by Jo Beverley
“The searchers are alert for a woman with a French accent. Will she be able to disguise her speech?”
Mark considered. “I don’t think so. Good work. There can’t be that many French people here, and French accents are generally noted, with suspicion.”
“It can’t be long, then, and you need to be able to move around London. Let’s complete your transformation. Into your bedroom.”
“My bedroom?”
“Where else is Lord Faringay to stay? You have a town house?”
“I do, as it happens, but it’s been leased for years. Thank you.”
“Reparation, perhaps, and gratitude for enlivening my life.”
It was a peace offering and Mark accepted it with a nod.
“Johns!” Braydon called. “We are to dress Viscount Faringay.”
Soon Mark was in fawn pantaloons, a fawn and cream striped waistcoat, and the green coat, which was a very snug fit as well as being puffed up at the shoulders and pinched in at the waist.
“What happened to Brummell’s style of black, black, black, and perfectly white linen?”
“Man craves variety.”
“You’d never wear this.”
“I don’t have to deceive the eye. Sober colors and style would be too close to Granger.”
Mark rolled his confined shoulders. “I’d rather be back in the Crimson Band.”
“You’ve become too accustomed to that low milieu. It was never your destiny.”
“Poor Ned. It’s as if I’m killing him off.”
“Requiescat in pace.”
“Do I truly have to wear a starched shirt collar that comes up to my ears?”
“Yes, because Granger never would. Johns, a neckcloth.”
This was also starched, but less rigorously, and cream rather than white. It was soon arranged in a crisp set of folds and secured with a green jade pin. Mark had to admit that the frame of white collar and cream neckcloth altered the look of his smoothly barbered face even more.
He wondered again what Hermione would think of this new man. She should approve, but what did a person fall in love with? Appearance, character, or something less tangible? What part of her did he adore?
All of her.
“You see a problem?” Braydon asked.
Mark snapped out of daydreams. “No. Where are my boots?”
“Those boots would destroy your transformation. They’ve been discarded along with the rest of your rags.”
“I go about in stockinged feet?”
“My footwear, alas, is the same size as yours. Hessians, Johns.”
The valet presented a pair of glossy black boots, complete with golden tassel at the front. They did indeed fit, but in the slightly uncomfortable way of another man’s footwear.
“I’ll ruin these for you,” Mark said.
“They’re my third-best pair. I’ll survive.”
“You have three pairs of Hessians?”
“Don’t be provincial. The hat, Johns. My fourth best, note.”
The high beaver hat also fit, but a pair of Braydon’s tan gloves was too tight.
“We’ll have to buy you some ready-made,” Braydon said, circling Mark. “Johns, you have Lord Faringay’s size?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Off to purchase them, then.”
The valet went, and Mark considered himself again in the mirror. “Even members of the Crimson Band wouldn’t easily see Ned Granger in this, so some random member of the Brotherhood with Tregoven’s picture in his pocket won’t even consider me.”
“Good. We can get to work.”
Mark turned away from his reflection. “Tempting though it is, there’s no point to my prowling the streets. Isaac prefers to stay indoors as long as he has peace to think and his chemical toys to play with, and Solange won’t want to show herself, no matter how she’s disguised. She’ll also need to keep Isaac’s mind on her purpose and make sure he doesn’t blow up their lodging in an experiment.”
“What, then?”
“We find Solange’s contact in that department of the Home Office.”
The valet returned with a pair of ready-made leather gloves, though it clearly pained him to offer such inferior items.
Mark thanked him and put them on. “Excellent. Viscount Faringay is about to visit his old military acquaintance Sir George Hawkinville. All I need is my money.”
He looked around for his clothing, but then remembered it had been discarded. Foolish to pine for Ned and comfort. The banknotes and coins had been preserved and were being offered by the valet on a silver tray.
Mark was in the carriage with Braydon on his way to Peel Street when he remembered the silk rose. He thought of turning back for it, but it would still be there when he returned. He had urgent business, and in truth he wouldn’t like to have to explain his devotion to a frayed, silken scrap from his past.
* * *
Solange read the report of the explosion. Satisfactory. She’d told Isaac not to create a grand effect this time, because she didn’t want to alarm the government too much at this point. He’d accepted that with surprising indifference, and also the limits she’d put on his experiments. His mind was clearly on their grand plan, which was as well. She had no intention of disturbing the residents of Great Peter Street. Yet.
Here she was Mrs. Truman, a sad case. She was a widow who’d come to London from Essex to seek help for a painful disease of the mouth that meant she could only mumble. Thus, so easily, her accent disappeared. She was further burdened by a simple son. The curious neighbors had easily believed that, for Isaac was presently content to lurk indoors with his gin, his favorite foods, and some books. He’d probably want a whore soon, but that should present no difficulty.
She acquired Isaac’s necessities with the assistance of the Sisterhood. There weren’t many female members of the Three-Banded Brotherhood, and most were complaisant wives, but over time she’d identified some who were true believers and formed them into a secret society of her own. Women embraced revolution less readily than men, but when they did, they were wholehearted. No wonder, given the cruel way the unreformed world treated them. Her revolution offered them true equality, so she could trust the members of the Sisterhood more than any man.
One, Betty Logan, was acting as her maidservant, going out to the shops and gossiping with neighbors, collecting news and reinforcing Mrs. Truman’s sad story. Two others, Sarah Lawrey and Maria Hadstock, acted the part of friends. They visited, bringing along anything unusual that Isaac wanted. Maria also served as intermediary with Jeanne back in Waite’s house.
Maria had brought the news that Granger had visited Waite and left alive. More signs of Waite’s weak folly. Hadn’t she sent proof that Granger was the spy in their midst and knew too much? Hadn’t she suggested the picture, and that he should be killed?
She paced the room furiously, skirts swishing against the furniture in this confined, shabby room. She would not have chosen to rent this small house if not for its particular advantages. She’d had this plan in mind for some time, waiting for a property like this to become available. It had, not long before she’d had to go north for the Ardwick meeting, and so it had been ready for her on her return.
Granger had outwitted her in the most unbearable way, and probably killed Nathan Boothroyd. However, his theft of the papers had spurred her to this, which was coming to fruition at just the right moment. She would be victorious, but she wouldn’t thank him. When she’d heard he’d visited Waite, she’d sent Seth Boothroyd to his lodgings to kill him, but he was too cunning to be there.
How had he escaped the London Brotherhood?
Waite would have warned him now, so he’d be in hiding, in fear for his life. The satisfaction of that would have to do for now. He could do nothing to thwart the plan. No one could. And then she’d arrange the death
he deserved.
Chapter 28
Hermione arrived in London after a journey that had been both better and worse than expected.
On the day after she’d parted from Thayne, a handsome traveling coach had arrived at Riverview House as ordered, drawn by two pairs of horses, each with a postilion. It had carried a clerk bearing the money, and an armed man to escort the clerk.
Hermione had had a few hours’ warning and so everything had been ready. A trunk had been packed for Edgar along with blankets, pillows, and nostrums to go with him in the coach. Hermione’s valise and the luggage of the servants had joined the trunk in the boot and they’d all settled into the smart and well-upholstered vehicle with a hamper of food and drink for the journey.
Nolly Forshaw had always seemed levelheaded, but she’d perched on the edge of her seat vibrating with excitement as they left. She’d remained excited during the journey, for she’d never gone farther from home than Liverpool, but she’d proved practical and useful at the same time.
Peter was stoically anxious. He’d visited London, but only once, in service to another gentleman, and he emanated forebodings about Edgar. Hermione could only hope his instincts were awry.
She’d visited London three times, but always with her father and restricted to the fashionable West End, which seemed unlikely to house Dr. Grammaticus or the Curious Creatures. Where were they to stay, and how would they search for the cure? She had put that aside to be dealt with when they arrived, just as she’d tried not to think of Thayne and any danger he might be facing. She managed that during the day, but fears disturbed her nights.
At least the weather had been pleasant and Edgar had enjoyed the varied countryside and places they’d passed as well as marveling at the excellent condition of the toll roads. Their slow speed seemed astonishingly fast to him. All the same, the journey had proved a strain on him and they’d had to increase the opium for the pain in his joints.
In the afternoon of the second day he’d begun a fever. Hermione had been alarmed by his heat and shivering and ordered a stop at the first inn they came to. Then she’d had to plead with the innkeeper to let them stay. She’d managed to persuade the woman that it was a tertian ague and not infectious, but as the fever continued through the night, she’d been terrified that the old man would die.
“Don’t fret so, milady,” Peter had said. “He has these fevers now and then and the bark deals with them. I have some here.”
It had helped, but if she’d realized how frightening the fevers could be, she’d never have supported this journey.
By morning Edgar’s fever was down, but he ate little breakfast and seemed weaker as he was carried out to the carriage for the third day’s journey. Hermione had chosen a slow pace thus far, allowing for frequent rests, but now she ordered the postilions to greatest speed. Once they were in London, Edgar could start the antimony again and there would be excellent doctors.
It was evening by the time they left open countryside behind and drove though the market gardens that provided food for the city.
“Where are we staying?” Edgar asked weakly.
“I told the postilions to stop at the first good-quality inn.”
Edgar shook his head. “Peter, call out to them to take us to the Cross Keys Inn, near Cheapside.”
That would be some distance, but Hermione didn’t want to distress the old man more than she must.
Peter opened the window and called the instruction.
“Why the Cross Keys, Edgar?” Hermione asked.
“Stayed there when I came to London back in 1770, ready to make my fortune.”
Nearly fifty years ago! As they traveled into the City of London, an area she didn’t know, Hermione prayed the inn was still there and still respectable. Streets became narrow, but many were lit by gas. Edgar revived enough to marvel at that and at the brilliant shop windows, full of tempting items. They had ample time to study the scene. The press of vehicles and pedestrians kept them to a snail’s pace.
Edgar said, “Last time I was here, people kept to their homes after dark, or went about in groups, well armed. What a sight. What a sight.”
It was, but Hermione exhaled with relief when they turned into the innyard at the Cross Keys. It was respectable, but busier than she liked. Coaches of all sorts were coming and going and messengers dashed in and out with letters and packages, even at this late hour. It might have suited a young, healthy adventurer, but it was no place for an old, sick one. Tomorrow she’d find somewhere quieter, but it would have to do for now.
Edgar looked gray and haggard enough to be a corpse and again she had to persuade an innkeeper that he didn’t carry a pestilence. She wielded her title ruthlessly, and the grand manner she could assume when she wished. Eventually they had a fine suite of upstairs rooms with two bedrooms and a parlor between. Fires were already lit there and were quickly built up by willing servants. The beds seemed clean and free of damp.
As soon as Edgar was settled in his bed, Hermione said, “You must start Dr. Onslow’s medicine again.”
“Left it in Tranmere,” he muttered, clutching the covers to his chest.
“What? Why did you do that? We’ll have to find a doctor here.”
“James’s powder. Can buy it anywhere, but we don’t need it.”
“Yes, we do. Please, Edgar. How else are you to get about and enjoy London?”
“Brought my antimony cup.”
“Your what?”
“Common enough with travelers. Show her, Peter.”
The servant brought over a small, square box and opened it to take out a metal cup.
“Antimony and tin,” Edgar said. “Steep wine in it for a few hours and drink. Most travelers have one. Good for all kinds of tropical ailments. Probably kept me alive.”
“Then why were you taking Dr. Onslow’s James’s powder?”
“Seemed you’d prefer it that way.”
“Oh, Edgar. I only want you to be as well as possible so that when we find Dr. Grammaticus, he can cure you.”
“Mare’s nest. But I’ll take the antimony and the opium. I do want to see some sights now I’m here.”
Peter poured wine into the cup and put it aside.
“What would you like to eat?” Hermione asked. “I’m sure now we’re in London, you can have anything.”
“I’m not hungry. My bones are torture and I have a headache. Give me some laudanum and let me sleep.”
There was no arguing with him in this mood. Hermione nodded to Peter and went into the parlor. Nolly was in Hermione’s bedroom putting away their clothes, so for the moment she was alone with her anxieties, fears, and doubts. Edgar was worse, the inn was too noisy, and she hadn’t been prepared for the bedlam all around her here. She remembered the mob. The London mob was notoriously violent and could form in an instant over nothing.
She sat by the fire rubbing her chilled hands.
Peter soon came into the parlor. “He’s settled, milady. I’ll give him the antimony when he wakes.”
“I hope that form of antimony will help.”
“I’m sure it will, milady. He told me that he started taking it onboard ship as soon as he realized he was ill, and he took it for weeks after he landed. But it’s never cured him. He took Dr. James’s powder in the hope that it’d do better, but it was the same. Some improvement at cost of great discomfort, but no true progress. And the opium, it just eases him.” There was criticism behind the words. Peter was fond of the irascible old man and he’d not liked the hardships of the journey.
“He wanted to come,” Hermione pointed out, “and once he’s stronger, he’ll enjoy seeing London.”
“As you say, milady.” Peter returned to his charge, leaving Hermione even more dismayed. If only she had someone to advise her. She doubted Edgar knew any more about today’s London than she did and he was in no stat
e to advise her on anything at the moment. She sat up straighter. She’d have to cope alone. Tomorrow she’d find a quieter inn, and set about finding Dr. Grammaticus. She knew that lawyers congregated around the Inns of Court and merchants around the Bank of England. Did doctors have their own area? How could she find out?
A tap on the door brought the innkeeper. “I beg your pardon, milady, but what are we to do with your coach?”
“Do?” Hermione asked.
“Do you wish us to house it for you, or is it to be sent to some establishment?”
Another decision seemed too much, but she had no choice. “Yes, of course I wish you to house it,” she said with a grand air. “I suspect we will sell it shortly.”
He bowed. “Very well, milady.”
How on earth did one sell a coach? She knew gentlemen bought and sold horses at Tattersall’s, but not how and when, and did Tatt’s also deal with vehicles? How much did it cost per day to house a large coach? She was going to have to broach the subject of finances as soon as Edgar improved. She’d constantly put off asking how much money he had, but if they couldn’t pay their bills here, they could be dragged off to debtors’ prison. She sat down on a hard sofa and shocked herself by crying. The trickling tears came from weariness as much as worry, but she hated feeling so weak.
Nolly came in and clucked her tongue. “Tired out, that’s what you are, milady. You need some food and a good cup of tea.” She whisked off, not seeming intimidated by bustling London and a grand inn. Hermione started to laugh, and it bubbled away her doldrums.
Nolly was soon back with an inn servant bearing supper dishes, and another carrying the tea tray. She supervised the spread of food on the table as if born to command, with much play of “her ladyship.”
There was plenty of food, but only one setting. “Bring another setting,” Hermione told one inn servant. “My maid eats with me.”
Nolly almost protested, but kept it back until the inn servants had left. “That in’t right, milady.”
“It is if I request it, and I need company.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy, and said, “Very well, milady,” but she still seemed dubious.
