Lady Sparrow

by Barbara Metzger

  “What would I stay for? Your father said he’d cut you off without a shilling. I’d already lost my position. What were we going to live on, dash it? A silly schoolgirl’s dreams?”

  “We could have found something. You did.”

  “That’s right. I found a sheep farmer with a homely daughter. Now I’ve got a piece of land, instead of taking orders from Moneybags Caldwell and getting nothing back but more orders. My boys have a chance to better themselves, unless you queer their pitch, claiming to be my rightful wife. And why would you?” He gestured at the lavishly decorated room with a hand that had dirt under the fingernails. “You landed on your feet, didn’t you? Rich widow, hobnobbing with dukes and the like. Damn, woman, I don’t see what you’ve got to complain of.”

  Four years with Sparrowdale? Having her son stolen? “No. I do not suppose you would see, Mr. Rourke.” On the other hand, she might still be married to this lumpkin, who looked healthy enough to live forever, not that Mina actually wished him ill.

  Ninian looked relieved, as if he had thought she was going to claim her marriage rights. “Then it’s done, over, and you’re not going digging in the past?”

  “It is done.” She reached for a letter from the desk, the one that had just arrived from Lowell’s agent. “And you do not have to worry anymore. Our marriage was never annulled, because there was no need. Do you recall that inn we stayed at that first night, where we made our wedding vows before the innkeeper and his wife? That one on the Scottish border?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It was on the English side of the border. We had not crossed into Scotland yet.”

  Ninian slapped his fleshy thigh. “If that don’t beat all. What a good joke. Too bad I can’t share it with the fellows at the local.”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Too bad.” She put the letter back on the desk, straightening the blotter and the penknife. Then she asked the question that she’d been asking herself all these years of living through what he thought of as a jest. “Tell me something, Mr. Rourke, for old times’ sake. Did you ever love me the least little bit?”

  Ninian wiped his greasy forehead with his sleeve. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” was all he said.

  So Mina did not tell him about his son. He would never take the boy in, not with those others. His religious wife would not accept an illegitimate child, so Robin would end in the poorhouse or worse. On the reverse, Ninian would bedevil Mina forever, and Robin longer, about exposing the nature of the child’s birth. After Roderick’s machinations, she could trust almost no one. No, she saw no reason to mention the fruit of their one unpleasant coupling.

  A mother had to do what a mother had to do.

  So little Wendell Sparr was not in line for a peerage. Her Robert was, rightfully or wrongfully. Her legal husband had not sired him, but he had acknowledged her child as his own. Mina did not want the earldom for Robin. She did not need the money or the property or the high-flown title. She wanted her son.

  Let Roderick keep the title and the estates, with her blessings, she told Lowell, as long as he left her and hers alone. Let him find a wife of his own—not Lady Millicent, of course, whose betrothal to Andrew would be announced at the end of her first Season—and beget a dozen little Sparrs to follow in his high-heeled footsteps.

  She was glad Robin had no Sparr blood in him—although she was truly fond of the other boys, and Ninian Rourke’s blood flowed no more honorably. If—no, when—they found her son, she swore to Lowell, she would not press Robin’s claim. All they had to do was convince Roderick of that.

  Her leaving for Portsmouth ought to show the new earl that the succession and all of its secrets were secure, but she found she did not wish to leave Merrison House, with its safety, its comfort, its second son, her confidant. A few days more, she told herself. She would give a few days more to see if they could find a hint or a whisper of her baby’s whereabouts. Then she would go.

  In those next days the ton grew accustomed to seeing the peculiar Lady Sparrow out and about with a flock of dark-haired boys—and fair-haired men, men in army uniforms, men in livery, one man in spectacles. She was never alone, and was frequently accompanied by ducal connections, Her Grace of Mersford and two of her sons, His Grace of Westcott and his daughter. In those circles, no one was going to accuse the countess of impropriety, or impiety to her husband’s passing, not with her keeping his memory alive and playing ball in the park. She was considered an eccentric, perhaps, or, more kindly, an Original. There was gossip—how could there not be with Lord Lowell hovering at her side?—but not a hint of scandal. Even the recently priggish Roderick would be happy at the respect the Sparrowdale name was earning. Well, he would be happy if he were not afraid to leave his house.

  With Westcott’s door shut to him, the cents-per-centers’ doors were shut, too. He had no collateral, and no promise of future riches to ensure yet another loan. Roderick could not pay his bills, or his bullies. Tailors might wait, but toughs-to-hire would not. He could not go courting another heiress or haunt the gaming hells. He could not even sell off the few valuables left at the London town house, for they were entailed, as was the place itself and Sparrows Nest. He could not afford a solicitor to petition to break the entail, either, although no other legitimate Sparr male existed anywhere to inherit—he had made certain of that, at least. Besides, how could he hope to live as a gentleman without a proper address and a country seat?

  No, Roderick’s only hope of coming about lay with the family diamonds, and the diamonds lay in the vault at Sparrows Nest. They were entailed also, but a thief would not care, especially not a thief who now had the combination to Roderick’s uncle’s safe and a key to the side door. The stones had merely to be pried out of the old settings and sold. With that money, Roderick could pay off his most pressing debt-holders, the ones who were talking of pressing knives to his throat, and begin again. He might have to lower himself to a cit’s daughter, but, hell, Minerva had not turned out so badly.

  Unfortunately, Roderick could not be seen in the vicinity of Sparrows Nest. It would not take any Bow Street Runner—no, nor any nosy gentleman playing at detective either—to connect Lord Sparrowdale’s sudden appearance in the country with the diamonds’ disappearance.

  Harry the Hammer would travel to Sparrows Nest, on the promise of finally getting paid. The hulking henwit was just as liable to double-cross Roderick as he was to get the combination of the safe wrong, so Roderick would have to dispose of him before he got back to London to fence the diamonds. That would be killing two birds with one stone, three if Roderick could blame Minerva for stealing the heirlooms. A fine plan. One of his best.

  He sent a message.

  “You are sure about that, Jack?” Lord Lowell asked the groom from Roderick’s stables. “He sent a message to Harry the Hammer to meet him at the Spotted Dog tonight?” He knew the thieves’ den in the Rookery.

  “Of course, I am sure,” Jack Dawes told him. “I brung it myself.”

  “And you got to read it?” Lowell prodded, not believing their luck. Roderick and the paid assassin, together, and with advance notice.

  Jack scratched his head. For such a downy cove as this one was supposed to be, the swell in specs wasn’t using his upper works. “There weren’t no written message. Harry can’t read. But I told the bartender there, and he’ll get a message to Harry all right. Hammer’ll be looking for the blunt his lordship owes, so he’ll be at the Spotted Dog on time.”

  “So will we,” Lowell vowed. “But not you, lad. You’ve done your job. Go fetch your things from Sparrowdale’s place, for you will not be going back. It will be far too dangerous if Roderick hears that you cried rope on him, and Lady Sparrow would have my hide if something happened to you.”

  Jack nodded knowingly. “I thought that’s the way the wind blew.”

  “It does not blow, my boy. It howls. Now go. I have plans to make. When you return, Harkness will show you where to go.”

  The nurs
ery with the other boys? Jack was too old. The stables? He was the countess’s new ward. A guest chamber? The young groom would be horrified, and most were filled with Lieutenant Merrison’s friends anyway. In the end Harkness consulted with the dowager duchess, but she was too involved in her card game with the duke to worry about one more of dear Minerva’s foundlings.

  “You figure it out, Harkness,” she told him. “Whatever you decide will be fine. Tell Ochs I said so.”

  So Harkness found Jack Dawes a nice suite belowstairs, where his half brothers could visit him at will, but not so full of priceless furnishings the boy would be afraid to turn around.

  He gave Jack Ochs’s apartment.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Lowell kept Minerva from going to the Spotted Dog by the simple expedient of not telling her.

  He had let her handle that country clodpole Rourke on her own, against every one of his screaming instincts. She’d come out of the library white-faced and trembling, but with her spine stiff and her eyes dry. Best of all, she’d gone straight into Lowell’s arms, without a backward glance for her departing lover.

  This meeting with Roderick, however, was Lowell’s right. This was the job he was paid to do, and the onus he carried as a gentleman, to protect those weaker than himself. More so, it was the primitive rite of stag and stallion—no one threatened his mate with impunity. Lowell felt his blood pounding and his heart racing. Tonight was his. This would not be a mere part of the investigation; it would be the end of it. If he could not get Harry the Hammer to peach on Sparrowdale so they could put him away forever, he’d have to challenge the cur himself. Actually, he had to make Roderick challenge him, so he could choose pistols. Feckless Roderick was likely no dab hand at swords, either, but the glasses rendered Lowell hopeless at fencing. Either way, Roderick would be out of Minerva’s hair by daybreak, dead or delivered to a ship bound for New Zealand. She could not get on with her life, not with Roderick in it.

  Lowell’s best plan was to have a representative of the law overhear a conversation with criminal intent, which his lordship had no doubt was the focus of the evening’s meeting. Barring that, he and his men would follow Harry the Hammer and threaten him with hanging unless he confessed to Roderick’s part in the attempt on Lady Sparrow’s life. A challenge was the least appealing choice, not that Lowell was afraid for himself, or cared that duels were outlawed. Affairs of honor were for gentlemen. Roderick did not fit the bill.

  There was honor among thieves, it appeared. The owner of the Spotted Dog, one Charlie Lake, would not permit Lowell or his men to take his usual barkeep’s place. There was also avarice among thieves. For a hefty price, Charlie let them take booths in the tavern’s back room, occupy strategic positions in the taproom, and rent two of the three upstairs chambers.

  By nightfall, when Lady Sparrow was reading bedtime stories, Lowell had assembled six minions of the law, dressed in various shabby outfits that matched the low surroundings. The magistrate’s aide, a sheriff’s assistant, and four Bow Street Runners, minus their red vests, were all in position long before the appointed hour. While Minerva played at loo with the duchess and her cousin, Lowell spread his own cadre of informants and agents, who needed no disguises since they patronized just such establishments, throughout the smoky, sour-smelling bar. About the time she found her big, empty bed, he had a group of loud, inebriated soldiers seated at a table, out for a night of gaming, drinking, and wenching, singing lewd lyrics at the top of their lungs. He had a big-bosomed, redheaded bawd and her slick-haired pimp playing cards at another table, two doxies and their customers in the upstairs rooms. Just as Mina blew out her candle, a bearded old man with green-tinted spectacles slumped over his mug of ale at the table nearest the door. Drury Lane could not have put on a better-directed production.

  The regulars of the Spotted Dog found their haunt more crowded than usual, but more convivial, too, with the soldiers buying rounds of Blue Ruin for everyone and making outrageous bets at darts and dice. There would be easy pickings here tonight, the cardsharps, cutpurses, and whores decided. Of course, they had not read the script.

  The metaphorical curtains rose.

  Harry the Hammer filled the door and blocked the light from the oil lamp hanging there. Beef-size fists hung low at his sides, his mouth just hung open. The hulking man-of-all-dirty-work looked around, then jerked his head at Charlie, indicating the back room. Behind the sticky, scarred bar, Charlie hunched his shoulders. “Got a batch o’ redcoats ’ere t’night.”

  Harry grunted and kicked Light-fingered Louie out of his seat at the corner table, next to the card-playing couple. He grunted again when the barmaid brought him an ale. A man of few words—and few teeth, fewer thoughts, and fewest scruples—he was going to be a hard one to wring a confession out of.

  Then Roderick, the star of the drama, entered the scene. He was wearing a dark frieze coat over his fashionable ensemble, tall boots instead of his mincing heeled pumps, and a dark hat pulled low over his eyes. No disguise or makeup was going to hide the Sparrowdale nose.

  Right now that aquiline appendage was wrinkled in disgust. Since he had become earl, his senses had also been elevated. Now the stench of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and cigar smoke assailed Roderick’s fastidious nostrils, so he withdrew a rosewater-scented handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose. So much for trying to look like a denizen of the Rookery.

  The regular patrons of the thieves’ den would have marked him down as a gull, a flat, an easy target, except they knew Roderick, knew he used to be one of them, nearly, before he rose up in the world. They also knew how vicious he could be when crossed. If Roderick Sparr was hiring the likes of Harry the Hammer, someone ought to be saying his prayers. A few of the lesser crooks decided to take their evening revels elsewhere. No sense borrowing trouble.

  Roderick threaded his way through the occupied tables, snarling at the serving girl who stood in his way with her heavy tray. He took a seat opposite Harry the Hammer. The soldiers raised their voices louder.

  “Devil take it, why didn’t you go to the back room, as we arranged?” Roderick shouted over the din, keeping his hat low and his coat on, his hands in the pockets.

  “S’full,” Harry said, almost losing the mug of ale between his huge hands. “Where’s my blunt?”

  “You’ll get it. In time.”

  “Now. Or else.”

  “I don’t have it now, by Zeus. I do have a pistol aimed at your privates under the table, though, so shut your trap and listen.”

  That got Harry’s attention. His brow lowered and his jaw jutted out, but he listened. “It better be good.” He did not have to add the “or else” this time. They both knew what happened to coves what reneged on their deals, or held weapons on their one-time business partners.

  “I’ve got a proposition.”

  “A what?”

  “A plan, damn it,” Roderick yelled to be heard over the raucous soldiers. He looked around to make sure the oily pimp and his improbably red-haired woman were concentrating on their cards, then leaned forward. “A plan where we’ll both profit.”

  “ ’At’s what you said when you told me to pop the gentry mort,” Harry said, after a loud belch that almost matched the soldiers for loudness. “I ain’t seen sixpence, an’ I don’t move ’til I does.”

  The barmaid came by then to see if Roderick wanted anything. After she brought his glass, he grabbed her arm and shoved her into the next table. “Now get away. We’ve got business.”

  “Nah. I don’t do no business with pikers.” Harry made to rise, but the barrel of the pistol rose too, aimed at his gut where it hung over the table.

  Roderick said, “This is a sure bet. All you have to do is lift some sparklers from a safe. I’ll give you the combination.”

  “I ain’t no cracksman.”

  “There are three numbers to the combination, damn it. Even you can remember them.” Roderick tossed back a swig of Blue Ruin with his left hand, putting hi
s right hand, with the gun, back under the table. “Hell, I’ll write them down so you can match them to the numbers on the lock.”

  “I want my blunt first.”

  The singing stopped when an argument broke out among the soldiers. Some of the other patrons fled; the others started making book on the fight. The noise in the taproom grew louder yet.

  “Deuce take it.” Roderick did not hesitate to shout to be heard, since now everyone but the passed-out old relic near the door was concentrating on the scuffling officers. “It’s not as if you earned the money. You didn’t kill the woman, and you didn’t get me those records from the orphanage.”

  “But I tried, an’ that’s what you paid me for,” Harry bellowed back, slamming his fist on the table, shaking the empty glasses, mugs, and bottles there. “Only you din’t pay up, did you, you scurvy bastid?”

  “Enough!” Roderick yelled.

  At the same time the pomaded man at the nearby table threw down his cards and shouted, “Enough!”

  The brawl ended suddenly, the cheering and the wagering coming to a halt as all eyes swung to the pimp and his painted woman. The erstwhile prostitute pulled off her red wig and pulled a gun out of her padded bosom. The man was standing now, a pistol in one hand, a warrant in the other. “I have heard enough. I arrest you both in the name of the crown!”

  Ten more bar patrons dove for the door. Six fled out the back. The barkeep ducked behind his counter.

  Roderick headed for the front door, but the way was blocked with red-coated soldiers, stone sober, sabers and pistols in hand. Harry let out a roar and ran for the stairs, which was not as dumb a move as it looked. From the upper story he could reach the connecting buildings and escape over the rooftops. The only problem was, he had not counted on Lord Lowell’s men pouring out of the bedrooms there, weapons drawn. The Hammer never could count. He stopped halfway up the bare wooden stairs.