by Cheryl Bolen
"'Tweren't nothin'," he said, then returned to his shop.
She waited until he had gone back into his establishment, then she stood on the horrid stain and looked around, trying to determine where the shooter had positioned himself. Because the princess was surrounded by others, the assassin would have to have been in a position where he was looking down at her, where he could get a clear shot.
Daphne looked up and down the street. All of the houses and establishments were the same. All two stories tall. None any taller. And there were no other buildings around that could have provided the height that was needed.
Thinking of the shot reminded her that the surgeon said the musket ball had only grazed Princess Charlotte. Then, wouldn't it follow that the musket ball must have been retrievable? Perhaps it was found yesterday. Perhaps not. She started to look for it. Eight feet away she saw a fresh indentation on the plastered facade of a private rowhouse. She knew it was fresh because powdery particles sprayed around the hole.
But there was no musket ball to be found. Still, the indentation could give her some idea of the trajectory. She knew the tallish Princess Charlotte to be about an inch shorter than herself, so if the musket ball had hit her neck, and the shooter were street-level, the indentation would have been level with her neck. It was not. It was five or six inches below the princess's neck. Which proved Daphne's theory that the gunman was elevated. But where?
Just then a hobbled-over woman wearing a shawl not unlike the one Daphne wore came out onto the pavement and closed a bright blue door behind her.
"I begs yer pardon, ma'am," Daphne said to her, "but me mistress 'as sent me inquirin' about available lodgings fer 'er newly married brother. Would ye be knowin' about any unoccupied 'ouses on this street?"
The old woman pondered the question for a moment before she brightened and said, "Well, nobody's been a livin' at Mr. Knightley's since he passed away back in September."
"And which 'ouse would Mr. Knightley's be?"
"Why, it's just across the street from mine."
Daphne's gaze flicked to a house with a green door. "That one?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Do you think I could takes a look around?"
"I'm sure you could. We don't have to keep nothin' locked around 'ere. Everybody knows everybody." The woman exclaimed and cupped a hand to her mouth. "That is, we didn't have to lock nothin' till yesterday. Who knows but that some mad man's runnin' around killin' innocent people now!"
"'Tis 'orrible, that's what it is," Daphne agreed. "If I was ye I'd keep me doors locked. There is indeed a maniac runnin' round."
"Indeed there is, lass."
Daphne started for Mr. Knightley's abandoned establishment, which was conveniently across the street from where the princess had been shot. "If ye hears a scream, that'll be me," she said with a laugh.
"I'd offer to go in with you, but now you've got me scared to death."
"I'll be fine," Daphne assured. "That maniac's likely returned to Lunnon--for he's got to be from there. All kinds of depraved people lives in the Capital."
"Indeed they do. Did you hear about that lady what was found in the River Thames last week with her throat slashed, and not wearing a stitch of clothing?"
Daphne shook her head woefully. "Terrible things what goes on in that wicked city."
The woman watched Daphne as she twisted the doorknob. "If you need to make inquiries about Mr. Knightley's 'ouse, I'll try to hunt up his son's address in Covington."
"That won't be necessary until me mistress sees it fer herself," Daphne said.
The door gave a forlorn squeak as she opened it. She wondered if old Mr. Knightley had died here in this musty smelling house. Of course, it probably had not smelled musty when he was alive back in September.
There was nothing to interest her on the gloomy main floor. She wished only to determine if the sniper had used an upstairs room of this house. Just as she placed her foot on the bottom stair, a light, thumping sound nearly frightened her out of her wits. She froze. And saw a mouse scurry across the parlor's wooden floor.
She was still shaking when she reached the second floor, but she was thankful the second story was more brightly lit than the first. Her attention was immediately drawn to the footprints stamped into the dusty floors. Recent footprints.
And they were a man's.
Of course, that proved nothing. Hadn't the old woman told her the house was never locked? From glancing around, it became obvious to Daphne that the late Mr. Knightley had left nothing here that would be of value to anyone else.
She followed the footprints, and they took her straight to the window of a small chamber that was furnished with only a single bed with a candle shelf protruding from the wall beside it. The bed's coverings were long gone. Her heart drummed when she saw that a battered wooden chair had been pulled up to the window. She strode there and peered out to the street below. High Street. Even from this distance of twenty yards she could see the stain of the princess's blood on the cobblestones.
The shooter would have had a clear view of the princess. How long had the fiend sat there waiting for Princess Charlotte to stroll by? Had he sat there with the rifle balanced on his lap? What a vile, wicked creature he must be!
She had seen what she came to see. Jack would be proud of her.
But she had one more line of inquiry to pursue before she returned to London.
She walked to the inn--her feet hurting with every step in the ill-fitting boots--and as expected, the livery stable was located next door. Despite that a woman was out of place at a livery stable, Daphne walked right in with a confidence only an earl's daughter could possess. Of course she could not act like an earl's daughter.
A young groom greeted her tentatively, a single brow raised in query. "Do you 'ave business 'ere, miss?"
"Not precisely, kind sir. I'm makin' inquiries fer me mistress."
The way he stared at her convinced Daphne the poor lad had never before seen a lady wear spectacles. "What kind of inquiries would that be, miss?"
"There was a gentleman what came to 'er selling some powerful good elixirs . . . " She drew in a breath and decided to take a risk. "A Frenchman. She wished to stock up on the medicine, but we 'aven't been able to locate 'im. I said to meself the gent's most likely gone on, and I figured ye would know because more than likely ye took care of 'is 'orse."
"A Frenchie, you say?"
She nodded.
He answered with a nod. "As it 'appens, the gentleman left yesterday."
Her heart pounded. "Yesterday afternoon?"
"Yes. Just about the time that terrible business with the princess started."
So Daphne had been right on three accounts. The assailant had been a Frenchman, and he had left his mount at the livery stable. She had surmised that the comtesse would only trust a fellow countryman with her abominable schemes. Daphne had also surmised that the sniper could hardly arouse suspicion by tethering his horse in front of an unoccupied house. The third score on which she had accurately guessed was that he would have sneaked from the house immediately after the shooting. He had banked on being able to flee the scene while hysterical people were gathering around the princess, initially too shocked to seek a suspect.
"Just so as I'm sure we're speakin' about the same man," Daphne said, "could ye tell me what he looked like?"
"Even though he talked foreign like, he seemed to be a fine gentleman. Gave me an extra crown for my trouble."
"Was he dressed as a gentleman?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am. And his horse was a beaut, too. A gray. Not like any plow horse, I can tell you."
"I declare," she said, "ye've just described the man we seek!"
She suddenly realized she was standing there gloating. "Oh dear," she said, slapping a frown on her face and slumping with resignation, "me mistress will be ever so disappointed, but I thank ye for yer answers."
A half hour later she was crowding into another post chaise with a very large man who sm
elled of onions. She vowed to never again ride in another post chaise. And to never again wear boots that were too small. She yanked them off as soon as she plopped on the seat in the coach, then without exposing her legs to the other passengers' view, she discreetly removed her stockings to reveal huge blisters on the backbone of her heels, beneath her left big toe, and on the tops of both her feet. Another new experience. And definitely one she did not wish to repeat.
She was exceedingly pleased over her day's work. By three o'clock she was back in London and eager to tell Jack all she had learned. If only she could walk the ten blocks to Sidworth House on her bloody feet.
Every step was agony. A mere three blocks from home she collapsed upon a pair of steps that led to a fine townhouse. To her surprise, a young man on a horse pulled to a stop in front of her and tipped his hat. "Excuse me fer me presumptuousness," he said, "but I've been followin' behind ye and couldn't 'elp noticin' how poorly yer walkin'. I beg that you let me take ye to yer destination upon me horse."
The young man was an answer to her prayers! "I would be ever so grateful," she said, forcing herself to get up and hobble over to him.
He dismounted and assisted her in mounting. That was when she noticed a curious thing. The man's bay was lathered as if he'd come some great distance at a great speed. As if he'd come from as far away as Windsor.
The polite fellow hopped up to sit the horse behind her, circling one arm about Daphne's waist. "Where ye be headed?" he asked.
"To Cavendish Square."
He nodded and set off at an extremely brisk pace.
Only he wasn't going in the direction of Cavendish Square.
Chapter 24
The Sidworth butler's acknowledgment that Lady Daphne was not in did not satisfy Jack's curiosity. "Then I wish to speak with Lord or Lady Sidworth," he said.
"Very good sir. If you would just follow me."
The servant led Jack into Lord Sidworth's library, where Daphne's parents sat on the sofa facing the fire in the dimly lit chamber. Their heads turned in a flash to eye him as he walked through the doorway. Then their faces fell. They had hoped to see Daphne.
Lord Sidworth got to his feet to greet Jack. "It grieves me to see you alone, Rich. I had hoped our daughter would be with you."
Lady Sidworth burst into tears and buried her face in a lacy handkerchief. But as prostrate as she was, her distress did not prevent her from attempting to convey her worries. "She left early this morning, and has---" Her words trailed off into a mournful wail as her shoulders shook from her cries.
"She's been gone more than twelve hours," Lord Sidworth said. "She told her maid she was going to her aunt's, but none of her aunts have seen her today."
"There are a great many aunts, as I recall," Jack said. "You've questioned all of them?"
Lord Sidworth nodded morosely.
That she had gone to Windsor, Jack was certain. That she had met with foul play, he prayed had not occurred, but his gut feeling told him otherwise.
A soft knock peeled at the library door.
"What is it?" Lord Sidworth snapped.
The door slowly opened, and a young freckle-faced woman dressed as a maid stuck in her head. "I begs to speak with you, milord. About Lady Daphne."
Lord Sidworth's brows dropped. "Come in, girl!"
Jack assumed the girl who lumbered into the room was Daphne's maid. "I lied," she said, then began to sob.
"You lied about where my daughter went?" Lord Sidworth asked in a stern voice.
"Yes, milord." She took a deep, faltering breath. "Lady Daphne made me."
Lady Sidworth, her eyes and face red from crying, looked up hopefully at the girl. "Then, pray, where did she go?"
The maid was crying so hard she could not answer.
"Please, Prudence, if you know where my daughter is, you must tell us," Lord Sidworth said in a calm voice that belied the wrenched expression on his face.
"I'm afraid the cutthroats 'ave got 'er," the girl finally said in a sputtering, woeful wail.
To which Lady Sidworth shrieked.
And Jack felt as if a sword had plunged into his gut.
"Where, girl?" Lord Sidworth pleaded.
"In the East ..." She could not complete her sentence because of the fresh wave of wails which overcame her.
"Are you saying your mistress went to the East End?" Jack asked.
The distraught girl nodded. "She wished to 'elp the less fortunate, and it's gone and cost 'er 'er life, it has!"
While his wife collapsed in hysterics, Lord Sidworth retained his composure. "Are you saying my daughter went to the East End to help the less fortunate?"
She nodded. "She was wearin' Annie's rags."
"Who the devil is Annie?" Lord Sidworth demanded.
Lady Sidworth blew her nose. "I believe it's the scullery maid," she said in a whimpering voice between sobs.
The maid's nod confirmed this.
"Why the devil was my daughter wearing a servant's castoffs?" Lord Sidworth demanded.
The maid whimpered. "So as the cutthroats wouldn't know she was quality."
Jack's anger built like a smoldering cauldron. Daphne had hoodwinked the lot of them! "Describe for me, if you will," he said to the maid, "exactly what your mistress was wearing."
"A brownish wool dress that was faded like, and a knitted brown shawl with boots what looked like somethin' a young man would wear."
A fresh wave of sobs gripped Lady Sidworth. It was bad enough that her daughter had disappeared but to disappear dressed as the lowliest servant was indeed too much for the lady's sensibilities.
"The East End's vast," Daphne's father said. "Do you have any idea where in the East End my daughter's gone?" he asked Prudence.
Streams of tears racing down her cheeks, the girl shook her head.
"By God," Lord Sidworth said, "I'll get every servant I have to start knocking on doors in the East End." He rang for a servant. "And I'll summon the Bow Street Runners."
"I've got a hunch myself," Jack said, moving toward the door.
Lord Sidworth's eyes narrowed. "Pray, Rich, where are you going?"
"I'd rather not get your hopes up," Jack said, "but I vow, my lord, I'll do everything in my power, use every resource at my disposal, to restore your daughter to you."
He left amidst the ladies' woeful cries. The last time he had felt this wretched was the day Edwards died. Mingled with his immeasurable fear was the desire to throttle Daphne--if he found her alive.
After he kissed her.
Despite that there was no moon to illuminate the dark skies and despite that he was dressed in formal evening wear, he decided to ride straight to Windsor. There was no time to return to the Pulteney to change clothing. Thank God he had a good mount.
Once he was beyond the congestion of London, he made better time than he thought--most likely because few others were as foolish as he to be riding these winding, uneven country lanes on so dark a night.
It was nine o'clock when he arrived in Windsor, a bit late to be knocking on strangers' doors, therefore he went first to the local tavern to launch his inquiry. Stalking to the bar, he ordered a bumper of ale. "Bloody bad business about Princess Charlotte," he said to the bartender. "Was she far from here when the attack occurred?"
The bartender stopped drawing the ale and eyed Jack. "It weren't but three blocks from 'ere!" He pointed to his left. "On this same street, it was." It was obvious the man relished having a fresh audience. "I was right 'ere when it 'appened. I 'eard the shot ring out and asked meself whatever that could be, and before I knew it, there was more commotion than you can ever imagine gatherin' around the fallen princess."
"Then you observed the chaotic scene first hand?"
"Indeed I did!" He went back to filling Jack's bumper, then handed it to Jack.
"You're here every day?" Jack asked.
"Indeed I am."
"Perhaps you might have seen . . . my wife's cook today. A young woman with spectacles. I believe s
he was wearing brown. It's the deucest thing. She's downright disappeared."
The bartender's eyes flashed. "I did see her! I saw a skinny thing in spectacles right out that window. In fact, I saw her go to the livery stable."
Livery stables? Why would Daphne want to hire a horse? Jack had assumed she had come here by public coach. "Where are the stables?"
"Right next door."
Jack threw his money down, then left. He hurried to the livery stable where he was greeted by a young man. "I was told that a woman wearing spectacles came here today," Jack said to the lad. "Did you by chance speak to her?"
The groom nodded. "She was inquirin' 'bout the Frenchman who left yesterday."
Frenchman? Good God! Had Daphne surmised that the comtesse's henchman was a countryman of hers? His breathing accelerated. "And . . . were you able to enlighten the lady?"
"I told her as how 'ed'd left around the time I 'eard all the ruckus about the unfortunate princess."
Jack swelled with pride over Daphne's talent for spying. As experienced as he was, he had not deduced that the assassin was French. "What did this Frenchman look like?"
"He was a gentleman. Rode a fine beast--and was well dressed himself."
"Could you describe him for me?"
"He weren't a big man, nor was he young. But the way he mounted a horse was smooth as silk."
"Did the lady in spectacles hire a horse?"
The young man shook his head. "No. She caught the post chaise to Lunnon. I saw her waitin' for it after she left 'ere."
Jack's heart pounded. "Did you, by chance, actually see her get on it?"
"Can't say as how I did."
"I thank you for the information," Jack said, tossing the lad a shilling.
As he was leaving the establishment, the young man called after him. "Sir!"
Jack spun around.
"You ain't the first to inquire after the woman in spectacles."
Jack's heart drumming, he raised a quizzing brow.
"Some fellow I never seen before came in right after 'er, askin' questions about 'er."
"What kind of questions?"
"'e wanted to know what she asked me."
