“But she don’t know who you are! And if you bring her in, she’s sure to find out.”
“Do you think she’ll betray us? I thought you decided we could trust her.”
Tom grimaced and stifled a growl. He could not tell St. Mars why he minded her being there. He would never hear the end of it.
“No, I don’t think that. She’s happy as a lark to be making your lordship’s clothes. And not to be working for Lade. You should’ve seen her face when I told ‘er she were going to ride in a post-chaise. But—” he drove the thought of her joyous expression from his mind— “I just don’t know—maybe we shouldn’t drag her into it. What if we were caught? And women can talk, even when they don’t mean to.” These were none of his reasons, but he didn’t want St. Mars to think he was worried about the danger to Katy or that he considered her at all.
“I don’t mean to get caught. One thing I’ve learned is that I can move about London, certainly at night, with no fear of being recognized. With a change of wig, clothes, and gait, and a little paint if I need it, there’s hardly a person here who would know me.”
Tom was not so sure he liked the certainty in his master’s voice. The young were often over confident. “Well, I hope you don’t go parading about, all the same. ‘Hardly’ a person ain’t the same as nobody.”
St. Mars reassured him about the care he was taking then proceeded to tell him what he wanted him to do. “Tomorrow, there’s to be a sale of the Honourable William Russell’s belongings at his house in Covent Garden. I want you to go to the auction and buy whatever we need to furnish this house for the three of us—beds, tables, chairs, a writing desk, linens—and have them delivered here. Don’t worry about the cost. And don’t stint yourself or Katy either. You are sacrificing enough for me already, and I shall be much happier to know that you are well-housed.”
Tom could hardly speak for the need to gulp. “Yes, my lord,” he choked out. “And who should I say it’s being bought for? Mr. Brown?”
St. Mars mused for a moment. “No, you should give the name of Mavors. I’ve developed a liking for it. And if anyone comes looking for Mr. Brown from Pigden, this will make him that much harder to find.”
“Yes, my lord.” Tom had not missed the sadness in St. Mars’s eyes when he had spoken the name he had used only once. Mavors was a Latin form of Mars, Gideon had told him on that occasion. Tom could only imagine how hard it was for him never to use his true name—a name with so much pride behind it.
Tom hardly knew what to say to St. Mars’s generosity, so he dismissed it for now, but he could only imagine what Katy would say when she found herself using a nobleman’s furnishings. “Are you sure you don’t want us to buy new things? You could sleep at the White Horse until we’ve got it ready for you.”
St. Mars shook his head. “I don’t have time to wait. We’ve too much else to do. And if that much were seen to be carried here over a series of days, it might make the neighbours curious. If it arrives all together, they will think we moved from a former residence. I’ll give you money in the morning. I brought plenty with me from France.”
Tom nodded. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be bidding at an auction at a nobleman’s house. He was glad he had spent a couple of weeks inside Hawkhurst House, helping Philippe nurse their master back to health. At least he would not be awed by the sight of the furnishings, for nothing could compare to the grandeur of Hawkhurst House.
Just two months ago, he would have been overwhelmed by his master’s order, but in that time he had learned to manage quite a few things he had never been trained for.
“I should like to see the furniture here by tomorrow night so we all have something to sleep on besides straw. Do you think you and Katy can manage that, Tom?”
“That we can, my lord. Just you leave it to us.”
* * * *
Gideon stayed his last night at the White Horse and paid his reckoning in the morning, leaving instructions for any letters to be forwarded to him at the King’s Head in Fore Street, Lambeth, a short ride from his new abode. That evening, while taking a look at the furniture that had been installed in the house, he got Tom to check the post and was rewarded by a brief note from Mrs. Kean. She informed him that Colonel Potter had his lodgings in Maiden Lane. She had managed to discover this quite easily, for he had been obliged to give his name and direction before giving evidence at the inquest. She told him what the jury’s verdict had been, stating that her cousin seemed safe for the moment, though it had been obvious that the jury suspected him of the crime.
There was one more piece of news. Lord Oxford had been taken into custody. A plea from Lord Shrewsbury that he not be placed in the Tower had been approved because of his ill health, but he was to be confined at home in custody of the Black Rod.
This troubled Gideon, but he thought it was a positive sign that Oxford had been spared the Tower. It seemed to prove that the government was aware of the risk of imprisoning such a popular former minister.
That was all that Mrs. Kean’s letter conveyed, except for a promise to meet him at the place they had agreed upon tomorrow afternoon and another request for him not to place himself in too much danger.
This last part made him smile.
Gideon could not decide which of his well-meaning friends had the greatest tendency to worry—or which one thought him the most incompetent—Tom or Mrs. Kean.
* * * *
He decided to give Tom one night to settle in before asking for his aid in hunting Menzies. The best and most serviceable plan would be to investigate one man at a time. So an hour before dark, Gideon hired a waterman to ferry him all the way to Salisbury Stairs. From there it was a short walk to Maiden Lane, where a few questions helped him locate the house in which Colonel Potter lodged.
He had just achieved this, when three military-looking gentlemen emerged from that house and paused for a few seconds in front of it. Late as the hour was, on this June night the sun had just set, so Gideon could see all three men clearly enough. One of them had a complexion splotched with large freckles, so remembering Mrs. Kean’s description of Colonel Potter, Gideon decided to follow them.
He did not have far to go. At the end of Maiden Lane, they turned left into Covent Garden, then right into Russell Street, where they were accosted by a few whores who tried to lure them into the buildings where they plied their trade.
A bawd from down the street called out they would find only, “the purest girls, fresh from the country” in her house. A large group of fops sauntered by, throwing flirtatious looks over their fans at the three gentlemen, and giggling and whispering about them to their friends.
From the way the three men lingered with the whores, Gideon supposed they were out for a night of pleasure. Unwilling to wait for hours, only to discover that he had been mistaken in the man’s identity, he took the opportunity of drawing closer to the group to see if he could catch their names.
He strolled past them, gawking, as if amazed by the lewd conduct around him, and overheard a harlot addressing the ruddy gentleman as “Captain,” which might have dissuaded him, if the title were not so commonly misused. He stepped over the legs of a beggar nursing her baby on the doorstep of a tavern, turned his back to the next wall, and tried to follow the rowdy banter between the freckled gentleman and his friends.
The men had already shared more than a few bottles among them, if their diction was anything to judge by. They were fortunately too far gone to take any notice of him. The same could not be said for the whores and pickpockets, though, who believed they had found an easy mark. Gideon was quickly surrounded and had to strain to overhear the other conversation.
“Hello, Deary.” One thin and aged whore, with spirits of juniper on her breath, planted herself in front of him, while others claimed both of sides. Gideon covered his pocket firmly with one hand and with the other lightly fingered the hilt of his sword. The whores’ quick eyes did not fail to catch his gesture, and one of them waved her young
accomplice, a filthy boy of indeterminable age, away with a sharp look of warning. The disappointment on all their faces was palpable, as they were forced to revise their opinion of his vulnerability.
He was not dressed in a manner that would convince them that his purse was full, certainly not as fine as the aristocrats who patronized the street or the rich Jews who came from the City of London to seek their pleasure here. But none of them could afford to ignore a potential customer, no matter how meagre his funds might prove to be.
With both hands occupied in guarding his belongings, he could not do much to avoid being pawed, which the women would insist on doing in hopes of persuading him to choose one of them. But while they cooed over him in their vulgar way, he still was straining to hear what the other men said.
Finally, a scuffle broke out between two of the harlots competing for the gentlemen’s business, and the freckled man became annoyed with the press of women around them. Giving two of them a rough shove, he said to his friends, “A pox on these whores! Not that they need it. Anybody can see that they are full of sores.”
“There’s no danger in a little feel,” the second man sniggered.
“Perhaps not, but they’re wasting my time. I told you, it’s Mother Whyburn’s or nowhere else.”
“Who’s wasting who’s time?” One of the harlots he’d pushed was outraged. “If it’s virgins ye want, then be off wif th’ lot o’ ye! And I wish ye joy of ‘em, for all the pleasure ye’ll get!”
The other women spat abuse at them, too, but three healthy officers armed with swords had no reason no fear. Still, as they strolled past Gideon, one of them complained, “I don’t see why you had to provoke them, Potter. It’s not as if you’ve anywhere to hurry to.”
The freckled officer made a surly reply, while his other friend laughed at his expense.
Gideon had turned his face to the right, in case any of the three glanced his way. But trouble arose when the whore who met his gaze took his motion for a sign of encouragement. It was one thing to ignore a woman’s ministrations when his attention was focused somewhere else—quite another when looking into her eyes.
This one was not so unappealing as the others, but as many weeks as it had been since Gideon had enjoyed a woman’s caresses, he hardly thought that looks would matter. As soon as he caught sight of her face, she smiled and her gropings grew bolder. Inevitably, his body reacted, and her eyes widened first in surprise, then in admiration.
“Yer not as ancient as ye looks. Are ye, me naughty boy?”
Her remark snapped his mind back to business, even if his body was slower to settle down.
He pushed himself away from the wall, freeing himself of her grasp. Believing that he had already made his choice, the other whores besieging him had started to drift towards other men. He did not want a cry of outrage to attract attention, so he quickly reached into the depths of his pocket and handed the woman a coin.
It was more money than she would be paid for a job on the street, but Gideon reckoned that she had provided him with the cover he needed. Besides, she was clearly not a woman who would ever enjoy the luxuries of a highly placed courtesan. Working out in the street, she was probably already infected with the disease of her trade and would eventually need money for a physician’s services.
He was sufficiently thanked, when the protest she had started to utter was stifled by surprise. She peered at his coin incredulously, then almost wildly, while doubt, suspicion, hope, and elation crossed her features in succession.
He said, “Thank you,” and, not waiting to hear a response, strode quickly after the officers, catching sight of them just as they disappeared through the door of Mother Whyburn’s bawdy house around the corner in Drury Lane.
It was a house that Gideon knew well enough, for it was the safest one for any gentleman wishing to avoid getting the clap. And Gideon, though too young to be prudent, was still intelligent enough not to take most risks he did not have to take. Mother Whyburn claimed to be able to cure the pox, but whether she could or not, it was certain that she paid for her girls to be treated, and that she prayed for them daily in her long devotions at St. Martin’s Church. Gideon doubted that the Bible she kept on her hall table received much use from the harlots or their patrons either, but Mother Whyburn was too astute a businesswoman to ruin her reputation by infecting her customers if it could be avoided.
Her establishment was no longer a cure for his carnal desires, for she would recognize him instantly. She had approached him often enough to father an heir for one of her many female clients whose husbands could not produce one. Gideon had always refused her, but he knew that he could not stand outside her windows in case she herself came out to recruit “young stallions,” as they were called.
The last thing he wanted to do was stand outside in Drury Lane when he would be importuned by every harlot and Molly in town, would have to be alert to every pickpocket’s tricks, and might fall prey to the Mohocks who roamed the quarter. Not so long ago, Drury Lane had been home to dukes and duchesses, but now it was filled mostly with brothels, which catered to tastes of every kind.
It was nearly dark. He did not need his watch to tell him that it was near ten o’clock. Colonel Potter and his friends could stay for hours in the bawdy house, unless—and on a sudden hunch Gideon grew hopeful—unless they ran through their money and had to leave.
Now that he had a moment to reflect, he recalled that Mother Whyburn’s was not the obvious choice for an officer who had been cashiered. Since she offered only the cream of harlotry, Mother Whyburn also charged the highest fees. As a gesture of her piety, she donated money to the Church, but Gideon could be fairly certain that her charity did not extend to her customers, not when famous courtesans like Sally Salisbury used her rooms.
A woman costumed in a Quaker’s hood with a high-draggled petticoat spied him and started towards him, alerting him that he had stood too long. He ignored her cry, “Don’t leave me, my charmer!” and made his way back along Little Russell Street.
Luckily, the Mollies in the seedy taverns that filled Clare Market revealed no appetite for anyone disguised as an older man. But Gideon knew that no disguise would be sufficient to discourage their female counterparts, so he tried to find a place where he could sit and watch through a window for Colonel Potter’s return. He saw the sign of the Postboy in Russell Street and headed towards it, until he recalled that Button’s, the new coffee house which had opened beneath it, was said to be patronized by Joseph Addison and Richard Steele, both Whigs with Court appointments.
That left the older brick house behind him on the corner of Bow Street, which had for a long time been famous as Will’s Coffee House. Will’s had been a haunt for Addison and Steele, too, but its true fame had been as a gathering spot for poets. Dryden and Pope, among others, had both composed verses at its tables, but ever since Will’s heirs had died off, its custom had dispersed.
The current tenant had not even bothered to remove the old sign. Gideon peered into the dirty windows, and not seeing anyone he knew, went in. The house was almost empty, which did not bode well for the new owner’s success, but it did suit Gideon’s needs very well.
He took a seat at the end of one of the long oak benches facing Russell Street, ordered coffee, and settled in to wait.
Chapter Fifteen
So Man, who here seems principal alone,
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown,
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal;
‘Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
I. ii
Gideon was lucky. After scarcely an hour, having sipped at several dishes of coffee and avoided the distractions that spilled in from the street, he spotted Colonel Potter and only one of his friends making their way down Russell Street towards the Piazza. Night had fallen completely, and he would not have seen them in the dark if they had not hired the services of a linkboy. Alerted to their approach by the torch, however, Gideon was easily able to recogniz
e the man he sought.
He paid his reckoning as quickly as he could and caught up with his quarry as they turned left towards Maiden Lane. He had hoped that Colonel Potter would part from his friend before reaching his door, and was trying to figure out how to accost two men, when the second officer bid the Colonel goodnight, and continued with the linkboy towards the Strand.
Gideon’s pulse was rapid as he paused at the corner of Maiden Lane, pulled off his wig, and stuffed it into a deep pocket of his coat. He hurriedly dusted the ashes from his brow, before pulling a black half-mask from his other pocket and tying it on.
The transformation took only a few seconds, before he was following the Colonel’s trail, but he had to stop the Colonel before he reached his lodgings and hope that no one interfered.
Striding so fast as to be almost at a run up the deserted street, Gideon caught up with him just two houses shy of his door.
“A word with you, Colonel Potter!”
The man turned instantly, and with one look at Gideon’s mask, waited only a split-second before drawing his sword.
His reaction came as no surprise to Gideon, who rapidly drew his own. He would rather have talked to Potter first, but when faced with a stranger in a mask, most men would fight—and pose their questions later.
Potter revealed even less hesitation than most. Almost before Gideon could be on his guard, Potter lunged with an accuracy that reminded Gideon that he had faced off with an officer trained in his Majesty’s Foot-Guards.
His quickness saved him as he leapt to one side. Potter lunged again, and then again, keeping him on the defensive, but after the first few moves, Gideon could read his opponent fairly well. He parried every subsequent attack, and before long had the satisfaction of seeing his opponent start to flag. Colonel Potter’s breaths came louder. His face registered astonishment, and even a touch of concern, when he realized that the man who had accosted him was no footpad, but someone highly trained in the duello.
The Spider's Touch Page 25
