by Cindy Anstey
“Is this our next stop?” he asked intelligently.
“We are a wee bit early.” Uncle Leonard pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and ignored Mr. Pyebald. “I expected a longer delay with Dagmar. However, Mr. Henley might be here already. Shall we?”
Juliana shifted across the seat as her uncle stepped down to the road. She was about to take his offered assistance when she felt a hand on her arm.
“Perhaps, it would be best for Miss Telford and me to wait here for your inquiry, sir. Do not want to disturb or disrupt without necessity.”
Juliana looked pointedly at the hand still fixed around her arm. It didn’t move. “Unhand me, Mr. Pyebald,” she said quietly but with conviction. It was immediately released. Juliana gathered her skirts and joined her uncle by the coach.
Mr. Pyebald protested even as he, too, stepped down. “But, I say, sir, should we not abide? I do not mind in the least. I will see to Miss Telford.”
“Really, Mr. Pyebald, I did not know you to be so hen-hearted. It would seem that your encounter has left you timid.”
“No, sir.”
“We will go in.” Uncle Leonard offered Juliana his arm.
Juliana took it with as much pomp as it was offered, and the two paraded into the offices of The Crank House. It was a considerably larger establishment than Mr. Dagmar’s. The offices were on the ground floor rather than the first, and there was a sense of order about the place—greatly lacking on Leadenhall Street.
The secretary who greeted them, while appearing to be of an age with Mr. Pottie, spoke with perfect elocution. And he was exceedingly efficient, for they had hardly stepped through the door before he notified Mr. Crank of their arrival.
A tall, thin man with a pronounced limp and large, dark whiskers came out of an inner office to welcome them. It appeared that Mr. Henley had yet to arrive, but that did not mean that they should be kept waiting. His smile was directed to them all.
The inner sanctum of The Crank House was a sizable, neat room with lots of natural light and a large mahogany desk covered from one end to the other in carefully delineated piles. A hollow in the center had been left bare. The one chair sitting before it was rearranged with two others, and the company sat.
They briefly exchanged niceties, and then Mr. Crank accepted the large collection of papers from Juliana. He immediately laid them out on his desk and proceeded to flip the pages, running his finger down them as he did so.
The room was still. Juliana could hear a clock ticking and the muffled noises from the street. She wondered if she should suggest that they leave the papers and come back for the decision at another time.
“Crank, my friend, whatever are you doing?” a loud voice chortled from the doorway. “You cannot be thinking of making these poor people sit while you read.” He was a jolly-looking soul with a wide smile and a ready laugh.
Mr. Crank looked up from his desk. Juliana recognized the blurry, otherworldly look in his eye. She saw it whenever her father was absorbed in their work. “Well … no … I…” Then Mr. Crank smiled as if he had just remembered that he had a room full of clients. He looked at Juliana and smiled. “Fascinating, simply fascinating. I shall have to finish, of course, but I must say the observations are quite remarkable. Very…” He looked down, stopped midsentence, and was lost again.
It took Mr. Henley two more interventions before Mr. Crank pulled himself away. The publisher promised to let Juliana know what he thought within the week and nodded with such enthusiasm that Juliana could not help but entertain hopes of success.
Mr. Henley was introduced to the party, and Juliana saw why it was that the gentleman had a wide array of friends; he was such a happy fellow. His smiles were contagious, and he could speak on a wide variety of topics. Mr. Henley even related an amusing anecdote about his run-in with ruffians some years back. It was an obvious attempt to make Mr. Pyebald feel comfortable about his less-than-healthy look, but it was not appreciated.
Eventually the group meandered toward the door, leaving Mr. Crank back at his desk, and Uncle Leonard and Mr. Henley sharing a good laugh in the wake of Juliana and Mr. Pyebald.
The two older men paused at the threshold to draw their conversation to a close, and Mr. Pyebald helped Juliana into the coach. He stepped up after her, slammed the door shut, and raised his cane to thump on the ceiling of the coach.
Juliana reached across, knocking the silver-tipped walking stick from Pyebald’s hand, sending it clattering to the floor. “What are you doing, Mr. Pyebald? You cannot signal to the coachman. Mr. Reeves is not yet on board.”
The question was rhetorical—it was obvious that leaving Uncle behind had been the bounder’s plan. Juliana threw the door open and exited the carriage with much more haste than grace; she had no intention of being alone with Pyebald in a closed coach. Whatever his purpose, it would not be to her good.
“Juliana?” There was surprise in Uncle’s tone as he frowned at her from the doorway. He nodded to Mr. Henley in farewell and then approached. “Is anything amiss?”
Glancing over her shoulder, Juliana watched Pyebald step back to the ground, and she shuddered as she looked into the shadowed interior.
Misinterpreting, Uncle chuckled. “A spider? The pitfalls of an aged coach and in such rough shape. I’m afraid it was inevitable. Though I am surprised. Thought you would want to study a spider, my dear, not run from it.”
“Yes, Uncle. But not the two-legged variety. I prefer to stay away from those kinds of creepy-crawlies.”
Uncle’s frown returned, and he turned toward Pyebald. “What is this about, Mr. Pyebald?”
“Miss Telford has an active imagination, Mr. Reeves. Seeing more in an oversight than is warranted. And this jaunt is the epitome of tedium. I will make my own way back.” Sending Juliana a pointed glare, Pyebald straightened his shoulders and stomped away.
Juliana and her uncle stared after him.
“He has been trying to get you alone all afternoon, my dear. I’m not sure that he is an honorable young man.”
“No, I don’t think he is.”
“I am beginning to regret offering our hospitality to the Pyebalds this Season, but short of throwing out the whole family, there is nothing I can do. You will have to be vigilant, Juliana. Mark my words, that boy is up to no good.”
CHAPTER
15
In which silver candlesticks are prevented from gadding about Town
DESPITE THE SERIOUS NATURE OF HIS VIGIL, Spencer had a difficult time tamping his euphoria. He had left his cousin’s town house a happy man—a decided man. He had walked the tree-lined avenues almost skipping. He had twirled his cane and nodded to anyone and everyone he passed. He had noticed that the birdcalls were sweeter and the air smelled better … well, less pungent … and the day was brighter.
Even now, as he waited for Hart’s arrival at Brooks’s, Spencer had a difficult time focusing on the task at hand. Stamford was playing cards with his cronies in the far corner and required no interference. There was nothing to distract him from his distraction.
Bobbington had been assigned to follow Milton Hart as soon as the false troop movements and list of imaginary weaponry were safely placed in the traitor’s hands. In the meantime, Spencer followed Stamford; at some point, the communiqué would be passed between them, and it would be witnessed. It hardly mattered when, as the players had all been identified, the traitors labeled and put to use by the War Office. The directive of the mission now was to see the erroneous information on its way—off to France, straight to Boney. It was a waiting game, just as it had always been.
A familiar, but surprising, figure dropped into the wingback chair next to him. “Northam.”
“Lord Winfrith?” Spencer frowned, casually glancing around to verify that no one was within hearing. “I didn’t expect you for some hours—I believe my shift lasts until midnight.”
“Yes, indeed. Thought we might have a discussion while we were waiting.”
Spenc
er didn’t like the sound of that. “About?”
“Hypotheticals, my boy, hypotheticals.”
“Indeed?”
Lord Winfrith glanced toward Stamford, nodded to some inner thought, and then relaxed into his chair. “It has come to my attention that a certain young man is enamored with a certain young lady, but there seems to be a hesitation on the part of the young man, and I thought that I might know the reason. You understand?”
“No, not at all.”
“Well, I know this young man fairly well, worked with him on several occasions; and I have always known that one day he would be distracted from his duties—it could be a permanent condition or a mere interlude. But it is all very natural and not to be wondered at. Right?”
“Perhaps.” Spencer chuckled, finally realizing the direction of Winfrith’s vague topic. Hypotheticals, indeed!
“So what I am saying is that if this young man were of a mind to—let us say hypothetically—marry, I would wish to assure the young man that there are no impediments to any actions he might wish to take in regard to this young lady—if he wishes to take any actions, that is. It would be extremely disconcerting to learn that this young man might make his decision about this young lady thinking that his duties were all or nothing … which they are not. Certainly not an either-or situation. The current, um, undertaking would have to be dealt with first, of course, but after that, it would be up to the young man as to whether or not he continued to accommodate … yes, to accommodate. There is many a married person within the … well, I just wanted to make that clear.”
Laughing outright, Spencer thanked Winfrith for his reassurances all the while wondering what had given him away. Spencer still had so much to learn about this espionage business.
Winfrith looked relieved and placed both hands on the chair arms as if bracing to stand up. But he did not move; he stared for some minutes over Spencer’s shoulder and then settled back down. Crossing his legs, Winfrith yawned and reached for a copy of The Times lying on a small table next to him. “Here comes Hart. Shall we watch?” he whispered without moving his lips.
* * *
JULIANA WAS ON HER WAY TO THE DRAWING ROOM WHEN a loud clang startled her from her thoughts. That sound was followed almost directly by raised voices—two male voices, given the timbre—but who or what was being said was near impossible to discern. They seemed to be shouting, and the resulting reverberation distorted their words. The echoes built into a cacophony until unladylike curiosity and a need to put an end to the dreadful noise united and sent Juliana rushing to the front hall.
Halfway down the stairs, Juliana caught a most unusual sight, and she hesitated for a moment—perhaps not even that long—before continuing.
“What is this about, Chester?” Juliana addressed the footman, ignoring Mr. Pyebald completely. They seemed to be tussling over a candlestick—a type of tug-of-war. Chester was winning.
“Well, Miss. I can’t rightly say, except … I believe these here silver candlesticks are best suited to stay in the dining room, where they have lived for the better part of two decades. Don’t believe they need to gad about Town with this here gentleman.”
“Mr. Pyebald! You are trying to steal the silver? How could you!”
“No, no,” Pyebald argued, grunting as he tried to wrest the etched holder back. “These belong to my mother. She brought them with us from Lambhurst so that I might use them for cash if there was a need. And believe me, there is a need.”
In a sudden capitulation, Pyebald released the candlestick, sending Chester tumbling backward. Then, taking advantage of the footman’s surprise and hard landing on the marble tile, Pyebald scooped up the second candlestick at his feet. Opening his coat, he moved as if to tuck it under his arm.
“Mr. Pyebald!”
Juliana turned to see that she had not been the only person drawn by the shouting. Mr. Reeves emerged from his study with a book in hand and a frown deeply entrenched on his forehead. “What are you doing with my grandmother’s candlestick?”
“This?” Pyebald glanced down and then gasped. “This is yours? Oh, I do apologize. What a terrible mistake. Thank heaven you stopped me.”
“Those particular candlesticks are of great sentimental value to our family, Mr. Pyebald. And there can be no mistaking the engraved R etched into the base. It is quite distinct. You were trying to steal them.”
“Never. Never would I betray your trust in such a way, Mr. Reeves. You have been so generous, opening up your house to us. No, sir, I would never do such a thing.”
“Really? Your actions say otherwise. The evidence is in your hand.” Uncle’s voice was deceptively calm.
“My, my, what a lot of drama, Mr. Reeves.” Lady Pyebald wandered into the emotionally charged hall with a breezy step despite her size. “My son is a good boy. There is a reasonable explanation for everything. We must not make wild accusations.”
“Madam, your good son was trying to steal my silver.”
Lady Pyebald continued to stare at Uncle Leonard. Her expression didn’t change—no surprise, no dismay. “If he was,” she said, casting her eyes demurely at the ground for a moment, “who can blame him, really. His debts are extreme—violence threatened against his person. I’m sure he would have brought them back … after.”
“After? After giving them to the gullgropers? Are you truly that witless, Madam, or do you think I am?”
“There is no need to be insulting.”
“I think there is every need.”
“Now, now.” Aunt Phyllis joined the argument in the increasingly crowded entrance. “Calmer heads must prevail. I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding.”
“You are late to the party, Mrs. Reeves. We have already established that Mr. Pyebald’s act was not a mistake but out-and-out theft.” Uncle glanced briefly at his wife and then returned his glare to the Pyebalds, doling it out equally.
“I think it best if I leave for now.” Mr. Pyebald bowed respectfully. It required a deeper dip than was his norm and offset his balance. As he righted himself, a strange clink emanated from the general direction of his feet. All eyes looked down and watched as one, two, and then three silver spoons slid out from Mr. Pyebald’s trouser leg and landed beside his shoe.
With a nervous laugh, Mr. Pyebald reached down. “Oh, there they are.”
Mr. Reeves was faster; he grabbed the spoons, looking at each in turn. “Chester,” he said, finally, in a quiet, understated tone. “Give Mr. Pyebald a shake, if you would. See if there are any other pieces of my silver being taken off the premises.”
Doing as he was bid, Chester stepped behind Mr. Pyebald, wrapping his arms around him.
“Get your hands off me!” Pyebald’s protest was loud and ignored.
“Mr. Reeves, call off your dog. Leave my son be. You are treating him like a common criminal. And I am finding it increasingly difficult not to find offense in your attitude.”
No sooner were her words spoken than the tiles proved to be rather musical as knives, forks, and even more spoons dropped onto the marble.
Uncle Leonard took a deep, audible breath and turned to his wife. “You will ask your friends to leave this house. They are no longer welcome. You will see them out within the hour.”
“But, sir—”
“Do not even attempt to thwart me in this, Madam. I want them out, now!”
“Come, Mr. Reeves, you must listen to reason.” Lady Pyebald’s voice had a simpering quality to it. It was most unattractive.
“Mrs. Reeves, will you kindly get this riffraff out of my sight?”
“Now see here! I will not be referred to as such. I will not stand for—”
“Chester!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Remove the Pyebalds from my presence.”
“You will do no—”
“And, Chester, if any Pyebald possession remains within this house one hour from this moment, you will throw it out onto the street. Including any persons of that name still on
the premises. And you may use as many men as you deem necessary to get the job done.”
“Yes, sir.”
The footman started toward Lady Pyebald. She gave a shriek and rushed up the stairs.
The plaintive, whining apologies of Mrs. Reeves echoed in the hallway until Mr. Reeves returned to the library, slamming the door shut.
* * *
ALL HAD NOT GONE WELL FOR BOBBINGTON.
“Stamford noticed me.”
“Of course he noticed you, Bobbington. You have known each other since you were in leading strings.”
“Yes, but it was the expression he wore. I can’t explain it. I saw him make a connection with Hart’s arrival … and mine. Or at least he seemed bewildered and leery—as to why I might be at Brooks’s at that precise moment.”
“You didn’t enter directly but waited a full ten minutes.”
“Yes, but he looked over upon my entrance … and … well, there was something in his eyes. I believe he will be watchful from now on. Looking out for me.”
“I believe you to have the right of it.” Lord Winfrith nodded, though staring at the fireplace rather than at either Spencer or Bobbington. “I noticed the puzzlement, too. Just after the message was passed.”
They were relaxing midafternoon the next day in the Winfrith study, tea at their elbows, tarts on their plates, and woeful expressions on their faces. They had met to assess, scheme, and discuss an uncomfortable subject: the possibility of failure.
It was not a pleasant conversation.
Winfrith glanced at Spencer and then back to the embers. “Rather an artful job—smooth as silk. Stamford calling for the betting book and Hart passing the message to him as if it were all part of a gamble.” He shook his head. “Gambling with lives.”
With a great, heaving sigh, Winfrith sat up straight and turned to his fellows. “Bibury is presently keeping an eye on Stamford, and I believe you will have to forgo your next watch or two, Bobbington. Best, instead, to be seen around Town over the next few days … at sporting events or riding down Rotten Row. You know, something of that ilk. Frivolous.” Winfrith nodded, agreeing with himself. “We can’t have Stamford spooked. Or too fearful to pass the message to Lady Pyebald.”
