by Donna Hatch
Lucy made a strangled noise. “Don’t know why ye bothered, but fer what it’s worth, I thank ye.”
“You are most welcome. I’ll visit again soon. Keep drinking that tea and plenty of water, and suckle the baby even if you get nothing out—your milk should return.”
As they wound through the alleys, Jocelyn said, “Katie, I want you to make sure Lucy drinks the tea, and if her milk doesn’t return, tell me so we can hire a wet nurse for her baby.”
Katie bowed her head. “Yes, miss.”
Jocelyn turned over the problem of Lucy and her children. How could she help them best? Her stomach hadn’t stopped tying itself into knots at their desperate poverty. Besides, Katie surely deserved a little help with her family after all her faithful years of service, as her mother had served for years before her. No human should have to endure those atrocious living conditions.
An idea struck her. “When my father and I return to our country home, do you think your sister would come with us?”
Katie’s step faltered. “To the country, miss?”
“Yes. She seemed to like the country, and I could find her a position doing laundry or whatever she can do.”
Katie’s mouth pulled to one side as she considered. “The servants’ quarters probably don’t have room for children.”
“She could live in a cottage near the manor house where her children would have plenty of fresh air and not have to go mudlarking or live in a single room with no heat.” Jocelyn’s voice rose in both pitch and volume as frustration wove into her words. “I realize there are hundreds like her, and I can’t possibly help them all, but I mean to help her if I can.”
Katie’s mouth flattened and she swallowed. She blinked several times to hold back tears shining in her eyes. “I’d be ever so grateful to you, Miss. Lucy and her wee ones are all I have left in the world.”
Jocelyn touched her arm. “We leave in two weeks’ time for the house party. With your help, I’d like to have her move with us to our country house. She can live there all year. And you’ll come with us to see that she and the little ones get properly settled.”
“Yes, miss. Thank you.” Katie smiled. “See the country…” her voice trailed off and a dreamy expression overcame her.
“If it pleases you, you can travel back and forth with us so you can see her rather than remaining on the London house staff. We spend most of the time in the country when Parliament is not in session. Of course, if my father gets appointed to prime minister, we’ll live in London more, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
They turned onto the nearest street and found the cab. Standing next to the horse, the driver waited, rubbing the animal’s neck. He had come, just as he’d promised. Smiling, Jocelyn pressed her hand over her heart. There were so many good people in the world, despite what others may say.
The jarvey’s face relaxed at their approach. “I was just about to send someone in after you two.”
“I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
“No trouble a’tall, miss. I were jus’ concerned for your safety, is all.”
The jarvey’s gaze passed carefully over Katie, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. As the maid caught his open appreciation, she immediately cast her gaze downward and fluttered her hands. Any man would have to be blind not to admire a pretty girl like Katie. If only men would look at Jocelyn like that.
Then she remembered her monetary situation and addressed the driver. “Sir, I fear I’ve no money for the return trip, but if you’ll be so kind as to wait after you deliver us home, I’ll pay you then.”
“Sure, miss.”
The jarvey helped them both into the carriage, and at Jocelyn’s direction, turned the hansom around and headed for Mayfair. Outside the carriage window, a shadowy figure slipped along the road, but when Jocelyn peered more closely, it vanished.
Perhaps she’d imagined it due to some lingering effects of her fright in her father’s study. Last night’s intruder had been all too real. Was it possible the man in the study and the figure she thought she saw were the same? The burglar who threatened her couldn’t possibly know whether she’d revealed his presence, so his threat must have been made simply to frighten her into silence.
Well, she was not easily frightened. If the ball hadn’t lasted until the wee hours of the morning, she would have told her father about the incident. Then, by the time Jocelyn had arisen, Papa was already gone. She’d tell her father everything this afternoon on the way to Lady Everett’s house. And then she’d turn her mind to charming Lady Everett for her father’s sake. His happiness was her joy.
Chapter 6
Wearing the clothes of a gentleman of fashion and wishing he were in his usual attire, Grant sauntered casually along the walkway outside the Palace of Westminster. The rain stopped, but clouds hung low in a somber sky in a reminder that moisture could fall again at any moment. Blocked by the enormous building, the unique scent of the Thames failed to reach Grant, but the usual smells of the city remained, held in by the oppressive sky. He glanced at Jackson, one of Bow Street’s best Runners, dressed as a shopkeeper, who walked across the street with his head down as if he were really going somewhere.
Members of Parliament vacated Westminster in small groups, some walking together, others waiting for their coaches. Mr. Fairley exited in the company of a familiar-looking lord, their postures relaxed. Grant held back, pretending he admired the impressive, seven hundred-year-old building that housed Parliament, and hadn’t noticed the men.
The lord said something Grant didn’t catch, and Fairley clapped him on the back. “Well said, St. Cyr.”
To Grant’s left, a non-descript middle-aged man wearing the suit of a clerk strolled along the opposite side of the street. A few carriages passed and a dog trotted by, but the clerk made little progress. Moments later, the clerk crossed the street, eyed Fairley and St. Cyr, and then rammed Fairley.
As Fairley staggered back, the man steadied him with both hands in a classic pickpocket move. Grant’s senses sharpened. So quickly that Grant almost missed it, the man slipped a scrap of something white into Fairley’s pocket. He repeated the action into St. Cyr’s. Odd. Thieves didn’t usually pick pockets in reverse.
“Sorry.” The strange thief put his hands in his pockets and strode off.
Intrigued, Grant drew nearer.
“Clumsy fool almost ran me down,” Fairley muttered.
“Odd, that,” St. Cyr said. “Well, good evening, Fairley.” He strode off toward a fancy coach with a coat of arms on the door.
As Fairley headed toward his own coach, Grant called out, “Mr. Fairley. Good evening, sir.”
Fairley turned. “Ah, Mr. Amesbury.”
Grant caught up and strolled with him. “I enjoyed your party Saturday evening. I don’t, as a rule, socialize much, but you and your daughter made me welcome.”
“Our pleasure. My Jocelyn sure outdid herself. Planned the whole evening. Her mother would have been proud.”
Grant managed a polite smile. “You must be proud, as well.”
Fairley grinned. “Indeed I am.” He stopped in front of his coach and glanced at Grant curiously as if to ask why Grant had hailed him.
Before the footman reached them, Grant waved him off, grabbed the handle of the door, and opened it. “Here, sir, allow me.” He steadied Fairley as he climbed up. As Fairley’s back was turned, Grant slipped the note out of Fairley’s pocket.
Meeting postponed one day. Same place.
A message about a covert meeting; it had to be. If only it had given the address. Grant slipped it back in before Fairley turned.
Once Fairley had seated himself, Grant shut the door and stepped back. “Have a good evening, sir.”
Fairley hesitated. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“No, no. Just waiting around for my brother.”
Fairley glanced at the doors of Westminster. “Ah, yes. Of course. Good evening.”
Jackson had already
started tailing Fairley’s coach. Satisfied, Grant turned to the doors as if he really were awaiting Cole. His brother stood watching Grant with an unreadable expression. Perfect. Mindful of Fairley’s possible gaze, Grant strode directly to his brother. Cole wore his signature blue colors, stylish enough that less confident men of fashion imitated him, but no one would accuse him of being a dandy.
Cole’s brow dark raised. “What’s this new fascination with Fairley?”
“Just following a lead.”
Cole’s gaze shifted to Fairley’s departing coach. “If a majority votes no confidence on Lord Liverpool, I’d planned to nominate Fairley as the new prime minister. Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”
“None at all.”
Cole put on a hat and started slowly toward his coach. “I realize you can’t discuss a case with me, but my offer stands. If I can help...”
“I know.” Grant turned up his collar against the sprinkling of rain and put his hands in his overcoat pockets.
As they reached the Amesbury town coach, Cole gestured. “Can I offer you a ride?”
Considering the excuse he’d given for being here, Grant cast off his usual response and replaced it with, “My thanks.”
Inside the Amesbury-crested coach, Grant settled against the upholstered squabs. He’d forgotten the luxury of traveling without getting one’s teeth rattled. As the well-sprung coach glided over the normally bumpy road, Grant glanced out of the windows. They left behind the towering Westminster and turned onto St. James Place, passing the green park bearing the same name as the street.
He returned his focus to Cole who watched him thoughtfully. Finally, Grant asked, “What do you know about Fairley?”
“Devoted, hard-working, well-spoken. Honorable.”
A description that differed from Barnes’s.
Cole continued, “His son was killed in the war. His wife died of some illness a few years ago.”
“Who are his closest friends?”
“From what I can see, Lord St. Cyr and Mr. Dawson, among others.”
Absently, Grant nodded. He’d met Dawson at the ball. And Lord St. Cyr had been the recipient of a note as well. They must be co-conspirators.
Cole grinned. “He has a pretty daughter. Not the usual society miss. She reminds me a bit of Alicia—genuine, in possession of substance, truly kind, steady.”
Grant scowled. “I’m not interested in his daughter.”
Still grinning, Cole stretched out his legs. “I see.”
Let Cole believe what he will. Grant’s only interest in Fairley’s daughter was as a possible means to incriminate her father.
“Do you want to come home with me for dinner? Alicia would be happy to have you join us.”
Grant tossed out his usual response without thinking. “No. I’ll eat later.”
Cole leaned forward and eyed him. “You don’t have to wait for a wedding or funeral to come by. Jared and Elise, and Christian and Genevieve are in town for a few weeks. Alicia wants to plan a family dinner. Will you come?”
Grant let out a healthy snort. “And spend the evening with a room full of newlyweds? I’d rather put out an eye.”
“Margaret and Rachel would be there, too.”
“They aren’t enough buffer.” Besides, Grant might not be able to refrain from stabbing Margaret’s husband to end her misery.
“Is it the abundance of marital affection that bothers you or the fact that you haven’t found a loving wife, yet?”
A sharp, bitter laugh leaped out of Grant. “Marital affection turns my stomach. And I have no wife to find.”
Cole eyed him thoughtfully, speculatively, so Grant turned his attention back out the window.
“Did she break your heart or die a tragic death?”
That grabbed Grant’s attention. “Who?”
“The reason you’re so bitter. You’ve always been aloof and cynical, but since the war....” He shook his head. “What happened?”
As visions of her, and the love he’d believed they’d shared mingled with her final act of betrayal crowded his mind, Grant clamped his mouth closed and glared before returning his focus out the window.
When he thought he could speak around his bitterness, he said, “This is close enough. I’ll walk the rest of the way.” He banged on the roof to signal the coachman.
Releasing a long exhale, Cole dragged a hand through his hair. “Don’t leave. I’m not trying to pry; just understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand.” As the coach slowed to turn, Grant opened the door and jumped out.
He strode to the Bow Street Magistrate’s office and sat at the back of the courtroom while Richard Barnes processed the latest batch of criminals the Runners hauled in. As Grant sat, he tugged at his cravat until he loosened enough that he could breathe. The whiteness of his shirt and neck cloth made him feel conspicuous in the dimly lit courtroom.
Barnes, wearing the traditional white powdered wig of his station, glanced Grant’s way, but stayed focused on his duties as magistrate.
When the last felon was led away, Grant stood. Barnes glanced at him and relaxed his mouth into a tired smile. Grant followed him into his private office. As Grant’s former commanding officer removed his wig and fell into a chair behind his desk, Grant took a seat opposite.
“What has you so blue-deviled?” Barnes asked.
Grant looked pointedly at his clothes. “Next time you send me undercover, I’m going as a chimney sweep.”
“Your shoulders would get stuck.”
“A stable hand, then.”
“Cut your hair before you visit the Fairleys again.” Barnes scribbled something on a scrap of paper. “Here’s my barber. Tell him to give you a…hmmm. I think a Titus style would do well on you—a little longer than the Brutus.”
Grant slumped. Great. First clothes. Now a haircut. But Barnes was right; if Grant wanted to fit in with the leaders of society, he needed to look and act the part.
“What did you learn?”
Grant straightened. “I found two clues. Not substantial but enough to suggest a possible connection but encouraging.” Grant retrieved the burned corner he’d rescued from the fireplace in Fairley’s study and flicked it onto the desk.
Barnes picked it up and read. “Well, well. That can’t be innocent.”
“I also picked Fairley’s pocket and found a note that said the next meeting time had been changed but the location was the same. Jackson is tailing him now.”
“Excellent. Put your energies into getting invited to their meetings.”
Grant nodded.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let Fairley and his cronies get away with murder.”
More than Grant’s reputation was at stake; a life was at risk, and perhaps the safety of England.
Chapter 7
Grant shifted his weight, keeping to the shadows of the narrow alley where tall buildings sagged drunkenly against one another, and the gray sky narrowed to little more than a pinprick above. Emaciated cats picked through moldering piles of refuse, and cloaked forms hurried along broken cobblestones.
For three days and nights he and Jackson had taken turns trailing Fairley, but the suspect attended no secret meetings, unless they took place inside Westminster. Fairley’s wastrel of a son returned to Oxford two days ago, which removed him as a lead. Today, Jackson tailed Fairly, so Grant had the duty of watching Fairley’s daughter. The most unusual thing she’d done was take a basket of food to a family in the slums. Admirable, that, but futile in the face of so many in need.
He was going to have to try something more direct, like talk to some of Fairley’s closest associates, just as soon as he followed Fairley’s foolish daughter home. The foolish chit might get herself killed traipsing around the seedier side of London wearing all her finery and fripperies or whatever females called their many layers of clothes that they seemed to change a dozen times a day. Worthless, the lot of them. And in this case, unhelpful in leading Grant to evidence
against Fairley. She probably had no involvement in, or knowledge of, her father’s plot. Still, Grant liked to be thorough.
Opposite the hovel into which the Fairley girl had entered, another door opened. Two girls, talking quietly, exited together and entered the narrow alley. Grant barely gave them a glance. Yet something familiar about them drew Grant’s attention. Maggie and one of the other light-skirts who frequented the streets pulled their wraps around their thin shoulders.
Grant shook his head. He’d tried everything he knew to get them off the streets, but they seemed bent on destroying themselves.
As they approached, Maggie’s expression brightened. “So, it’s you, Mr. Smith.” She smiled but it came out strained.
By way of greeting he said, “Girls.”
“You goin’ to be me first customer tonight? It’s a little earlier than me usual workin’ time, but I’ll make an exception fer ye.” Maggie picked up their usual game of her offering her body, and his offering an escape from her chosen way of life.
“I’ll buy you dinner if you let me take you to Mrs. Goodfellow’s House for the Reformed.”
“Now, ye know we’re not wantin’ that.”
“She helps girls like you find honest employment.”
One of her friends said, “Owwoo, we’re ’onest. I never stol nuthin’.”
“Honest employment.” Maggie let out a scoff. “At least I know what me customers want. Employers ain’t always so straight up.”
In clear defiance, the girls linked arms and launched into a bawdy song as they headed down the street. Grant mulled over her words. Maggie had likely been the victim of unwanted advances from the man of the house. Scoundrel. May he rot in the deepest pit.
A moment later, three figures stepped into the alley from the hovel into which they had disappeared about an hour ago. Grant recognized the Fairley girl, a young girl who was probably her maid, and a handsome woman carrying an umbrella. They all smiled and practically skipped—probably proudly congratulating themselves on their great act of charity and anxious to get home and brag about how wonderfully condescending they were to the poor, and then promptly forgetting the objects of their charity as they dressed for the next ball.
