Her expression grew solemn. “John, if you would prefer to go alone, I’ll understand. Truly, I will.”
He didn’t have to ask to know that she, too, remembered that recent quarrel. “I want you with me, Julia, never doubt that. Besides”—his arms tightened about her, and he dropped yet another kiss onto her golden curls—“a pretty fool I would look, going on a honeymoon all by myself.”
HAVING SETTLED THE matter to the satisfaction of both, Pickett dispatched Andrew the footman to the post office to arrange for the hire of a post-chaise; although still not entirely comfortable with the rise in the world which his marriage had brought him, he was learning how to instruct servants without appearing too timid or, in overcompensation for the aforementioned timidity, too autocratic. As the footman set off on this errand, Pickett joined his lady wife in the bedroom, where he found her issuing her own instructions to Betsy, her lady’s maid, as well as to Thomas, his recently promoted valet, as to the packing of their bags.
“Oh, but here is Mr. Pickett,” Julia said as he entered the room just in time to see Thomas removing his evening clothes from the wardrobe and laying them out carefully on the bed. “I’m sure he and I can finish up on our own. You may go now, both of you.”
“I’ll just go and pack my own things, shall I, sir?” Thomas offered eagerly.
Pickett shook his head. “No, thank you, Thomas. Mrs. Pickett and I will be traveling alone.” Seeing his valet’s crestfallen expression, he added, “Perhaps next time.”
“Very good, sir.” Thomas turned away, grumbling under his breath, “That’s just what you said last time.”
That the fellow was right in no way excused this insubordination. “If you are unhappy in your new position,” Pickett said, with a hint of steel in his voice, “I’m sure I could speak to Andrew about trading places with you.”
“N-no, sir. I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, I think you meant it,” Pickett said with a sigh. Thomas had been an invaluable ally on more than one occasion, and Pickett had no desire to lose him. Moreover, he could understand and even sympathize with the longing for adventure felt by a man very nearly his own age. “And I can’t say I blame you. But this journey is costly enough already. I can’t ask my magistrate to pay for your expenses as well as my own.”
“Yes, sir.” Thomas conceded the point readily enough, but his speculative gaze shifted to Julia, to whom the added expenditure would present no particular burden.
“No,” Pickett put in quickly, “so don’t even think it. Mrs. Pickett will be traveling without Betsy, as well.”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said again, and returned to the servants’ hall, where Pickett had no doubt he and Betsy would have a fine time exchanging grievances as to what a skinflint the new master was.
Still, there was no help for it, so he thrust the matter from his mind and turned his attention to the more immediate task of packing for the journey. He picked up the evening clothes so carefully laid out by Thomas and carried them back to the wardrobe.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked Julia apologetically. “Traveling without servants, I mean. Besides the extra expense, I’m not sure I can rely on Thomas’s discretion. The temptation to boast to the inn’s staff that he was accompanying me on Bow Street business might be too great to resist.”
“I don’t mind,” Julia said, watching in bewilderment as he began to stow his evening garments away, “but what are you doing?”
“Surely I won’t need these,” Pickett protested. “I’m going to investigate a case. Exactly what sort of case I don’t know, but I’m fairly certain it won’t involve going to a ball. At least, I hope not,” he added in some alarm at this new and unwelcome possibility.
Julia took the clothes from his arms and returned them to the bed. “On the contrary, you will be carrying a letter of introduction to an old friend of Mr. Colquhoun. It would be a very odd thing if this friend did not invite you to dine with him. And,” some demon of mischief inspired her to add, “if he and his wife should happen to be hosting a ball while we are in the area, you may be sure we will receive an invitation.”
Pickett stared at her. “You can’t be serious!”
“Well, perhaps not about the ball,” she conceded with some regret. “But I am certain about the dinner invitation. For him to do otherwise would be a shocking snub to Mr. Colquhoun, you know.”
As a matter of fact, Pickett had not known. He had assumed the letter of introduction would allow him to pick the man’s brains for any pertinent information he might be able to glean from someone familiar with the area and its inhabitants; he was not at all certain he liked the idea of any social obligations, especially given the fact that he’d recently made a fool of himself in front of his in-laws after being placed in just such a position.
“I have no doubt you will acquit yourself very well, no matter what the circumstances,” Julia assured him, pausing with her arms full of primrose muslin long enough to give him a quick kiss.
“If you say so,” said Pickett, unconvinced. “In any case, I will console myself with the knowledge that Mr. Colquhoun’s friend can’t possibly be any more terrifying than your mother.”
“And you managed to win her over, at least to some extent, so there you are,” Julia pronounced, and turned her attention back to her half-empty portmanteau.
Pickett’s own packing did not take long, as his wardrobe was not extensive (although Julia was doing her best to rectify this situation) and fit easily into a single valise. He had filled his bag and was just about to close it when Julia said, “Don’t forget this.”
He turned and saw her removing the pistol he kept tucked away at the bottom of one of the bureau drawers. “I hadn’t forgotten.” He took the gun from her and returned it to its resting place. “I’m not bringing it.”
“Not bringing it? John, you’ll want a weapon of some kind!”
He stared at her incredulously. “Sweetheart, why would a man bring a firearm on his honeymoon?”
“This isn’t just a honeymoon,” she insisted. “This case, whatever it is, might prove to be dangerous.”
“If I thought I would be putting you in any danger, I would never have agreed to take you along—nor, for that matter, would Mr. Colquhoun have asked it of me. But if anyone should discover I was armed, it would—well, it would raise awkward questions, to say the least.”
“You could keep it out of sight in our room—”
“Rooms can be searched, you know, should anyone become suspicious or merely overcome with curiosity. Besides,” he added, seeing she was not convinced, “if it’s hidden away in my room, it wouldn’t be much use in any case, unless the miscreant should be so obliging as to knock on our door and declare his intentions.”
“It isn’t funny,” she protested, then cast an appraising eye over his person. Alas, the current fashion for long-tailed coats cut short in the front left very little room to hide anything—including, at times, what her husband was thinking. “I don’t suppose you could tuck the pistol into the band of your breeches in the back, beneath your coattails?”
“That sounds like an excellent way to shoot myself in the bum,” Pickett said in a voice that brooked no argument. “I’m sorry, Julia, but no.”
“But you don’t know what you may be walking into!”
Seeing the distress in her blue eyes, he drew her into his arms and kissed her lingeringly. When at last he raised his head, a hint of a smile lit his brown eyes. “If I find myself in any danger,” he promised, “I’ll hide behind you.”
Their courtship (if one could call it that) had been conducted with a dead body or two in the vicinity, and against such a background of murder and mayhem, it had been a considerable surprise to Julia to discover that her young Bow Street runner possessed a rather appealingly self-deprecating sense of humor. She was not, therefore, deceived by this craven pledge.
“That might be rather difficult, considering that you’re fully a foot taller than I am,” she retor
ted. “Furthermore, I suspect you’ve never hidden from anyone or anything in your life.”
“Only because you never saw me at fourteen with a stolen apple in my pocket and the constable on my heels.” He added, in a more serious vein, “Don’t think that in marrying me you’ve got some sort of hero, Julia, with or without a pistol in my hand. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“I don’t think I’ve got a hero—I know I have! I confess myself curious, though: how would you describe a man who, finding himself trapped in a burning theatre with the woman he loved, fashioned a makeshift rope from the curtains and climbed down it while carrying her on his back?”
“That wasn’t heroic,” he protested. “It was the only way out. Believe me, if there had been a less dramatic exit available, I would have gladly foregone the rope. Besides, a real hero would have contrived to do the thing without getting himself coshed over the head.”
Julia, quite naturally, could not agree with this assessment, and there followed a very pleasurable debate as to Pickett’s heroic qualities or lack thereof. It was not until the next morning, long after they had left London behind, that she realized he’d got his own way after all.
The pistol was still in the Curzon Street town house, resting in the bottom of the bureau drawer.
2
In Which Mr. and Mrs. John Pickett
Pursue Very Different Quests
THEY ARRIVED AT THE Hart and Hound in late afternoon of the sixth day, by which time Pickett was convinced he had, as his magistrate predicted, become intimately acquainted with every necessary to be found along the way. Pickett could not hold these frequent stops against her, however, as he was responsible for the condition that compelled them. As for Julia, she smiled so sweetly and so gratefully at the much put-upon post-boys (who had been privately warned in advance by her devoted husband of her interesting condition and exactly how that condition might manifest itself) that they, too, were quite won over, and treated Julia with respectful courtesy and Pickett with transparent envy. Still, passengers and post-boys alike breathed identical sighs of heartfelt relief when the yellow-bodied post-chaise swept down a hill and around a curve into the village of Banfell and lurched to a stop in the yard of a neat two-storied structure of flat gray stones on its ground floor and whitewashed plaster on the one above.
Pickett did not wait for the post-boys to dismount, but opened the door himself and climbed stiffly from the carriage, stretching his limbs before turning to assist Julia to disembark. Taking stock of his surroundings, he found the Hart and Hound occupied a position of prominence at the heart of the village’s commercial center, as evidenced by the shops surrounding it. Aside from the usual livery stable, linen-draper, and greengrocer that might be found in any village—to say nothing of a rival inn directly across the street, rejoicing in the name of the Golden Feather—there were several businesses better suited to London, or at least Penrith: a stationer’s shop whose windows also displayed a selection of paints, brushes, and other artists’ supplies; a bookstore large enough to rival Hatchards in London; and a china shop whose bow window boasted a number of porcelain plates featuring painted representations of mountains and lakes. The explanation for these rather rarefied establishments was not far to seek, for beyond the inn yard lay a breathtaking backdrop of rounded fells, the nearest of which had given the village its name. Clearly, Banfell was home to a thriving tourist trade.
“Mr. Colquhoun wasn’t lying about the scenery,” Pickett remarked.
“Indeed, not.” Julia, who had grown up among the Mendip Hills of the West Country, appeared equally impressed by these much higher peaks. “Shall we have time to hike, do you think?”
Pickett, who spent much of his workday hoofing it from one part of London to another, could think of few activities that held less appeal. Still, the prospect of exploring these dramatic surroundings at close range held an undeniable attraction. “I suppose that will depend on—on what we find,” he said, careful not to mention within hearing of the post-boys the case (if one could call it that) which had brought them northward.
He paid off one of the post-boys while the other untied their bags and hauled them down from the luggage platform at the front of the vehicle. As the post-chaise rattled away, Pickett hefted the bags (his own valise under his arm, and the handgrips of Julia’s two larger portmanteaux, as well as the strings of her hatboxes, in his hands), thankful for the five years of hauling coal that had left him stronger than his slender frame suggested.
“You don’t have to carry them,” Julia protested, seeing what he was about. “We can ask the innkeeper to send someone—”
“Just open the door, will you?” Pickett asked somewhat breathlessly, jerking his head in the direction of the entry.
She hurried ahead to obey, and a moment later they were inside, blinking as their eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine outside to the dimmer light within. Pickett identified the counter directly opposite the door and made his way to it as quickly as his burden would allow. Upon reaching this destination, he dumped the bags at his feet, panting slightly as he addressed the stout, middle-aged man behind the counter.
“I’d like a room for myself and my wife.”
Over the course of two decades of running a posting house, the innkeeper had developed a talent for sizing up at a glance the social and economic status of the various travelers who availed themselves of his hospitality. The pair who now stood before him, however, had severely taxed his powers of discernment. The woman was obviously a lady, but he hadn’t known quite what to make of the man. A gentleman wouldn’t deign to carry his own bag—much less five of them—and yet his demeanor toward the lady, and hers toward him, was too familiar to be that of a servant and his mistress. At Pickett’s words, however, mine host’s brow cleared. If he was the lady’s husband, he must be a gentleman, albeit one of those eccentric specimens of the breed who found it amusing to ape their inferiors. Well, if the fellow wanted to carry his own bags, let him; he wouldn’t find it nearly so entertaining if he had to do that sort of thing on a daily basis.
And so the innkeeper greeted him with civility, if not warmth, and pushed the inn’s register across the counter with instructions to “sign here.”
Pickett, seeing the opportunity to make his first move in identifying the unknown correspondent, promptly picked up the quill and handed it to Julia.
“Would you care to do the honors, sweetheart?” he offered, making no attempt to lower his voice. “You might as well get used to writing your new name: ‘Mr. and Mrs. John Pickett, number four Bow Street, London.’ ”
They had agreed beforehand to list Bow Street’s direction rather than their own residence in Curzon Street, and as Julia signed the register, Pickett glanced around the room to gauge the effect of this speech on the room’s other occupants.
There was no shortage of these, for the inn also served the village as a pub, as evidenced by the various spigoted kegs and barrels behind the counter, and visitors and locals alike had descended upon it to refresh themselves. At one table, an apple-cheeked damsel serving ale from a pewter tray flirted with a curiously dressed young man with flowing black locks and an unstarched cravat tied in a floppy bow. A young blond giant in homespun, obviously a farmer, sullenly watched the pair from a table on the opposite side of the room. In a shadowy corner, a trio of men lifted foaming mugs to their lips and wiped the excess on sleeves so filthy that their wearers could only have come straight from one of the lead mines which dotted the mountains. Nearer at hand, a pious gentleman in an old-fashioned bag-wig sat with his eyes closed in prayer, one hand resting on the large Bible that lay closed in front of him, as if he were in so rapt a state that he could discern the words through the worn leather binding. A visitor of an artistic bent had claimed the table positioned directly beneath the window, presumably taking advantage of the light it afforded, and now neglected the tankard at his elbow in favor of a sketchbook and charcoal. At the table opposite his, two women of early
middle age, dressed for exercise rather than fashion in sturdy twill pelisses and stout leather half-boots, collapsed wearily with much scraping of chairs and called for the pretty young barmaid to “leave that fellow alone, and fetch us some cider!”
If the address of the Bow Street Public Office meant anything to any of them, they gave no sign.
Pickett turned back to the counter, where Julia had finished signing the register and was now laying aside the quill. “If someone could help with these bags—” he began.
He got no further before the innkeeper came around the counter, professing himself all eagerness to take over this task. Clearly, his opinion of his newest guests had undergone a rapid transformation. There were, Pickett decided, certain advantages to having an aristocratic bride, quite aside from the obvious.
“Ever been to the Lake District before?” the innkeeper called back to them as they followed him up the stairs, Pickett carrying his valise and one of Julia’s portmanteaux while his host carried Julia’s other bag and both of her hatboxes. “No? Beautiful country, but then, I was born and raised here, so I would think so, wouldn’t I? Here we are, just down the hall to the left, and then it’s the last door on the right. Best room in the house, I always say, because of the view of the fells. Now, if you plan to do any what they call picnicking, my good wife’s rheumatism says the fine weather will hold for a bit longer, and I can direct you to a likely spot.”
They had reached the room by this time, and the innkeeper deposited the bags on the floor at the foot of the bed. Pickett followed suit, while Julia crossed the room to draw back the curtain and look out the window.
“You can see the path from here,” the innkeeper told her, still puffing slightly from his burden. “It leads to a spot overlooking the river. You can see the waterfall upriver, and just a glimpse of the lake in the other direction.”
Peril by Post Page 2
