.
It was the last time he'd had anything to do with so-called respectable women of the ton.
Until now.
The situation was in no sense similar, he thought, staring at the Singleton house. He was not mooning after a woman of the ton. He was investigating one. There was a great deal of difference.
He'd spent the evening visiting several clubs, ostensibly to play a few hands of cards, and take a drink or two in convivial masculine company. In reality, his intention had been to gather as much information, by dint of discreet, apparently casual questioning, about the elusive and mysterious brother of Miss Rose Singleton, who may or may not, according to various conflicting stories, have been the father of Miss Catherine Singleton.
He had learned much. And nothing. The stories conflicted too greatly. James Singleton had died in Italy around twenty-two years ago. No, he'd gone adventuring, "somewhere out east".
Few seemed to care, one way or the other. It became clear to him, as the night progressed, that the only people likely to know the full facts about James Singleton, would be the very people who were so unforthcoming about it— his so-called daughter and his sister.
He'd spoken to several of Singleton's friends, so far. At one time, they'd been an inseparable group. Then one had gone abroad—to the Indies—at much the same time as Sin-gleton. Possibly those who thought Singleton had gone east had mixed the two up. The remaining six were in England, had little to do with each other. He'd spoken to three so far—Pickford, Pennington and Brackbourne—without having learned a single useful fact. Each man, though perfectly affable in general, had been curiously reticent on the I subject of James Singleton.
Hugo was increasingly intrigued. Not to mention frustrated.
And now, here he was, on his way from Pall Mall, to his home in Berkeley Square, and somehow he had ended up outside a certain house in Dorset Street—having passed his own house to get there! It was the brandy, of course. Quite an inferior sort.
He stood and stared up at the dark facade of the house. The bedrooms would be at the back, he supposed. It was quite ridiculous to imagine he would learn anything by simply standing in the street and staring at the house. The Misses Singleton would be well abed at this hour. It wanted but an hour or so until dawn.
It was a quiet, still night. In the distance he could hear the faint rumble of wheels on cobblestones, the calling of a watchman, the howling of a dog. A horse clip-clopped down a nearby street and disappeared into the alleyway which ran along the back of the Dorset street houses. And stopped.
Mr Devenish frowned. It sounded like the horse had pulled up behind the Singleton residence.
He walked around the corner and down the side, his footsteps becoming more stealthy as he reached the back lane. Cautiously he pressed his body against a wall and peered around the corner of the building, down the lane. He was just in time to see a familiar shape slip from the animal's back and toss the reins to a boy, waiting in the shadows The man wore loose baggy pants and a long overtunic in a dark shade. A narrow braid hung down his back.
The Chinaman!
Without hesitation the Chinaman slipped though a doc -in the high wall which surrounded the house.
Hugo realised he was about to witness a burglary. And though the man had hurt no one so far in his criminal career—this time it was Miss Singleton who was in danger!
"Hey, you! Stop, thief!" he shouted and, brushing past the startled boy still holding the horse's reins, he burst through the side gate after the Chinaman.
He spotted him at once, still in the small courtyard, beside the back door. The man backed away, his face in shadow.
"You are trapped now, fellow," said Hugo. "Give yourself up."
The Chinaman did not respond.
"I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I must," said Hugo clearly, wondering whether the scoundrel understood English.
The man shifted slightly to the side, a wary, defensive move, and Hugo moved in response. A shaft of light hit him, and Hugo saw that like their previous encounter, his face was wrapped in some sort of scarf. He recalled that though the fellow was small and light, he'd proven confoundedly tricky.
Hugo moved forward, lightly, on the balls of his feet, fists at the ready, wondering whether the fellow had a knife. Most of the Chinese he'd known carried several. Hell! Why hadn't he taken his sword-stick tonight, or a pistol, or even his usual knife in the boot? That's what civilisation did— lulled you into a false sense of security!
"Come on, my bucko! We have a score to settle, you and I." Hugo moved lightly, readying his body for action, not taking his eye off his opponent. "I'm ready for you this time. It's not Queensberry rules here, you know. I'm no gentleman schooled at Jackson's—I learned to fight on the quays of Marseilles and the back streets of Tangiers." Ridiculous, Hugo thought, talking to a fellow who didn't seem to understand a word he said. The brandy.
Suddenly the Chinese moved forward in a rush, then darted sideways in a feint. Hugo dived forward to catch him, but the small man jumped back and then seemed to roll forward almost under Hugo's feet. The unexpected double manoeuvre nearly knocked him over, but he managed to keep his balance.
"No, don't!" the Chinese suddenly shouted in an odd, light voice.
Thud! The blow came from behind him—some sort of club or cudgel. It hit him hard on the side of the head, a glancing blow, and Hugo staggered under its impact. He lurched forward dizzily, cursing himself for forgetting the boy holding the reins of the horse.
Oddly, the Chinese didn't move. He just stood and stared at Hugo in what Hugo almost thought might be concern.
Pretending worse dizziness than he felt, Hugo staggered forward and suddenly pounced, grabbing his arms and knocking the Chinese to the ground. Once again, he smelt the distinctive scent of sandalwood and incense.
"Aiee-ya!" That exclamation again. The man kicked back and caught Hugo hard on the ankles, knocking one foot from under him. The Chinaman rolled away and was just scrambling to his feet when Hugo leapt again.
"Aiee-ya!"
Hugo grabbed him by the neck. "I have you now, you scoundrel! Give up."
The man seemed to sag with defeat. He allowed Hugo to pull him slowly towards him, then suddenly he twisted and kicked out, hitting Hugo in the groin.
Hugo doubled over in instant agony and sank to the cobblestones. Waves of pain and nausea swamped him and Hugo gradually became aware of one thing. There was no sign of the Chinaman. He could hear a horse galloping away.
"The devil!" He groaned and tried to straighten his pain-racked body. His head ached from the brandy and the blow the boy had fetched with his cudgel. His entire lower body throbbed with agony. His ego was severely bruised also— to be felled by a boy and a very small man.
Hugo groaned again. He had to stand up before someone came from the house to investigate the noise. He had no desire to be caught in such an undignified position, bent double, crouched on the ground at the back of the house of a respectable spinster of the ton He wanted to remove himself from the scene altogether.
He probably ought to inform the Misses Singleton that they'd been targets of the notorious Chinese Burglar, but if he did they would be asking questions. Embarrassing questions. They'd be worried about the state he was in. They might even try to minister to his injuries—some ladies did that, he understood.
And he was not going to explain how he'd been bested for the second time by a man half his size.
The blackguard had been chased off. He would not return tonight. Hugo would call on the Misses Singleton in the morning, and inform them of the danger. He would be more up to the task after a glass of the best French brandy, a bath and a good sleep.
"Have you seen Maggie?" asked Kit, poking her head into the kitchen. "I have rung for her several times and she has not answered."
"No, Miss Kit. I am sure I wouldn't know where Bone is," said the cook with formal coolness. Not all of the servants approved Kit's hab
it of calling Maggie by her first name. She also seemed slightly affronted at the intrusion of Kit into "downstairs" territory.
Kit had little patience with such pretension, but she hid her irritation. Maggie was her friend as well as her maid. Cook could have no idea of the circumstances in which she had Maggie had met and lived. They'd been of such an extreme nature, there was no place for formality and the division between servant and mistress. But it was the custom here for servants to be addressed by their surnames, and she was used to adapting, more or less, to odd customs.
"And what about you, Higgins?" she addressed the kitchen maid. "Do you know where my maid has gone?"
The kitchen maid glanced wildly at the outside door. "I dunno, miss. I, er, I think she popped out for a minute, to, um, fetch something. You want me to run and get her, miss?"
Kit noted the swift minatory scowl the maid received from the cook. The girl blushed and hung her head, avoiding the eyes of both. She knew something.
There was some mystery here.
"No," she said slowly. "I am sure Maggie will return when she has finished her errand. Will you please let her know I was looking for her and ask her to come upstairs at once?"
"Yes, miss."
Kit walked thoughtfully back upstairs. It was not like Maggie to go off without saying anything while Kit was in the house. It was not as if Kit kept her on the sort of close leash that most other servants were; Maggie was free to come and go as she pleased. Only, it was not like her to go out and not say a word. Particularly when she knew Kit had planned to finish the alteration of the gaucho jacket this morning. She was planning to wear it out this afternoon, and she needed Maggie to pin the hem at the back for her.
"Excuse me, Miss Kit." The butler, Porton, interrupted her thoughts. "Miss Singleton's compliments, miss, but would you please step down to the drawing room? The first of the morning visitors have started to arrive."
"Oh, yes, Porton. Of course. Is it that time already?" said Kit. The gaucho jacket would, have to wait. She followed Porton downstairs to the drawing room, where two ladies had already arrived.
