Читать книгу In Debt To The Earl - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Lucy listened to the steady steps and accompanying creaks as he crossed the landing. Heard him descend the stairs and heaved a sigh of what ought to have been relief, and felt frighteningly like regret. Shivering, she lifted the hand he had held to her breast. The strong pressure of his fingers, the enveloping warmth, lingered. He had held her hand as if he cared about her.

He held your hand for a moment in farewell. It meant nothing. Less than nothing to him.

He was gone. So why did the bright edge of tension still score her? Why did it matter that he had held her hand? Worse, why did she wish he was still holding it? She’d been wrong about his motive for waiting; he wanted Papa, not her. Lord! He’d been insulted at the very suggestion. And yet he’d held her hand in that odd way. Tenderly. As if he hadn’t wanted to let her go.

He was kind, that was all. Buying fuel, lighting the fire.

Why? Papa owes him a small fortune.

Suspicious cynicism was not one of her more attractive traits, but she couldn’t afford naivety. In the last four years she’d learned to be wary of seeming kindness. People, especially men, wanted something in return. She’d learnt very quickly what men usually wanted from a girl—­something that meant less than nothing to them, but would spell disaster for her. Papa had also realised that very quickly. It was why he never brought anyone back to their lodgings if he could avoid it. Just the young man who had followed him a couple of months ago and now Cambourne.

He ought to be your enemy. Remember what Grandpapa was used to say? Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

She wasn’t sure about the origin of the quote, but thought it might be Homer. Someone had been suspicious about the Trojan Horse, as well they might. She had not been permitted to read Homer, of course. Grandmama had frowned on young girls reading anything more inflammatory than a book of sermons and Homer definitely counted as inflammatory.

The roof creaked loudly and she hurried to the window. She pushed the casement open and stepped back. A moment later Fitch swung through the window, to land catlike and dripping.

‘What the hell did his nibs want?’ he demanded. ‘Bit of a dolly roll?’

‘No,’ Lucy said. At least she hoped not if Fitch meant what she thought he meant.

Fitch snorted. ‘Right.’

‘He wants my father. I told you.’

The boy gave a shrug as he dripped his way over to the fire. ‘Just bet he does. But that ain’t to say he can’t chase a bit of tail on the side.’ He held out his hands to the blaze. ‘Nice. You buy fuel with the extra shilling?’

‘He bought it,’ Lucy admitted.

Fitch’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did he now? An’ you reckon—’

The stairs groaned under a heavy, uneven tread. The two of them froze.

‘Mrs Beattie,’ Lucy whispered, panic clutching at her insides.

Fitch made for the window, but voices floated up from the yard. ‘Damn!’ he muttered, hesitating.

‘The bedroom!’ Lucy said. ‘She’s no reason to go in there!’

Silent as a hunting cat, Fitch disappeared into the other room.

Lucy unbolted the door, then sat at the table and strove to appear unconcerned as the steps waddled over the complaining landing. The door rattled under the less-than-genteel knock.

‘Come in!’ She put on her best welcoming voice.

Mrs Beattie came in, eyes darting about. ‘Gorn, is he?’

‘Yes.’ As if you didn’t know! Very little got past the eagle-eyed landlady. ‘And I would prefer it if you did not permit strangers to wait for me.’

Mrs Beattie shrugged. ‘Called yestiddy, didn’ he? An’ this afternoon, lookin’ for yeh.’ She scowled. ‘Not but what I didn’ know he’d slipped back this evenin’. Not till he come lookin’ for coal.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Getting past Mrs Beattie unnoticed was nigh on impossible, but given the woman’s annoyance, apparently Cambourne had done it. ‘Can I help you with something?’

Mrs Beattie scowled. ‘In a manner of speakin’. You an’ me need to have a little talk about money, missy.’

Lucy’s stomach lurched. ‘The rent is due Friday. And I understood the coal was paid for.’

Mrs Beattie’s lips pursed, and Lucy could almost see her wondering if it was worth trying to gouge a little extra on the coal.

‘It was,’ the woman admitted and Lucy let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. ‘It’s the extra rent you an’ me got to talk about.’

‘Extra rent?’ The words felt thick on her tongue.

The landlady wiped greasy hands on her apron. ‘Aye. Yeh can bring a trick up here, long as yer quiet. But usin’ the rooms fer business, that’s extra rent.’

* * *

James strode back along the Strand towards Whitehall. He was going to be late to supper if he didn’t hurry. He kept an eye open for trouble and a hand on the loaded pistol in his coat pocket.

The streets aren’t safe around here at night.

Nor during the day for that matter. Not for a woman alone. And yet she traversed them daily. Unbidden, the image of her in boys’ clothes, slender legs encased in breeches, came to him. The threadbare, poorly fitting clothes had hidden everything. Perhaps he’d only known because he’d recognised the sound of her violin. Then he’d looked properly, seen the delicate line of her jaw, watched the slender hands coaxing magic from the violin. No one else had spotted the graceful girl hiding in the shabby suit. Even in the tavern. Ill-lit and crowded, she must have passed unnoticed. But it bothered him.

She ought not to be performing in the street.

So is she supposed to starve in ladylike silence to suit your notions of respectability?

Her father is damn well supposed to look after her! Not leave her earning pennies playing the fiddle.

And there was the rub. Her father. The man who owed him a thousand pounds. Who’d set the mysterious Kilby’s enforcers after Nick and left Lucy to shift for herself. The man he’d sworn to ruin.

‘Good God! What brings you down this way, Cambourne?’

James stared at the gentleman descending from a hackney cab. ‘Montgomery.’ He acknowledged the viscount with a cool nod. ‘A business matter.’ He didn’t bother to ask what brought Montgomery this way. The man had an unsavoury reputation for preferring the brothels down here. Brothels that were fussy neither about the age nor willingness of their girls. Or, it was whispered, how the customers treated them.

‘Business? Down here?’ Montgomery looked amused and slightly disdainful. ‘My man of affairs deals with anything to do with the City.’

The cab driver coughed. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, milor’—’

Montgomery turned, scowling. ‘Yes, yes, my good man. Really, such a fuss over a paltry shilling or two.’

The jarvey said nothing, but James saw the anxiety underlying the scorn in his eyes.

‘The man has his living to earn, Montgomery.’

Montgomery sighed, produced the fare from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Really, Cambourne. Next you’ll be telling me that you pay your tailor when he duns you!’

‘Not exactly,’ James said. ‘He doesn’t dun me, because I pay when he bills me.’

Montgomery looked pained. ‘How very respectable. Well, I’m off to partake in the joys of the flesh. I’ve a nice, fresh game pullet reserved. Care to come along? I’m sure we can find something for you.’ The smirk suggested he knew what the response would be.

James didn’t bother to hide his distaste. ‘Thank you. No.’ He glanced at the jarvey, who was easing his horse away from the curb. ‘I’m going back to Mayfair. Do you want the fare?’

The horse stopped at once. ‘Glad of it, guv,’ said the jarvey.

‘Thank you. I won’t hold you up.’ He swung open the door and stepped into the cab.

Montgomery shuddered. ‘Really, Cambourne! You don’t thank a jarvey.’

James leaned on the open window. ‘Is that so? I find thanking people ensures better, more willing service. You might try it with your game pullet.’

Montgomery’s laughter was unpleasant. ‘Willing? I’m not courting an heiress, man. This one’s bought and paid for. Willing doesn’t—’

The rest was lost in the rattle of hooves and wheels as the cab set off. James sat back, frowning. Montgomery always left a nasty taste in his mouth.

A moment later the trap opened. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, guv. Old horse took off afore you’d finished your chat.’

‘An intelligent beast,’ said James drily. ‘Tell him to take me to Berkeley Street.’

‘Righto, guv.’

The trap shut and James leaned back on the squabs. Damn it. If he ruined Hensleigh completely, then Lucy would be on her own. He let out a breath. Perhaps he didn’t have to break Hensleigh, or Hammersley, or whatever his name was, entirely. He saw again Nick’s battered face and swore.

* * *

Lucy had no idea what trick meant in this context, but the phrase ‘place of business’ gave her the clue.

‘Lor— Look, Mrs Beattie, you’re mistaken.’ Instinct warned her against revealing too much about her visitor. ‘The gentleman is a friend of my father’s.’ That was a stretch, but it would do. ‘He was looking for him.’

Mrs Beattie gave a snort. ‘Listen, dearie, when you an’ your pa moved in I was all set to charge ’im for business, but he insisted you was his daughter, an’ he weren’t selling tricks.’ She sniffed. ‘Can’t say as I really believed ’im at the start, but I gave ’im the lower rate on trial as you might say. But I warned ’im.’

‘Warned him?’ Lucy scowled at the woman. ‘About what?’

Mrs Beattie crossed her arms over her ample bosom. ‘Warned ’im if I so much as smelled a suspicion of a trick up here, he’d be paying more.’

Speechless, Lucy stared at her and she went on. ‘Now, I dunno if he didn’ tell you, or if you just thought you could sneak yer fancy man past me, but—’

‘He is not my fancy man!’ Lucy’s face flamed.

The snort this time was of equine proportions. ‘Right. An’ I’m the Queen o’ France,’ Mrs Beattie said, with a fine disregard for the fact that the last French queen’s head had fallen under the guillotine some years previously. ‘It ain’t no never mind o’ mine, long as you pay up. Mind you...’ She looked around. ‘Flash gent like that, you play ’im right, you oughta get a nice little house to yerself.’

Outrage bubbled up. ‘Mrs Beattie! I am not—’ Not what? Not playing tricks? ‘Not selling myself!’

Mrs Beattie scowled. ‘Well, yer a fool, givin’ it to him for love. Anyone can see ’e’s well-breeched.’

‘He came to see if my father had returned!’ Lucy insisted.

‘That don’t take half an hour, nor it don’t need no coal,’ said the lady with unarguable logic. ‘Three shillings a week extra, missy.’

‘And does that include coal for business purposes?’ Lucy demanded.

The landlady scowled. ‘S’pose I could throw in some coal,’ she said grudgingly. ‘When you pays the extra.’

Lucy blinked. Clearly sarcasm was wasted on Mrs Beattie. Still, if she was going to be bilked for extra rent this week, she might as well get something out of it. Hopefully, once Mrs Beattie realised her mistake, and that Lord Cambourne was not continuing to call, the rent would drop back.

Mrs Beattie, evidently concluding that she’d completed her business, stumped to the door. Reaching it, she looked back. ‘Three shillings extra. Payable Friday.’ She went out, closing the door behind her with a triumphant bang.

Lucy sank on to the chair, staring at the closed door as fear choked her. She barely had enough money left to buy food. Now it was Tuesday night. She had no idea if she could earn three shillings for extra rent, as well as eat, between now and Friday. If only she’d stayed out longer, so that Cambourne had given up and gone away without alerting Mrs Beattie. Or even if she hadn’t indulged in dinner at the tavern, so she had more money towards the rent, or—

‘Well, now there’s the devil to pay.’ Fitch came out of the bedroom and cast a disgusted glance at the door. He stalked to the fire and held out his hands to the blaze. ‘You sure his nibs don’t want a roll?’

‘A—’ Lucy swallowed. ‘A roll. Is that like a trick?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. You has a quick roll, or turns a trick.’

Lucy stowed the information away. More knowledge unsuitable for the drawing room. But she wasn’t in a safe, protected drawing room.

‘He’s just looking for my father,’ she said. If he’d wanted anything else, there had been nothing to stop him taking it. Although there had been nothing to stop her grandmother’s cat killing a mouse instantly, either.

‘Might get some rhino from him,’ Fitch suggested. ‘Since you reckoned as he owes your pa money, he could pay you some on account like.’

Lucy shook her head, flushing at the thought of begging from his lordship. ‘No.’ Anger rose again. ‘He lied about that. Papa owes him money. And—’ she clenched her fists ‘—he lied about his name. He isn’t Mr Remington at all. He’s Lord Cambourne—an earl.’

‘Ah.’ Fitch scowled. ‘Makes more sense, him comin’ back, then.’ He didn’t push it, apparently accepting that a fellow already owed money was an unlikely touch.

‘Well, that leaves yer fiddle,’ he said. ‘Did well enough today.’ He hesitated. ‘Lu, you know I’d never flam a mark while you’re playing the fiddle, don’t you?’

She blinked. ‘Of course I know that. You promised. Why do you ask?’

He shrugged. ‘No reason. Just thinkin’. S’long’s you know.’

Memory tugged. ‘Did you hear what Lord Cambourne said?’

He scowled. ‘Heard that. He said it loud enough.’

She reached out and touched his hand. ‘I told him you’d promised. That you wouldn’t do that. It will be all right, Fitch. As long as I can earn enough for this week, once she sees Lord Cambourne isn’t calling all the time, she’ll realise I’m not his...his—’

‘Dollymop,’ Fitch supplied. He looked sceptical. ‘Yeah. Drop the rent right back, she will. Being as how she’s so generous an’ all. Look, you want me to go away? The old bitch realises I’m sleeping here, it’ll be another three shillings.’

‘No. Don’t go.’ Knowing that she wasn’t completely alone at night allowed her to sleep better. And she knew that he was off the streets, safe for a few hours.

He cocked his head. ‘You sure?’

‘Yes. Are you still hungry?’ She changed the subject. ‘Have some bread and cheese.’

He cut bread and a chunk of cheese to go with it, passed them to her, then cut some for himself. Munching, he crouched down by the fire. ‘Least you flammed some coal outta her for the extra rent,’ he said through a mouthful. ‘With that an’ what his nibs bought you’ll starve all nice an’ cosy.’

She grimaced. A thought occurred to her. ‘Fitch?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you know someone called Kilby?’

He went utterly still, wariness in every line. ‘Where’d you hear that name?’

‘Lord Cambourne, and I think Papa knows him.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Don’t go askin’ no questions about Kilby,’ Fitch said at last. ‘Better if you’d never heard the name. Safer.’ He swallowed his mouthful. ‘His nibs asks again, tell him you don’t know nothin’. Safer,’ he repeated.

* * *

Kilby was still at his desk when Jig reported to him, but Jig noted with relief that, far from drumming his fingers, the man was eating.

‘Jig. What have you got for me?’ Kilby bit into a chicken leg.

‘Still no sign of Hensleigh, guv,’ Jig said, trying not to stare at the rest of the chicken.’ His stomach rumbled.

‘Girl might be covering for him.’ Kilby spoke through a mouthful.

Jig shook his head. ‘Don’ reckon, guv. Sounds like she ain’t got no money an’ the gent come a-calling tonight.’

‘Did he now?’ Kilby set the half-eaten chicken leg back on the platter. ‘Anything on him?’

Jig swallowed spit. God, that chicken smelled good. ‘Got a name—Remington.’

Kilby’s hand froze halfway to the tankard. ‘Remington?’

‘Yeah. Struck me, too,’ Jig said. ‘But it ain’t him, guv.’ Like he wouldn’t reckernise a bloke he’d helped beat bloody? Weren’t blind, or dicked in the nob, was he?

‘No. Of course not.’ Kilby took a swallow from the tankard. ‘You can describe the fellow?’

Jig nodded. ‘Tall. Taller’n me. Well set-up cove. Moves like ’e’d strip to advantage. Real easy on ’is feet. Dark hair. Dresses like quality. Not real bang-up new, but quality.’

‘Probably tupping the girl.’ Kilby sighed. ‘Pity.’

‘Woman owns the lodgings reckons that’s the way of it,’ Jig said. ‘Been flapping her mouth all over. But I ain’t so sure.’

Kilby stared over the rim of the tankard. ‘And what engenders this extraordinary optimism, Jig?’

Allowing that he didn’t understand any of them breakteeth words, Jig got the idea. ‘Well, you wanted me to find out why young Fitch’s earnings was down.’

‘Yes?’

‘So, I seen ’im hangin’ round a lad playin’ the fiddle. Right crowd there was.’

‘So Fitch should have had easy pickings.’ Kilby’s fingers drummed in such a way that Jig reckoned Fitch had better watch out for himself. ‘The little rat’s holding out on me, is that it?’

‘Not ezackly, guv.’ Jig went on. ‘Far’s I could tell, he weren’t picking pockets at all.’

‘What?’

‘No. Just makin’ sure no one else helped theirselves to the takin’s.’

Kilby sat back. ‘Maybe we’d better have a word to this lad with a fiddle.’

‘Well, now,’ Jig said, ‘funny you should say that, guv. I ain’t sure it is a lad—’

‘What? You said—’

‘Reckon it’s the girl. Hensleigh’s girl, playin’ for pennies. And—’

‘And why would she be doing that—’ Kilby said, looking interested.

‘If she’s givin’ rides to a toff,’ Jig finished. ‘It don’t make sense.’

‘No,’ Kilby said. ‘It doesn’t. Get word to Fitch that I want his takings up. Nothing else. No word of this. And he’s to be given a couple of night jobs.’

‘An’ the toff? You want me to find out more?’

‘No. Keep an eye on the girl.’ Kilby’s eyes bored into him. ‘I don’t have to tell you that she is to remain untouched, do I?’

* * *

The party at Aldwick House was in full swing when James arrived. He ran into his host in the first of the open salons.

‘Ah, Cambourne.’ Viscount Aldwick held out his hand to James. ‘Didn’t see you in the reception line.’

James shook his hand. ‘My apologies to you and Lady Aldwick, sir. I’m afraid I was rather late.’

Aldwick smiled briefly. ‘Never mind. As it is, I wonder if you might just slip along to my library. It’s not generally open tonight, but someone there would like a word with you.’

* * *

The library was lit only by the fire in the hearth and a single branch of candles on the chimneypiece. Shadows filled the room.

‘Cambourne?’ A dark figure rose from a wing chair by the fire.

James knew the quiet, deep voice. ‘Hunt? What the devil are you doing here?’ He moved towards the fire. ‘How—?’ He grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no point asking how you are—I saw the notice in the papers about your brother’s death. If there’s anything I can do...?’

Close enough now to make out Huntercombe’s features, he could see lines carved in the older man’s face that hadn’t been there six months ago. Deep lines and a shadow in the eyes that had nothing to do with the darkness of the room.

Huntercombe smiled briefly. ‘Kind of you. I wondered if I might have a word?’ He glanced around the library. ‘I knew you’d be here tonight, so I sent a note around to Aldwick this afternoon and he told me to make myself at home. I’m not actually invited this evening, at least, I suppose I would have been, but—’ He shrugged.

James nodded. A man deep in mourning for his half-brother didn’t normally attend balls. The Marquess of Huntercombe was only in town to attend the House of Lords. ‘You didn’t have to come out like this. I would have come to you.’

Huntercombe reached for a decanter on the wine table beside him. ‘I know. But I thought it better to be a trifle circumspect. Brandy?’

James took the chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Thank you. Circumspect about what?’

‘I heard young Remington had a little trouble recently. With a certain Captain Hensleigh.’

James leaned forward. ‘How do you know about that?’

Huntercombe’s eyes closed. ‘Don’t worry—it’s gone no further. Your cousin’s man and my valet happen to be brothers. Is the boy really all right?’

‘Bruised, battered. He appears to have learnt his lesson, thank God,’ said James.

Huntercombe’s eyes opened. ‘Then he was luckier than Gerald.’ He took a swallow of brandy. ‘If, as my valet seems to think, you’re hunting Hensleigh, or Hammersley, as Gerald knew him, I have some information for you.’

* * *

An hour later, James was still staring into the dancing fire, his mouth set in grim lines. Huntercombe had left thirty minutes ago, but he had no inclination to join the silken, perfumed crowd in the main rooms. Instead he poured another brandy and breathed the heady fumes before sipping.

Huntercombe had said Nick had been lucky. James’s fingers tightened on the heavy glass. That was an understatement. There was no longer any question of merely ruining Hensleigh—he was going to use him to get to this mysterious Kilby. And then he’d destroy both of them.

And Lucy? He hardened his resolve. He’d keep her safe, but Huntercombe’s story changed the game. Pursuing Lucy gave him the best of all reasons for continuing to call at those shabby lodgings...as long as everyone thought he was after the girl no one would question his visits.

But beyond that, he needed advice from someone who knew the shadowy world he had stumbled into.

* * *

Lucy dreamed. Dark grey eyes smiled at her with inexpressible tenderness. Strong arms held her secure against all threat of danger. Even held her warm and safe from the rain. She nestled a little deeper into the warmth and safety...until the drumming of the rain penetrated.

Literally.

Lucy woke to an icy trickle of water leaking right over her head. With a muttered curse she scrambled out of bed, dragging the thin, lumpy mattress and blankets out of the way.

She stared up at the sagging matchboard ceiling. God only knew where the water was getting in and it didn’t matter. What mattered was convincing Mrs Beattie to get it mended.

* * *

Five minutes later she was dressed, had the bed shoved against the wall and a bucket under the leak. Catching her cloak off the back of the door, she wrapped it around her and went into the other room. The curtain that hid her usual sleeping place was open, the pallet and blanket empty. The closed window suggested that Fitch had taken his leave by the stairs well before first light to avoid Mrs Beattie.

Lucy’s heart sank a little, but she pushed the melancholy aside and cut bread and cheese. The fire had gone out long ago. Briefly she considered relighting it, but dismissed the idea even though there was plenty of coal left. She needed to save it for when she was cold, not waste it on luxuries like toasted cheese. Munching, Lucy looked out of the window. Grey rain swept the yard, battering relentlessly at sagging walls and boarded-up windows.

Rain before seven, fine by eleven...

Armed with this unwarranted optimism, Lucy went downstairs to do battle with Mrs Beattie.

* * *

Mrs Beattie puffed up the stairs, grumbling that she’d see for herself. Confronted with the leak, she glared first at it and then at Lucy, as if wanting to blame her for it.

‘’Tain’t my fault,’ she said at last. ‘Dessay it’ll ease off when it ain’t raining.’

Lucy blinked. ‘I’m sure it will.’

Mrs Beattie squinted at the leak again. ‘Don’t reckon as it needs mending,’ she said at last. ‘’Course, you want to put a bucket there, you can.’

‘Of course, Mrs Beattie,’ said Lucy meekly. ‘Would you like me to tell Mr Wynn downstairs why his ceiling is leaking, or will you?’

Mrs Beattie scowled. Mr Wynn had lived in the rooms below for years. He paid his rent on time and extra to eat his dinner in the kitchen. Mrs Beattie would not want to offend him. ‘S’pose I can speak to someone about it. ’Tain’t my fault,’ she repeated, and stumped off, banging the door behind her.

* * *

When the bells of St Clement’s struck eleven the world still wept and a bitter wind whipped through every crack it could find and drove the rain ruthlessly against the window. There was no point going out, she told herself. She’d be lucky to earn a penny. No one would want to pause to listen to a fiddle in this weather, even if she could find a sheltered spot where her violin and bow would not be ruined.

Three shillings...