Too Hot to Handel

by Sheri Cobb South

  “Oh, but I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Of course you can.” He brushed aside her objections as easily as he might have a frivolous claim brought before the magistrate’s bench. “My coachman is waiting below with instructions to take you home. I regret I could not furnish him with the street and number, so you will have to do so yourself.”

  She shook her head. “This is very thoughtful of you, Mr. Colquhoun, but quite unnecessary. If it is indeed Sunday—and I suppose it must be—then you will want to be in church.”

  “I happen to believe my Christian duty lies elsewhere this morning. I implore you, my lady,” he added coaxingly, “if you will not do it for your own sake, pray do it for mine. Mr. Pickett will never forgive me if he wakes up and discovers that I’ve let you wear yourself out with nursing him.”

  She suspected he was probably right, and felt herself weakening. Still, she could not like the idea of leaving Mr. Pickett, even in such capable hands as his magistrate’s. “He did awaken last night, very briefly,” she confessed, glancing toward the bedroom. “If he should wake up again and find me gone—”

  “I shall promise him you will return later.” Seeing her beginning to waver, he added, “Come, my lady, you can be no good to him if you are asleep on your feet.”

  “Very well,” she said with obvious reluctance. “Only give me a chance to get dressed.”

  She allowed Mr. Colquhoun to look in on Pickett while she changed clothes in the outer room, although this reluctance to disrobe in the presence of the unconscious Pickett had less to do with modesty than with a reluctance to suggest to the magistrate a degree of intimacy between herself and his most junior Runner that she was only just beginning to admit, even to herself.

  As she fastened the bodice of her peach-colored kerseymere morning gown, she recalled several instructions for Mr. Colquhoun. She could not in good conscience leave Pickett to his magistrate’s care without first unburdening herself.

  “If he should awaken again, Mr. Colquhoun, pray do not worry him with questions about the jewel theft, for he is still far from well,” she cautioned him as she took her leave.

  “I promise,” he said, walking with her as far as the door.

  “And try to persuade him to drink something,” she continued. “I should have done so last night, but I was so surprised to see him awake that I did not think of it until he had slipped away again, and it was too late.”

  “I shall do my best,” promised Mr. Colquhoun, pushing her gently but firmly out the door.

  “And if he is in pain, you may give him a dose of laudanum. You will find the bottle on the table beside the bed.”

  “Very well,” said Mr. Colquhoun, and prepared to shut the door in her face.

  “Oh, and Mr. Colquhoun—”

  He heaved a very pointed sigh. “Yes, my lady?”

  “If—if there is any—any change—will you please send for me?”

  He did not pretend to misunderstand her. “If he should take a sudden turn for the worse, I shall send for you at once,” he said, more gently this time.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and allowed him, finally, to close the door.

  He turned the key in the lock lest she recall any further instructions, and blew out a long breath. “If ever two young people needed their heads knocked together!” Shaking his head over the folly of youth, the magistrate went into the bedroom where his young protégé slept.

  His vigil was long and tedious, being interrupted only once, by Mrs. Catchpole with the water and coal she had promised. He answered her probing questions with the curtest of replies, and she soon returned to her shop, torn between annoyance at being so soundly rebuffed and pleasure in the presence under her roof of so forceful and distinguished a gentleman.

  And then, about four hours into Mr. Colquhoun’s watch, Pickett stirred and opened his eyes.

  “My lady?” he muttered.

  “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for your magistrate,” said Mr. Colquhoun, shifting his chair so that Pickett might see him without being obliged to turn his head.

  “There was—there was a fire,” Pickett said, his voice somewhat stronger. “Lady Fieldhurst—”

  “Lady Fieldhurst is quite all right—which is more than I can say for you,” he added with a sternness that did not quite disguise his concern.

  Pickett smiled wistfully. “I thought she was here. Dreaming, I guess.”

  “That was no dream. Her ladyship has been nursing you ever since your heroics at the theatre.”

  “This is no place for her,” Pickett protested, frowning. “She shouldn’t have to do such a thing.”

  “I should like to see you try and stop her! I did insist she go home and sleep, however.”

  “Thank you, sir. That was good of you.”

  “Nonsense! Least I could do, since you might say I’m responsible for the whole thing.”

  “No sir, how could you be?” Startled, Pickett turned his head toward the magistrate, and instantly regretted it. “God, my head hurts!”

  “I don’t doubt it. The doctor left a bottle of laudanum to ease the pain. I can give you some, if you’d like.”

  “I would, sir, thank you.”

  Mr. Colquhoun measured out the dose, and Pickett raised himself onto one elbow to swallow it down.

  “Nasty-tasting stuff, as I recall,” observed the magistrate. “Perhaps some water to chase it down?”

  Pickett nodded, and drank deeply from the glass the magistrate held to his lips. Then he collapsed back onto the pillows, exhausted from even these minor accomplishments. “What about the princess’s diamonds?” he asked. “Were they stolen?”

  “Never mind that now,” Mr. Colquhoun said, rearranging the blankets that had slipped down.

  “They were stolen, weren’t they?” Pickett persisted.

  Mr. Colquhoun hesitated. He remembered Lady Fieldhurst’s warning against badgering the young Runner with questions; in fact, he quite agreed with her ladyship on the matter. But he suspected Pickett would fret himself more over what he didn’t know than he would over an abbreviated account of the truth. “Yes, they were stolen,” he admitted.

  Pickett nodded, and grimaced at the pain in his head. “I thought they must have been.” His voice was weaker, although whether this was the result of his exertions or of the laudanum he’d been given, Mr. Colquhoun did not know. “The fire—”

  “You’re not to worry your head over it, do you understand?” the magistrate added hastily. “I’ve got a man on it, and I have no doubt the diamonds will be recovered very shortly.”

  “But—no arrest?”

  Mr. Colquhoun sighed. “No, no arrest, I’m afraid.”

  Pickett shifted suddenly in the bed and grabbed the magistrate’s arm. “Something strange . . .” he said, his eyes beginning to glaze over. “At the theatre . . . meant to tell you . . .”

  Even as he spoke, his grip on Mr. Colquhoun’s sleeve slackened and his hand fell away.

  “You can tell me later, John. Try to rest now—” The magistrate patted his shoulder. “—son.”

  Lady Fieldhurst did not realize how weary she was until she lay down on her own bed. She fell asleep almost the instant her head hit the pillow, and slept soundly for the next six hours. She awoke with her head thick and stupid, and could not at first recall why she was asleep in what must be, to judge by the light spilling through the bedroom windows, the middle of the day. Then it all came rushing back: the fire, the theft of the diamonds, and worst of all, Mr. Pickett lying insensible in a small flat in Drury Lane.

  It was this last that spurred her to action. She threw back the covers, splashed water over her face to banish the last of the cobwebs, and dressed quickly, anxious to return to him with all possible speed. She had almost finished her hasty toilette when she heard a light scratching at the door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  The door opened, and Thomas the footman stuck his head in. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but L
ady Dunnington is below.”

  Julia sighed. At any other time she would have been delighted to see her friend, whom she had believed to be wintering with her husband at the Dunnington country estate. But now all her thoughts were for John Pickett, who might be waking up at any moment and wondering at her absence.

  “Very well, Thomas, I shall see her. You may show her into the drawing room, and tell her I shall be down directly.”

  Thomas hurried away to carry out these instructions, and a few minutes later Julia joined her friend in the drawing room.

  “Julia, my dear, where in the world have you been keeping yourself?” demanded Emily Dunnington, greeting her with air kisses on either side of her face. “I have been trying to see you since yesterday, and your servants have steadfastly denied me with the most cryptic of excuses!”

  “I beg your pardon, Emily, but it has been a rather difficult few days,” said Julia, marveling at her own previously unsuspected talent for understatement. “I suppose you have heard about the fire at Drury Lane Theatre on Friday night?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Emily with a wave of one white hand. “All of London is abuzz. From what I hear, it brought Handel’s Esther to a screeching halt. It must have been quite dreadful.”

  Lady Fieldhurst shuddered at the memory. “It was. I was there.”

  “Julia! I trust you are all right. But what of the rest of your party? Much as I dislike the new Lord Fieldhurst, I should not wish to see him burned to a cinder.”

  “Nor should I, but I was not in the Fieldhurst box.” She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the recriminations that were sure to follow. “In fact, I was accompanying Mr. Pickett.”

  “What? My dear Julia, never say you sat in the pit!”

  “Of course not! Mr. Pickett was on an assignment, and was stationed in one of the boxes. He needed a—a female companion to render him less conspicuous, and so he invited me to accompany him. And I accepted.”

  “Less conspicuous? A lady whose husband has been dead for less than a year, and who was herself suspected of murdering him? I can see how your Mr. Pickett might be unfamiliar enough with the ways of the ton to persuade himself that such a scheme might work, but not you. Surely you must have known better!”

  “Perhaps, but it is all water under the bridge now. In any case, the fire must have driven all else from the ton’s collective mind.”

  “Yes, the fire,” said Lady Dunnington, her eyes narrowing in concern. “How did you contrive to escape?”

  “Oh, Emily, I wish you might have been there!” exclaimed Lady Fieldhurst, raising glowing eyes to hers.

  “In a burning theatre? I am very glad I was not!”

  Julia continued as if she had not spoken. “He was quite magnificent. The fire had already reached the corridor just outside the box, cutting off all hope of escape for us that way. So Mr. Pickett tore down the curtains and fashioned them into a rope, then climbed down while carrying me on his back.”

  Lady Dunnington listened to this recital in wide-eyed amazement, but her response, when it came, was not what Julia could have wished.

  “Poor, poor Lord Rupert!” she exclaimed, invoking the name of the man who had almost been Julia’s lover. “He never stood a chance against such a figure of romance!”

  Julia frowned at her friend’s levity. “It isn’t funny, Emily. Mr. Pickett suffered an injury just after we escaped the theatre, and is even now unconscious in his flat in Drury Lane. I have been there since the night of the fire, nursing him. But enough about me,” she added hastily, lest Lady Dunnington start asking uncomfortable questions. “You said you had been trying to see me. For what, pray?”

  As a strategy, it worked beautifully. Lady Dunnington grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. “My dear Julia, you will never credit it! Dunnington has brought me to London to consult with an accoucheur. It appears we are anticipating a blessed event late this summer.”

  “Emily, how wonderful!” exclaimed Julia, recalling that it was Mr. Pickett who was indirectly responsible for the reconciliation of Emily and her long-estranged husband.

  “I hope it may be a girl this time, since we already have the two boys. How I should enjoy launching a daughter into Society! Only think, Julia, if you and Fieldhurst had had a son, they might have made a match!” Her smile disappeared abruptly. “What a stupid thing to say! Forgive me, Julia, I did not mean—”

  “No, no, it is quite all right. It does not hurt so much as it once did,” Julia assured her, and was surprised to discover that it was true. While a part of her would always regret her childless state, she had recently discovered that there were other endeavors to which she could turn her mind, other causes to which she could devote herself. And for this, she knew, she had John Pickett to thank.

  “I am glad of that, for I have something particular to ask you, but not if it would cause you pain! I should like it very much if you would agree to be the child’s godmother.”

  “Why, Emily, I would be delighted! Only,” she added, her smile fading, “are you quite certain? It seems to me that a godmother should be someone in a position to do something to help establish the child in some way, and—well, I am not quite sure if you—that is—”

  “Julia, you cannot still be thinking of Fieldhurst’s death, can you? It is not as if you ever had to stand trial, you know. By the time any daughter of mine makes her curtsey in Society, all of that will be long forgotten.”

  “It isn’t that, at least, not exactly.” Her gaze faltered, and her hands plucked at the folds of her skirt. “It is only that—Emily, if I were to—to stay with Mr. Pickett, would you stand my friend?”

  Lady Dunnington looked utterly bewildered. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  “No, I mean if I were to stay with him. Forever. As his wife.”

  “His wife?” Lady Dunnington echoed incredulously. “Julia, my dear, you cannot have thought!”

  Lady Fieldhurst shook her head. “On the contrary, I have spent hours upon hours with nothing to do but think.”

  “You would be ostracized from Society,” pointed out Lady Dunnington. “Most of your friends would no longer receive you.”

  This argument failed to impress. “Would these be the same ‘friends’ who once suspected me of murdering Frederick? Remind me, if you will, why their opinions should matter to me.”

  “You will not be invited anywhere,” Lady Dunnington insisted, determined to make her friend reconsider taking so drastic a step.

  “No, but I have not been invited anywhere this year past, being in mourning, and I have been surprised at how little I have missed it. Besides, there are many amusements that require no invitation beyond the ability to pay a fee for admission—the theatre for one, or the gardens at Vauxhall, or any number of concerts or lectures. Although I cannot understand why I would wish to go gadding about Town in any case, when I might have Mr. Pickett waiting for me at home; indeed, my greatest pleasures over the last ten months have been those moments spent in his arm—er, company,” she finished feebly.

  Lady Dunnington’s eyebrows rose at this near slip, but she gave no other indication she had noticed it. “You would be poor, or near enough as makes no odds,” she reminded Julia.

  But this argument, too, carried no weight. “According to the terms of the marriage contract, I will continue to receive my jointure even if I choose to remarry. I cannot imagine how Papa persuaded Frederick to agree to such a thing—no doubt Frederick thought he would live forever—but I am eternally grateful to Papa for doing so.” She gave a rueful smile. “Much as I adore Mr. Pickett, I fear I should be hard pressed to live on his wages.”

  Lady Dunnington was silent for a long moment. “It appears you have thought this through quite thoroughly.”

  “As I said, I have had a great deal of time on my hands over the last few days. I am fully aware of what it would mean. And yet when I weigh the thought of giving him up against even the most crushing retributions Society could mete out—oh Emily, there is no compa
rison!”

  In spite of her misgivings, Lady Dunnington was moved. “My poor Julia!” She laid her hand over Lady Fieldhurst’s and gave it a little squeeze. “You really do love this man, don’t you?”

  Julia nodded. “More than anything.”

  “I cannot like it—you know I cannot! But if this is truly what you want, then yes, I will stand your friend, and I will still want you to be my daughter’s godmother. Although—” she added with mock severity, “—if she should elope with her dancing master or some such thing, I shall know whom to blame!”

  “I shall do my best to discourage any inclination to follow my example and make a mésalliance,” Julia promised, smiling.

  “I shall even treat your Mr. Pickett with civility when we meet, although I cannot promise not to tease him just a little. Good heavens! Do you realize your husband is half the age of mine? What will they find to talk about, I wonder?”

  “Us, I should guess,” Lady Fieldhurst predicted.

  “Very likely. But tell me about the fire! How was Mr. Pickett injured?”

  Julia’s brow puckered. “In truth, I cannot say. He had his arm about me—no amorous intent on his part, Emily, only a desire to get me out of the building safely, so you need not look at me in that knowing fashion!—so I was slightly ahead of him and did not see what happened. He fell forward when the roof collapsed—in fact, he landed on top of me. I assumed he must have been knocked off his feet by the blast, but when the doctor examined him, he saw evidence of a blow to the head. He even—” She was suddenly reluctant to say it, as if speaking the words aloud somehow made them true. “He even suggested the blow might have been deliberately inflicted.”

  “Do you mean to say that someone may have attacked him on purpose? Whatever could he have done to make such an enemy?”

  Julia shrugged. “I wish I knew. He was at the theatre that night to investigate a series of jewel thefts. Perhaps he found out something that someone didn’t want known.” She remembered his reaction as he observed the royal party through her opera glasses. “Or saw something—or someone—he was not supposed to see.”