Ned folded his arms and tried to look stern. “What was it this time? Vergil? Apuleius?”
She twinkled at him. “Juvenal. But I truly was asleep! A noise woke me. I think it was Nyx.” Wakely Court’s most recent tenant had left behind not only a full complement of servants — Tidcombe the butler, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Scroggs; several maidservants, two named Mary; a number of footmen, chief among them James — but also a large feline with jet-black fur and eerie golden eyes and an exalted notion of its own worth.
Ned glanced warily around, located the cat perched atop a stack of books. If Nyx lacked the ambition of her namesake — who, born of Chaos, spawned a brood of dark spirits including the Fates, Nemesis, Death, Strife and Pain — she had the attitude down pat, as displayed now by means of a disdainfully curled lip.
The curled lip was directed not at Ned, but at the fireplace. Ned turned in that direction. “What the devil?” he inquired.
Clea beamed. “I’ve been on the fidgets for fear you wouldn’t return home in time, and I might fall asleep, and she might escape. That is why Bates has the firearm. I told him he might trust me to guard her, but he said you’d have his head.”
Bates, the grizzled batman who had been with Ned in the Peninsula, was indeed holding a firearm. “You would have, sir, and that’s a fact,” he said.
“I still might.” Drawn up close to the fireplace was an armchair. Seated in the armchair was a slight figure bound with cords.
Ned’s window cords, if his eyesight did not deceive him. “Would someone please explain?”
“I caught a housebreaker!” crowed Clea. “Or Nyx did, because she tripped her. And then I pulled the curtain down, and knocked her on the head.”
Ned looked at his decanter, which lay empty on the carpet. “Couldn’t you have used the inkstand, or the globe?”
Clea waved off his objections. “A housebreaker, Ned! I knew you would like it of all things.”
Ned would have liked it even better if his good smuggled French brandy was not splashed about the room. Now that he had decided he wasn’t cup-shot, he could have used a drink. “Why is she so damp? Why are you so damp? Where are her clothes?” The housebreaker was clad in nothing but the velvet drape, so far as he could tell. She was a little bit of a thing, and looked not much older than Clea herself.
“Her clothes were truly dreadful.” Clea sounded as prim and disapproving as if she cared about such stuff. “It was only fitting she should have a bath. Bates and Tidcombe helped. And James. At least, they helped until we realized she was a girl! She had on boy’s clothing, Ned, and though her breeches were beyond dirty, it was an excellent idea. Just think of trying to climb a drainpipe in skirts. She must have got in the house that way. After we discovered she was female, it was Mrs. Scroggs and the Marys and me. And Bates. But everything was very proper. Bates looked at the ceiling while he held the gun.”
Clea might believe Bates had looked only at the ceiling while in a naked female’s presence. Ned knew otherwise. He glanced at his batman. Bates had the grace to blush.
“Her garments were considerably nastier than she was underneath them,” added Clea. “I think the grime is part of her disguise. And a prodigious clever disguise it was, because it fooled us all.”
The housebreaker did not appear much gratified by Clea’s approval. Patches of dirt still clung to her small person. Impossible to tell the color of her hair under all its grease, but her big blue eyes shot angry sparks.
Ned moved closer to the captive. “Why is she gagged?”
“Bates said her language wasn’t fitting for my ears. What’s a gundiguts?”
A gundiguts was a prim pursy fellow. “Tidcombe,” said Ned.
Clea nodded, satisfied. “And a bundle-tail?”
“Mrs. Scroggs, no doubt.” That worthy was both short and squat.
Clea clapped her hands together. “I am furthering my education! Nickninny I knew, and lobcock. What about gingambobs?”
Ned opened his mouth and closed it, appalled at how close he had come to discussing testicles with his sister. Bates cleared his throat. Behind her gag, Ned could have sworn the housebreaker smirked.
He appropriated the pistol. “You’ve had enough educating for one evening. I’ll deal with this now.”
Clea bounced indignantly in her chair. “But I caught her!” she wailed.
“Yes, and a good job you did of it.” Ned pulled his sister to her feet. “Now go back to bed.”
She shot him a reproachful glance. Her lower lip quivered. Her shoulders slumped. Unmoved, Ned turned her toward the doorway. “Bates will escort you to your room.”
The batman was no more eager than Clea to be dismissed. “You might want to think again, sir. That one’s a she-devil. Precious near took a bite right off me arm.”
“And I might not!” retorted Ned. “The chit’s no bigger than a minute. Hardly a danger to a great strong fellow like myself. Or maybe you think that since I resigned my commission I’ve gone soft?”
Only a crackbrain would think that. If he no longer fought the French, the lieutenant still rode and boxed; indulged in all the sports so beloved by gentlemen, and some others that were not. Even dressed by the finest tailors, he retained the air of the adventurer he so recently had been.
The lieutenant also had an air of wishing to punch out someone’s daylights. Bates didn’t care to volunteer. “I’ll just be seeing Miss Clea to her chamber, sir,” he said, and ushered that reluctant damsel from the room.
Ned waited until the door clicked closed behind them before he turned back to the prisoner. He found himself curious to see the rest of her face.
He reached for her. She tensed. “Behave yourself,” said Ned. “Or I won’t remove your gag. Before you try and bite me, you might remember that I may still turn you over to the constable.” Gingerly, he untied the sodden material and pulled it out of her mouth.
She grimaced. “Bugger and blast.”
Her voice was light, oddly appealing. “Tsk! Such language. What were you doing in my house?”
The straight little nose twitched. “’Twas a misunderstanding. I was just passing by.”
“And dropped in for a spot of brandy? You’re not a very good liar. I think I will untie you, all the same. You’ll recall that I have the gun.”
She eyed the pistol. “Ain’t likely to forget, am I?”
Her hands were tied in front of her. Wisdom dictated that he leave them safely bound. Surprisingly elegant hands they were, the fingers slender and graceful underneath their dirt.
Ned set aside the firearm, unfastened the cords that secured her ankles, rubbed the soft flesh where the bonds had chafed. Her bones were small, delicate, finely formed. She cursed and tried to kick him. He experienced an absurd impulse to pick up this defiant little scrap and hold her safe from the world.
Well, why not? If he could hardly hold a housebreaker safe, he could certainly still hold her. Ned untangled her from the chair; scooped her up, drapery and dirt and all, and sat her on the desk. The fabric parted, revealing one smooth and slender shoulder, and the curve of one plump breast. Older than he had thought her, he decided. She clutched at the curtain and scowled.
Here was one female unimpressed by his title. Ned trailed one finger down her soft cheek. “Tell me your name.”
She turned her head and bit his wrist; at the same time planted her bare foot in his groin. Abruptly, Ned released her. “Point taken,” he said and then cursed, because she grasped the ugly statue in her hands and aimed it at his head.
Caught off balance, Ned stumbled backward. The thief scooted off his desk. He grabbed for her, but caught handfuls of the curtain instead. She brought the statue down, hard, on his skull. Entangled in dusty draperies, Ned crashed to the floor.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Nyx leaped down from her stack of books, padded forward, and stuck a cold nose in his face.
The cat’s breath reeked of fish. Ned pushed her away. Nyx made a noise
that sounded suspiciously like a snicker, and curled up on the hearth.
Slowly, Ned sat up, clutching his sore head. He’d not soon forget his last glimpse of the housebreaker, scrambling mother-naked out his library window, clutching his ugly statue in her hand.
Damned if he’d enjoyed anything so much since he’d left the Peninsula. When Bates returned to the library, he found his master holding a bloody handkerchief to his head, and laughing like a loon.
Author’s Note
History is a fluid thing. Primary sources frequently don’t agree. I have tried to be as true as possible to actual events while rearranging some minor details to better suit the story.
A partial bibliography follows:
In The Absence of the Emperor, London-Paris 1814-1815, written by Simona Pakenham, published by Cresset Press, London, 1968.
The Age of Elegance, written by Arthur Bryant, published by Harper and Brothers Publisher, New York, 1950.
The Prince of Pleasure and his Regency, J. B. Priestley, Harper and Row, 1969
George IV, Christopher Hibbert, Palgrave Macmillan, 2007
Wellington, The Years of the Sword, Elizabeth Longford, Harper and Row, 1969
Napoleon on Elba, Sir Neal Campbell, edited by Jonathan North, Ravenhall Books, 2004
England’s Triumph: Being An Account Of The Rejoicings, Etc., Which Have Lately Taken Place In London And Elsewhere (1814), printed for
J. Hatchard Bookseller to the Queen
I was also fortunate enough to come into possession of various 1814 issues of The Gentleman’s Magazine.
Another excellent source of information is BritishHistory Online: www.british_history.ac.uk/
Other Books by Maggie MacKeever
The Purloined Heart
Quin
Point Non Plus
The Tyburn Waltz
Vampire, Bespelled
Waltz With A Vampire
An Extraordinary Flirtation
Lover’s Knot
Love Match
Cupid’s Dart
Lady Sherry and the Highwayman
French Leave
Our Tabby
Sweet Vixen
An Eligible Connection
Strange Bedfellows
Lady Sweetbriar
A Notorious Lady
Fair Fatality
The Misses Millikin
Jessabelle
Lady Bliss
A Banbury Tale
Lady in the Straw
Lord Fairchild’s Daughter
El Dorado
Outlaw Love
Caprice
The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy) Page 23
