Lady Diana Glencove gave one quick glance towards the milliner’s, another at the window of Madame Germaine’s, then hastened off down the street in the direction opposite the one her papa’s carriage took.
Miss Pelliston had entered the dressmaker’s shop in no pleasant temper. In the last hour she had come to a most distressing—and maddening—realisation. The maddening part was that her distress was all her own doing.
The sight of Madame Germaine in a fit of hysterics being comforted by the odious Lord Browdie was not calculated to lift her spirits. Madame sat in a chair talking agitatedly as tears streamed down her cheeks. Lord Browdie was alternately patting her elbow and clumsily waving sal volatile under her chin.
“What are you doing to that poor woman?” Catherine shrieked, hastening to Madame’s side.
“Oh, Miss Pelliston, how glad I am you’ve come,” the modiste gasped. Impatiently she brushed the man away. “It’s Jemmy. One of those dreadful street boys came running in—not ten minutes ago, was it, My Lord? When you had come to pick up that cerise gown for—” She stopped abruptly, having recollected, evidently, that as far as young ladies were concerned, gentlemen’s mistresses did not exist.
“One of those boys came running in,” she repeated, turning back to Catherine, “and said Jemmy was taken up as a thief—a thief, Miss Pelliston!” Madame’s voice rose. “Which of course he is no such thing, and it is a terrible mistake, but what am I to do with Lady Ashfolly coming any minute and Miss Ventcoeur’s trousseau scarcely begun and that dreadful contessa quarrelling about the silk—”
“There, there,” Lord Browdie interrupted. “No need to trouble yourself. I’ll just pop down to the magistrate and see everything sorted out. Have the boy back before you can wipe your nose.”
Catherine stared at her ex-fiance in disbelief. Lord Browdie had never in his life rushed to the rescue of anything, except perhaps a bottle in danger of toppling.
“You?” she asked incredulously, having already abandoned all pretence of politeness.
“Certainly. Can’t have an innocent lad tossed in with a lot of thieves and cutthroats, and his poor mistress breaking her kind heart. Just tell me what he looks like and I’ll be off.”
Madame’s description was rather skimpy on physiology and elaborate in details of attire.
“Brown hair, brown eyes, and about so high?” Lord Browdie gestured at a level with his belly. He shook his head. “To tell the truth, that sounds like anybody. There’s bound to be dozens of boys—always is—and he could be any of ‘em.”
Catherine sighed in exasperation. The man was obviously incompetent. Why could it not have been Lord Rand in the shop? That was just like him, wasn’t it? Always there when he had no business to be and not there when you truly needed him. Which of course was monstrous unfair, but Miss Pelliston was not in an impartial frame of mind.
“I had better go with you,” she said. “Every minute we stand here giving you particulars is another minute wasted, and I will not have that child thrust among the lowest sort of criminals.”
Lord Browdie objected that the criminal court was no place for a young lady.
That was all Catherine needed to hear. If he would not take her, she snapped, she’d go alone. It was a fine Christian world, wasn’t it, when a poor helpless boy, little more than a baby, must be left to languish among London’s foulest vermin while one stood idly by on pretext of being a lady.
Madame protested that Miss Pelliston truly must not go. Madame would go herself. She would close up the shop. She hoped she was as much a Christian as anyone else.
Catherine, however, had already worked herself up into the fury of an avenging angel. She was prepared to tear apart the temples of justice with her own bare hands if need be. She swept out of the shop. Lord Browdie hurried after her.
“Afraid well have to take a hackney,” he said apologetically. “My carriage is in for repairs.”
Miss Pelliston did not care if they rode donkeys, so long as they went now.
***
“Well,” said Max, peering owlishly over his glass at the gentleman who’d just entered his study. “Well. There you are.”
Mr. Langdon took in the owlish expression and the empty champagne bottle standing on the desk. “You’re foxed,” he said.
“I’m celebrating,” the viscount announced, waving his glass airily. “Now we can celebrate together. I’m going to be married. Ring for Gidgeon, Jack. We want another bottle. ‘Fraid I couldn’t wait for you. Too impetuous, you know.”
“No, I think I’d better not. You’re going to have a devilish head by nightfall as it is, and I thought we were going to the theatre.”
Lord Rand hauled himself out of his seat and yanked on the rope. A minute later Mr. Gidgeon appeared, bearing a fresh bottle of champagne. In response to orders, he uncorked it with all due solemnity, though he cast a worried glance at his master. He shot another worried look at Mr. Langdon before exiting.
Mr. Langdon had no choice but to accept the glass thrust in his face. “All right, then,” he said. “Congratulations.”
“Don’t you want to know who the lucky bride is?”
“All London knows. Alvanley has lost a pony to Worcester on account of your haste. He gave you another week.”
“No matter. Somebody will propose to somebody in another week. You, maybe, Jack. Why don’t you offer for Cat?”
Mr. Langdon’s posture stiffened. “I presume you mean Miss Pelliston.”
“As you say—Miss Pestilence. I expect she’s well? Preachy as ever?” The viscount stared dolourously at his glass. “I ain’t seen her in seven days. Couldn’t, you know. Had to sit in what’s-her-name’s pocket. Minerva. Athena. One of ‘em. Diana,” he said gloomily.
“Lady Diana Glencove,” the friend reminded. “What on earth is the matter, Max?”
“Nothing. Couldn’t be happier. She’s just in my style. Tall, you know. I like to look a girl right in the eye. Small women give me a crick in the neck. And a headache,” he added, tapping his chest, having apparently misplaced his skull.
Mr. Langdon liked accuracy. He pointed out that his friend’s head was located several inches above his breastbone.
“Who cares?” Max scowled at the bottle for a moment before refilling his glass. ‘Is she?” he asked. “Is she preachy as ever?”
“Miss Pelliston is never preachy,” was the reproachful reply.
“Not with you, I’ll warrant. You never do everything wrong. You talk to her about books and never put her in a temper or tease her just to see her eyes flash and her chin go up and her face turn pink. And her hands.” He stared at his own. “Small white hands all balled up into fists. It’s completely ridiculous. Why, if she hit you, you’d think maybe a fly had landed on your face.”
Jack’s countenance grew very grave. “Max,” he began. Then he stepped back, startled, as the door flew open and a hideous little goblin burst into the room.
Chapter Nineteen
Upon closer examination, the goblin turned out to be Jemmy, sporting a bloody nose, a cut lip, and what promised to become an organ of such magnificent colour that “black eye” could scarcely do it justice. At present that eye was swollen shut.
“What the devil happened to you?” Lord Rand asked the apparition. “Trampled by a horse, were you?”
Jemmy burst into rapid speech, or what would have been speech to Mr. Blackwood. As far as Mr. Langdon was concerned, the boy might as well be speaking Chinese.
Lord Rand’s perceptions were at present not very quick. Even he needed several minutes to decipher any part of this oration.
“I see,” he said finally, as he refilled his glass. “A thief taker grabbed you. You bit him. He hit you. You kicked him where it matters and escaped. You have had an interesting adventure. Now go and wash yourself.”
Jemmy turned to Mr. Langdon. “Is he deaf? Din’t I jest say as she went off to the beak’s wif him in a hackney and him been hangin’ ‘round like that every Monday
and Wednesday. I was goin’ to tell her about it too today, only what happened—”
Here Lord Rand interrupted, mainly because the mention of “Monday and Wednesday” shot a beam of light into his clouded mind. Catherine went to the shop on those days to give Jemmy lessons. Therefore this hysterical speech had something to do with Catherine. Now that he’d identified “she,” he demanded to know who “he” was.
Given that Lord Rand was a trifle foxed and Jemmy incoherent, it was some time before the viscount began to grasp the problem.
“Are you telling me Miss Pelliston has gone off in a hackney with Lord Browdie and they’re headed for the magistrate’s? Why?”
“Because she thought ‘at trap took me there. Which he tried, like I said, only—”
“Only you got away. Well, when they get to the magistrate’s, they’ll discover their mistake, won’t they?”
“If ‘at where he was goin’,” Jemmy hinted darkly.
“Why do you suppose otherwise?” Mr. Langdon asked.
Jemmy gazed at him in exasperation. “Din’t I jest tell you? He’s been spyin’ on her and askin’ fings all week. Besides, ‘at big one ‘at grabbed me ain’t no trap, neither. Almost as big as you are,” he told Lord Rand, “only fatter and his nose all mashed in. I knows all on ‘em and he ain’t one.”
“Are you sure? He might be a new officer who mistook you for another boy.”
“Not him. He wouldn’t be nowhere’s near ‘em traps and horneys.”
This Lord Rand translated for Mr. Langdon as referring to thief takers and constables respectively.
“I seen him once at a gin shop when I went arter me mum. She wanted him to get her a job in ‘at house he worked at, but he wouldn’t on account he said she was too old and ugly an’ ‘d fright the customers.”
Lord Rand abruptly became sober and asked if Jemmy was referring to a brothel.
“A bawdy house she wanted. ‘Aft wot she allus said in the winter, as how she wanted a nice warm house and not out in the streets.”
“Good God!” Mr. Langdon exclaimed. “He speaks of a whorehouse as though it were the vicarage. How do these children survive?”
“The question at the moment may be Miss Pelliston’s survival, Jack. Save your aristocratic dismay for later.”
The viscount turned back to Jemmy. “Do you know the fellow’s name? Was it Jos, perhaps? Or Cholly?”
“Cholly,” was the prompt answer. “Jolly Cholly she called him. But I tole you about him. It’s ‘at other one got Miz Kaffy. ‘At tall one wif orange hair.”
Lord Rand stood up. “If that other one did not take her to the magistrate’s, our friend Cholly may be the only one who knows where they did go.”
He summoned Mr. Gidgeon and told the butler to send up a bucket of cold water to his chamber and have someone get them a couple of hackneys. Then the viscount strode from the room. Mr. Langdon and Jemmy followed.
Some minutes later, the two watched in amazement as Lord Rand, naked to the waist, bent over his washbasin and poured the cold water over his head. After towelling his head quickly and vigorously, he tore off the rest of his clothes. With Blackwood’s assistance, he changed into the attire of his pre-heir days. This business was speedily accomplished, the viscount having no patience with idiotic questions from his audience. When he was ready, he turned to Jack.
“Now,” he announced, “you’re going to rescue her.”
“I?” Jack asked, taken aback. “Well, of course I’ll help.”
“No, I’m helping. You’re going to rescue the damsel in distress—which she’d better be, or we’re going to look like a pair of bloody fools.”
Mr. Blackwood was dispatched to investigate the two likeliest magistrate’s offices—at Great Marlborough Street and at Bow Street. If Browdie and Miss Pelliston were at either of these places, the valet had only to inform them that Jemmy was safe, and to make sure the lady was brought home safely herself. Lord Rand and Mr. Langdon, meanwhile, would seek out Cholly.
Accordingly, Mr. Blackwood set off in one shabby hired coach and the two gentlemen, accompanied by Jemmy— who vociferously objected to being left behind—went off in the other.
The coach windows were so encrusted with soot and grime that Catherine could scarcely make out the passing scene. Her sense of direction being as deplorable now as when she first arrived in London, looking did her precious little good anyhow. Still, she did know that the nearest magistrate was at Great Marlborough Street. She pointed out to Lord Browdie that the carriage seemed to be heading the wrong way.
“Oh, he won’t be there. From what I heard, the crime happened in Bow Street territory, and you know how jealous those fellows are. Sounds like Townsend himself picked up the boy,” Lord Browdie added, carelessly dropping the name of a famous Bow Street officer.
Catherine was duly impressed, having heard the name before. She did not know that Mr. John Townsend—whose clients included the Bank of England and the Prince Regent—would never trouble himself with such small potatoes as an eight-year-old boy accused of pilfering a pocket watch.
“Not to mention,” the baron went on airily, “Conan’s a friend of mine, and since he’s the chief magistrate, we’ll have all this set straight quick enough.”
“Is that not the place?” Catherine asked a while later, as the coach turned onto Bow Street. “I’m sure Lord Andover pointed it out when he took me around town.”
“Oh, that’s the office all right. But they hold the prisoners a bit further on, at the Brown Bear.”
“Good heavens—isn’t that a public house?”
“It is. Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t a place for ladies?” Lord Browdie smiled contemptuously. “I expect you’ve changed your mind about your Christian duty?”
“You might have mentioned we were going to a public house. Obviously, I cannot enter such a place.”
“No, of course not. Only brothels, eh, Cathy?”
Miss Pelliston drew herself up. “You will have the courtesy, I hope,” she replied with cold dignity, “to refrain from raising that objectionable topic again. It does not become you as a gentleman to mention such matters in a lady’s presence.”
“Oh, don’t get on your high ropes, gal. I was only teasing. And you ain’t so missish as all that. Your papa talks plain enough in front of you.”
Lord Browdie was highly pleased with himself. He thought he was the cleverest fellow in creation. How easily she’d come! He needn’t have wasted so much time planning how to coax her. Not a word about needing her maid by, or demanding the dressmaker come along, or sending for her cousin. He was in such high spirits that he took no offence at her shrewish remarks. She could say what she liked now. She’d learn humility soon enough.
“‘Course I don’t believe it, m’ dear,” he went on unctuously. “Fact is, I was a trifle foxed that day. Wanted to apologise, but you’re devilish hard to get at lately. All them chaperones and maids, not to mention them beaux of yours. Heard Argoyne offered for you and Andover put him off. Holding out for Rand, were you? Well, it’s an ill wind blows nobody good. Might as well be a duchess if you can.”
Though this topic was even less agreeable than bawdy houses, Catherine contented herself with a disdainful sniff. She was immediately sorry. The interior of the coach smelled like something had died there days ago. She was not certain whether this fragrance emanated from the vehicle itself or from the gentleman sitting opposite, and was not eager to find out. All she wanted was to get out of this foul, jolting cage.
The hackney finally rattled to a stop. Lord Browdie alighted first and offered his hand to help her. She pretended not to notice and climbed down the steps unassisted. She began to draw a deep breath, then realised the air outside the coach was scarce fresher than that inside. She also noted that they were no longer in Bow Street, and with a vague stirring of alarm asked where they were.
“Just around the corner from the Brown Bear. Since I can’t take you into the place with me, I figured you could wait
here.”
He gestured towards the entrance of a building whose soot-encrusted windows were crammed with a haphazard display of articles that included gentlemen’s coats of the previous century, broken swords, rusty toiletries, crumpled bonnets, and other objects too moldering to be easily identified. Three balls hung over the door.
“This is a pawnshop,” said Catherine unhappily.
“Well, it ain’t a public house and it’s the best there is in the neighbourhood,” he lied. “Friend of a friend runs it. You’ll be safe as houses. Soon as I can get the boy moved to the office, I’ll come back and get you.”
Miss Pelliston struggled for a moment between Scylla and Charybdis. The hackney had already departed. She could not accompany Lord Browdie to a public house, and certainly not the Brown Bear. She dimly recalled Lord Andover’s remarks about the place being no better than a thieves’ den, filled with law officers as corrupt as their prisoners.
She could not wait on the street, either. The unsavoury block brought back memories of Granny Grendle’s and the foul alleys Lord Rand had carried her through on the way to his lodgings.
She gazed at the pawnshop door and swallowed. “I see there is no choice. I will have to make the best of it. But you do promise to hurry?”
“Of course I’ll hurry. Now, now, you’ll be fine,” he went on in those falsely avuncular tones that made her skin crawl. “Mrs. Hodder has a quiet back room where you can sit and have a cup of tea while you wait. I know it don’t look like much, but she’s a good old gal. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. You’d be surprised how many of the gentry come here— ladies too—like when they had a bad night at the faro tables and don’t like to tell their husbands.”
So saying, Lord Browdie yanked open a sticky door. Catherine reluctantly entered.
An enormously fat woman sat by a counter, knitting. She gave a curt nod as they entered. Lord Browdie spoke briefly with her in a low voice. She shrugged and made a vague gesture towards the rear of the shop.