by Jo Beverley
Clocks began to strike around Town. Nine o’clock. Too early for Malloren House. He went to Porter’s coffeehouse, a fashionable place, which meant there would be few customers at this hour. He needed to think.
There were only two other gentlemen in the establishment and he knew neither. One was reading a book, the other a newspaper. He picked up one of the other newspapers provided by the proprietor and carried it to a table, where he ordered coffee. He opened the paper but turned his thoughts to the two spies.
He wanted the matter tied up so he could devote the next few days to Claris. There were so many London treats she hadn’t tasted. The theater, Ranelagh . . .
Concentrate. The one remaining puzzle was why Ryder and Pierrepoint refused to explain their actions. What pressure had been fierce enough to make them act against their natures, and why wouldn’t they reveal what it was, even when promised immunity?
At this point, no one wanted to prosecute them. If their acts were made public, they would reveal vulnerability in the two military offices. Did they guess that?
There was also the matter of the king not wanting Pierrepoint prosecuted, but Perry didn’t think the man had the wit or nerve to exploit that.
So what did they gain by keeping silent?
Why didn’t they want those who’d tormented them to suffer for it?
He went round and round it but made no progress, so he looked over the newspaper to clear his mind.
The destruction of the bastions at Dunkirk had begun at last. It had been agreed on in the peace treaty, but France had been delaying. That would make a French invasion less likely, but another article reported that French boats were fishing on the Grand Banks. Deliberate provocation.
Had the French learned anything useful from Pierrepoint and Ryder?
Did Guerchy have other spies as yet undetected?
He flipped a page. Trouble at home, and not caused by the French. Miners were refusing their labor in the north and the military had been ordered in. Cate Burgoyne had written him a letter about that. Pure greed on the mine owner’s part, according to Cate, but then, he’d always taken the side of the persecuted.
He turned to lighter news. The Duke and Duchess of York were making merry in Brunswick. Soon they’d return with the Prince and Princess of Brunswick and Town would be afire with levees and celebrations. A pity Claris would have left by then.
One small item caught his eye. A gentleman of comfortable means and excellent reputation who was soon to have been married had shot himself in his rooms in Jethro Street.
Jethro Street.
He rose, put a coin on the table for the newspaper, and left. Soon he was at Malloren House, where he asked for Cyn. After a short delay he was taken up to a parlor, which must be part of Cyn’s rooms here. Cyn was alone, wearing a dressing gown over shirt and breeches. A table held the remains of breakfast. Somewhere nearby a woman talked and a child giggled.
“I’ve disturbed you,” Perry said. “My apologies, but you need to see this.” He handed over the paper, indicating the middle of the right-hand column.
“Odd,” Cyn said, taking one of the chairs by the fireplace. “But important?”
Perry took the other. “Ryder lives in Jethro Street.”
“So do many.”
“And was engaged to wed.”
“So are many, I’m sure. Why think this is about him?”
“We can find out, but it’s stirred some thoughts. It appears the man in Jethro Street had everything to live for and no reason to kill himself, and yet he did.”
“Being accused of treason might be cause. He was in deep distress over it.”
“But why now?” Perry asked. “He’s been in anguish over his sins for weeks.”
“But now he’s caught.” Cyn put the paper down. “The country air’s addled you.”
“No, no, some idea is trying to form. There’s a connection to another case.” Perry hit his head with the palm of his hand, trying to shake the insight loose. “I have it! Did you hear about the case of Thomas and James Brown?”
“No.”
“It occurred when you were in Canada. They were petty thieves, but they devised a novel way of going about it. They lurked at night in the shadowy parts of London, particularly those known for assignations of a certain sort, waiting for lone men to pass by. Then they dragged their victim aside, opened his breeches, and threatened to take him to court for sodomy if he didn’t give up any valuables.”
“’Struth. But their word against his.”
“With the weight of proof on the accused, remember. How can a man prove he’s not a sodomite when there’s no obvious reason for a false accusation? Once caught on this hook, the victim could be milked again and again, and that was the Browns’ way. None of their victims were brave enough to take them to court, and with reason. There have been men hanged for sodomy on very flimsy evidence. Enough to terrify anyone accused of the crime.”
“Were all the Browns’ victims innocent?” Cyn asked. “If so, why were they in such places at night?”
“Another point against them if it came to court. In the case brought to trial, the one that did it for the Browns, the victim was a servant simply taking the quickest way home after an errand. He was new to London and didn’t know its ways. By singular good fortune, another man came by and saw what was happening, so he could testify to it. But as the case unfolded, it turned out that a previous victim had hanged himself in despair—over the constant payments but also over the shame of the accusation.”
Cyn whistled. “Same pattern. Repeated demands on Ryder and Pierrepoint. Both would fear the accusation, and Ryder in particular wouldn’t be able to face even the hint of suspicion. I see a flaw in your theory, however. Neither man would wander in such places at night.”
“Their entrapment would have been more neatly devised. I suspect someone they trusted invited them to the Merry Maid.”
“Pierrepoint would go out of stupidity, but Ryder?”
“The bait must have been right. There are groups devoted to ridding London of vice through prosecuting sinners. Any evidence he was part of one of those?”
“Yes. I didn’t take much note of it, as he wouldn’t be meeting a French spy there, but he did regularly attend meetings of the Society for the Moral Improvement of London.”
“Why the devil do people skim over details? Never mind. He was tempted there to gain evidence, and foolishly went without another member of the society. Once through the door a number of seemingly worthy citizens would be ready to stand witness.”
“Thereby incriminating themselves?”
“They could support each other’s claims of innocence but agree on his guilt. He wouldn’t have been willing to risk it.”
Cyn shook his head. “I’d have sworn he’d go to the lions before giving in to blackmail.”
“But that wasn’t the torture he faced. It was trial in court, accused of a vile crime, with the terrifying possibility that he could be found guilty and shamed forever. One man—not a victim of the Browns, but merely unfortunate in where he was—was convicted even though many vouched for him, and he had a wife and three children.”
“Gads.”
“It’s a fever at the moment, the desire to stamp out vice.”
“But why shoot himself now?” Cyn inhaled and answered himself. “Because he was being pressured to explain how he was compelled, and he couldn’t bear to even speak of it.”
“In case some would believe the accusation true.”
“Poor man,” Cyn said. “He didn’t deserve such torture.”
“He did leak secrets. The fact they were minor doesn’t excuse him. He’d have leaked bigger ones if squeezed hard enough.”
“No,” Cyn said. “He’d have shot himself sooner. Damn Guerchy and the French.”
“I’m sure we do things as foul. It’s the corruption of war. For now, we have hopes of ending this. Confronted with the truth, Pierrepoint will crack.”
“Agreed, and the
people at the Merry Maid will spill all they know under pressure. The weight of evidence will crush Guerchy and cripple French espionage, for now, at least. The French won’t want such sordid means known.”
“Can you report all this to Rothgar?” Perry asked. “I need to go home. A slight disagreement with my wife.”
“Then make haste, my friend. Sooner is always better than later in that.”
* * *
As they walked across the park, Claris asked, “Is London not suiting you, Ellie?”
“I must be getting old, for I enjoy country life now. Town has too much chatter, and I’ve never had the head for arguing about ideas. On liberty. On rights. On miracles, even. I remember Thenie talking about a time when men argued about how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. I ask you, why should they want to?”
Claris broke into laughter. “Oh, Ellie, you have such good sense.”
“Well, I think so, dearie, and all this clever talk just causes troubles. Look at the Reformation.”
“What about the Reformation?” Claris asked, fascinated.
“Nothing but trouble.”
“The Roman Church was corrupt.”
“And those that replaced it haven’t been?”
“Ellie!”
“It’s people that make saints or sinners, dearie. I’ve known saintly Papists and wicked ones, but as many of both among Protestants, and among Mohammedans too.”
“You should speak your thoughts at one of the salons.”
“Oh, no. I know my place.”
Claris frowned at her. “You don’t think your views would be respected? Perry pointed out that female rulers don’t liberate their female subjects. Do female philosophers not liberate women of all classes?”
“Not that I’ve noticed. My odd notions would stir up a great deal of bother, and most of it would land on my back. I’m no martyr.”
“It is hard to see why anyone would choose to be, but isn’t it sometimes necessary? Change doesn’t come easily.”
“Now, that’s the truth, dearie. Stuck in their ways, most people are, and it’s bloody war to change things. I can remember a time when I wanted to fight battles, but not anymore. Not anymore.”
They fell into silence as they followed a path between lawns and trees, but Claris pondered the problem.
Why should Ellie “know her place”? Anyone was entitled to their thoughts, so why shouldn’t they be entitled to speak them? And yet, in times like the Reformation people were burned at the stake for just that. If Ellie wouldn’t be heard in a beau monde salon, were there salons for other sorts of people?
“Mistress Perriam! How delightful.”
Claris blinked out of her thoughts to see the Fox, in company with two similar creatures in silken finery. And here she was, in her simplest clothing for this venture.
“Do please allow me to present my friends, Mistress Fayne and Miss Brokesby.”
Claris curtsied and introduced Miss Gable, though she knew the three women would guess that Ellie wasn’t their social equal. They couldn’t, in courtesy, refuse to acknowledge her.
The Fox did so, but slightly, long nose pinched, then turned back to Claris. “I had no idea you meant to come to Town, Mistress Perriam. I would have offered to be your guide.”
“How kind, ma’am, but I am well served in that way. Particularly by my husband.”
“Oh, I’m sure he serves you well,” the Fox said with a smirk, and at least one of the other women tittered. “But a man can’t advise about mantua-makers and such as well as other women.”
Claris heard the sly dig about her clothing. “How true,” she said. “Lady Walgrave and Lady Ashart have been most generous with their advice.”
It was almost as good as firing a pistol at them and left them dumbstruck.
Claris dipped a curtsy. “You must excuse me, ladies. I have an appointment.” Once out of earshot, she muttered, “Eat that and choke on it.”
Ellie chuckled. “Silly widgeons. And that includes you for being jealous.”
“I’m not!”
Ellie made no comment, so Claris pulled a face at her.
“You’ve no cause,” Ellie said.
“You think not?”
“A woman like that beside you, dearie?”
“I’m no beauty.”
“You’re more than that, but in any case, he’s not the sort.”
“For what?”
“For adultery.”
“I thought all men were. We’re likely to spend a lot of time apart.”
“It’ll all work out,” Ellie said comfortably, looking around. “We leave the park on this side, I believe.”
As they entered a street, she asked a passing maidservant and was given directions. But the maid added, “It’s not so nice a place, ma’am.”
The maid went on her way, and Claris paused. “I wonder what that means.”
“What it said, dearie.”
“It can’t be too bad. Aunt Clarrie approved of their lodgings, and this area seems respectable.” A part of her wanted to give up this mission, but she wouldn’t, for a great many reasons.
She led the way down the road as directed, and saw “Dun Street” painted on the wall of a corner house. It was the end house of a terrace that was not so different from Godwin Street except that the houses were two stories rather than three.
When they turned into the street, however, Claris saw what the maid might have meant, but surely the grim feel was simply a matter of light. Dun Street was narrow—only just wide enough for a carriage to pass along—and shaded by a large building on the right-hand side. A smell suggested that it was a brewery.
“That must be recently built,” she said. “Aunt Clarrie mentioned being able to look out at fields.”
“And pulled the street down,” Ellie said. “Likely your Mistress Stallycombe has moved elsewhere.”
Claris feared that was true. The quietness here should have felt safe, but she had to fight an urge to do as Ellie implied and abandon the mission. She only wanted some information. This wouldn’t take long.
“What harm could there be in the middle of the morning?” she said, walking forward. “Someone here might know her new address. Look for doves painted over the doors.”
“No point, dearie. They’ve converted to numbers.”
Claris sighed. “So they have, but some of the signs are still visible. There’s a yellow pig.”
She walked along, trying to make out the designs. Three roses? A crown and spindle—
She was knocked against a wall by someone hurtling past.
The man grabbed for the box, but she held on by instinct, even as her shoes slipped and she fell. The assailant, a grubby young man with bad teeth, struck her arm with his fist. “Let go!”
In sheer fury, Claris yelled, “No!” and kicked him in the shin. Ellie was assailing him from the back, and he flailed out, knocking her down.
“Ellie!”
He wrenched at the box again but got only the lid.
Claris saw the forgotten pistol, grabbed it, cocked it, and fired.
The jolt threw her backward as the explosion rang in her ears. She stared in horror at the blood spreading down the man’s dirty shirt. She’d killed a man!
Then she thought, Ellie, Ellie?
She shuffled sideways, still pointing the gun, even though it was now useless. “Ellie? Are you all right?”
“Not too bad,” Ellie said, but faintly. At least she was sitting up, but hat askew, skin sallow with shock.
Claris knew she needed to stand, but she couldn’t seem to find strength in her legs.
Thank God, help was coming.
No, not help.
Others like their attacker.
With knives.
“Help!” she tried to scream, but it came weakly from her throat.
She waved the empty pistol. “Keep off! Keep off!”
“You’ve bloody killed Bob!” snarled an older man. There were four, all ages. “You’ll
hang for that, you bitch, but we’ll have your baubles anyway. And your clothes. And maybe more.”
Claris cried out for help again, louder this time.
Why was no one responding?
The man leered. “None here’ll help you, not against us. . . .”
He was right. The street stayed silent.
“We’ll start with this.” The man grabbed the pistol.
Claris clung to it with idiotic desperation.
He raised a fist. . . .
With a roar, a whirlwind arrived, slashing silver.
Claris covered her head, but it was Perry! A Perry she couldn’t have imagined, furious, vengeful, stabbing one man after another with sword and dagger.
In moments, the ruffians were in flight, all bleeding, some supporting others, including Bob, who was alive enough to yell with pain as he was dragged away.
“What the devil did you think you were doing?” snarled this new Perry, bloody weapons in hand, blood splatters on his white linen. . . .
Claris fainted.
Chapter 38
Perry fell to his knees and supported Claris up off the ground.
“She’s not wounded,” Ellie said, crawling to their side. “Just shocked. And the child as well, likely. Making her faint, I mean. Oh dear, oh dear.”
Perry remembered the memorial of the wife shocked to death by a lightning bolt and held Claris closer. “You at least should have known better.” No, he couldn’t berate an old woman who was pasty white and had a lump swelling on her head. “I’m sorry.”
Claris stirred. He turned all his attention back to her. “That’s right, love. Look at me.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Love?”
“Are you all right?”
“I don’t know. Did I faint? I’ve never fainted before. . . .”
“You had cause.”
She stared up at him, eyes huge. “I shot someone.”
“Brave lady.”
He heard a door open. A surly man was peering out of the nearest house. When his eyes met Perry’s, he began to close the door again.
“A guinea,” Perry said quickly. “For refuge for these ladies.”
The man’s eyes slid from side to side. Other doors were opening and some windows too as the residents cautiously assessed the situation. Perry could see the man’s thoughts. If he didn’t grab the guinea, someone else would.
