Anne Barbour (14 page)

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“I’m tellin’ ye, sojer, ‘e ain’t ‘ere.” Jack Nail inhaled a lengthy draft from the tankard in front of him. “It’s a ruddy shame, but there it is. ‘E left town t’be with the old gaffer—the duke that is, when the old man took sick. I can’t watch a cove ‘oo ain’t around t’be watched.”

“Damn!” exclaimed Justin explosively, causing some of the other patrons of the Pig and Whistle to eye him curiously. “I suppose I should have known my father would hole up at the Court when he became ill, and, of course, St. John would see it as his duty to minister to him. Little Sinjie would never fail in his duty,” he added bitterly. “What the devil am I to do now?”

“Well,” said Jack cautiously. “I did put out some feelers, as ye might say. It don’t appear ‘e’s been ‘avin’ any queer dealings with anybody of me acquaintance. And I do have a pretty wide circle of acquaintances,” he added with satisfaction.

“That you do,” replied Justin appreciatively. “Still, you can’t accomplish much here in town. Tell me,” he continued specula-lively, “how would you like to spend some time in the country?”

“Eh?” Jack thunked his tankard on the table.

“Yes, I do believe a week or so of fresh air and sunshine, with a touch of birdsong, would do you no end of good, Jack.”

“Birdsong!” exclaimed Jack in accents of extreme disgust. “I think your attic’s gone to let, sojer.”

It took another fifteen minutes of cajolery and judicious bribery to convince Jack of the benefits of a rural sojourn, but at last he agreed to take up lodgings in the inn in Barkway, close to the Duke of Sheffield’s seat.

“It will be better, of course, if you can obtain a position at the Court. Perhaps a slight indisposition will befall one of the stable grooms, leaving a temporary position open for his cousin from London. Or some such.”

“Oh, orright,” said Jack grudgingly. “I’ll see what I kin do.”

The next stop on the evening’s itinerary was the lodgings of Jerry Church in Gardiners Lane, not far from Whitehall. Jerry lived above a baker’s shop, and a swift scrutiny of the upstairs windows indicated that his quarry was not at home. With a sigh, Justin settled into the doorway of the shop, now closed for the evening, to wait. Less than twenty minutes later, he was rewarded by the sight of a rotund figure ambling toward him. The gentleman, whom the streetlights revealed to be in his mid-twenties, stopped at a doorway just to the left of the shop and, fumbling for a moment in his waistcoat pocket, produced a key.

Before he could unlock the door, however, Justin approached him.

“ ‘Evening, Jerry,” he murmured as the young man turned a startled face to him.

“What d’you want?” Jerry Church attempted to jerk away from the hand Justin had laid on his arm. “Leave me alone, or I’ll call the Watch.” He drew in a quick breath as Justin turned his face to the light. “Good God! Do—do I know you?”

“Of course you do. Jerry,” replied Justin, maintaining his hold on the younger man’s arm. “Yes, it is I, but let us not make a present of my name to the street. Shall we go up?”

“No!” Jerry’s face shone a sickly white under the glow of the lamp. “My God, you’re dead—aren’t you?”

“Actually, no,” replied Justin in some amusement. “However, as it happens, my continued existence is the very subject I wish to discuss with you.” His grip tightened. “Now, let us repair to your domicile before the Watch does indeed come to investigate.”

Jerry opened his mouth to protest, but, grimacing a little as Justin twisted his arm ever so slightly, unlocked the door and led the way up to his rooms on the top floor of the building.

His first act on entering his sitting room was to hasten to a cupboard, where he withdrew a bottle and a glass. Pouring from the one into the other, he imbibed it in a single gulp. He poured another, then, with a glance at Justin, grudgingly filled a second glass. Bringing both to a small table set before a worn settee, he gestured to Justin to be seated.

“What the devil are you doing here?” was his first question, followed by a rain of others. “Why aren’t you—that is, what happened? Do you know how much trouble you’re in? How did you get back to England? My God—everyone believes you to be a traitor! What—?”

“Slowly, Jerry. I am here because I need your help. I will explain all.”

And, with frequent interruptions from Jerry, he did so, omitting certain pertinent facts.

“Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch!” exclaimed Jerry, at the conclusion of the monologue. “What d’you mean, you need my help?” he asked, grasping at what to him was the salient point of Justin’s monologue.

“First of all, I want your promise that you will not tell anyone you’ve seen me.”

Jerry was silent for a moment.

“Well, I won’t, then,” he said at last. “I never really believed you’d help a French general escape, and if someone’s trying to frame you—I know well enough how that can ruin a man. But, Justin, there’s nothing I can do for you. Those bastards in the front offices will sit on their fat arses and see you hang. You know they will, and I can’t—

“That’s precisely my point. Jerry. If I show my face in public, it’s going to end up with a bullet in it, or a noose ‘round the bottom end. All this is limiting my scope of activity pretty severely. I need some eyes and ears in the Horse Guards.”

“But, I can’t—” repeated Jerry weakly.

“I’m not asking you to risk anything—much. And, frankly, my boy, you owe me.” Justin spoke softly, but there was an edge of meaning in his tone that obviously did not escape his host. Jerry bristled.

“I know that. I know that after that—that hatchet job somebody arranged for me over in Procurement, I very nearly paid the price for someone else’s dirty work. If it hadn’t been for you—well, believe me, I know what I owe you.”

“Very well. Now, here’s what I want. First of all, someone had to provide a uniform and false identification for Rivenchy so he could cross our lines. You know the people we generally use for expert forgery. See if you can find out if any of them were hired for this particular job. Second, I want all the information you can dig out on a Captain Roger Maltby of the Light Bobs. His associates in civilian life, his debts if any—you know the sort of thing. And finally, just keep your eyes and ears open for any stray scraps of rumor you think might be helpful. Please, Jerry,” he added after a moment, forcing an expression of candid appeal to his gaze. “I know I’m asking a lot of you, but—I’ve always considered you a friend, and, frankly, I have nowhere else to turn.”

Jerry stared speculatively at him for a long moment before he finally erupted into a harsh chuckle. “By God, it would give me a good laugh to see those bastards made fools of. I’ll tell you what,” he added easily, “I’ve always liked you, Justin. You’re not like the others, ready to grind a heel in somebody’s face for his own ends. On the other hand,” he asked curiously, “what made you think I wouldn’t run straight for the nearest constable?”

“Ah.” Justin smiled genially. “As it happens, I think better of you, Jerry. In addition, I do have one or two good friends left who know I have come to you and would take it sorely amiss if I were to come to harm at your hands.”

Jerry gulped convulsively. “I’ll see what I can do for you. Um, where can I reach you?”

“You needn’t concern yourself, my friend. I’ll be in touch.”

With that, Justin swallowed the last of his drink and rose to his feet. With a bow and a wave of his hand, he made his farewell and swiftly exited the room.

His final stop of the evening was at the home of Charles Rutledge. Charles’s greeting to Justin was explosive.

“Where the devil have you been, you unconscionable whelp? I’d just about given you up for dead.”

“Why, I’ve been adventuring, good sir. You will be surprised to know that I am suffering from amnesia.”

“Justin—” began Charles warningly.

Justin treated him to an expurgated version of his recent activities.

“And she thinks you don’t know your own name?” asked Charles, unconsciously mimicking Robbie’s reaction a few nights earlier. “Who is she?”

“I don’t think I shall tell you that, Charles, nor where she lives—at least, not yet. Whoever is so interested in helping me shuffle off this mortal coil, no doubt, knows I’ve likely been in touch with you. I don’t want that person leaning on you for information.”

Charles grunted. “Fine. But what’s your next step?”

Justin hesitated. He had told Charles of his suspicions of St. John, but found himself loath to discuss this particular aspect of his situation.

“I am thinking of going to see my brother,” he said at last.

Charles’s mouth pulled down. “I think that’s not one of your brighter ideas.”

“Why? Do you think he’ll shoot me down in the drawing room at Sheffield Court?”

“Not if he’s got any sense, but that isn’t to say he couldn’t make things difficult for you.”

“As in turning me over to the authorities?”

“Well, yes.”

Justin laughed shortly. “He could certainly try. But I can’t see him doing that. What would people say? You must know that propriety is the god of St. John’s idolatry and for the heir to the Duke of Sheffield to turn in his own brother to the tipstaffs—well, it simply isn’t done, you know.”

Charles did not smile. “Justin, listen to me. If St. John is truly responsible for your, er, predicament, you’re right. Turning you in is the most unlikely course of action for him. But that isn’t to say he might make a try—possibly not the first—to have you eliminated. And then there’s your father. He is already laid down in his bed over this business. He thinks you are dead, and he’s trying to deal with that. Have you considered that resurrecting yourself only to plunge into a trial for treason may very well do him in?”

Justin’s only reaction to this speech was a hardening of his expression. “You don’t seriously think the subject of my father’s health is of the slightest consequence to me?”

“But he is your father!”

“A fact for which he never ceased to express his regret—and one I’ve tried to forget. However,” he continued, a smile curving his lips at Charles’s concern. “I’ll agree to wait until I have more information to go on.” He stood. “And now I must return to my little haven before the cock crows and I turn into a pumpkin.”

Charles, took, rose from his chair. “Justin, you must tell me how I can reach you. If Scovell—”

“I’ll be in touch, old friend.”

With that, Justin departed through the French doors of Charles’s study, leaving his friend to stare after him in angry frustration.

Chapter Nine

“Dear God in heaven,” groaned Justin. He limped toward Caliban, tethered in the shade of an ash tree near the edge of the road. He waved wearily at the rest of the workers laying down scythes and rakes and the short badging hooks used to gather the stalks into sheaves. Calling their farewells, they began to make their way home from the fields.

Catherine, preparing to mount her own little mare, turned a questioning stare on him.

Justin patted Caliban’s misshapen nose. “I’ve been at this for a week now. Why do I still feel at the end of every day as though I’ve been trampled on by a water buffalo?”

“Ee, Muster Smith,” called a laughing voice, and they turned to behold a dark-haired young man bearing down on them. ‘That’ll teach ye to try t’out-reap them that’s been doin’ this all our lives.”

“I expect you’re right, Will,” replied Justin ruefully. “Besides, I fear old age is taking its toll. Will someone please fetch me my cane?” He bent over in an exaggerated crouch, one hand on his knee, the other on his back.

Catherine chuckled and lifted a small pouch tied to her saddle. “And here’s your reward. Will. You’ve captured it every day this week, just as you’ve done each year since you began coming out for harvest.”

The young man grinned proudly. “Ay, Miss Catherine, and me and me mum are grateful. Ye’re the only landowner here abouts who gives a prize every day for the most hay scythed.”

“And it gives me great pleasure to do so.” She handed the pouch to Will, who hefted it appreciatively, listening happily to the resulting clink of coin. To Catherine’s surprise, he reached inside his shirt for a second, heavier pouch, and added the contents of the first one to it.

“Have you been carrying all that money around with you?”

“Just today, miss. I’ve promised Mum one o’them new fangled washing machines with this year’s winnings, and now I have enough. I’m goin’ into Buntingford this very night to collect it from Ben Foley, the ironmonger.”

“Washing machine?” interposed Justin.

“Aye, sir. I’m not sure just how it works, but you attach it t’the washtub and turn a crank, and it paddles the clothes about, better nor a person could scrub ‘em herself. It’s got rollers on it, too, to wring ‘em out. It’ll sure save Mum’s old back.” He laughed aloud. “Now, mebee she’ll stop raggin’ at me t’bring home a wife t’help ‘er with the housework.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it, my boy,” said Justin. “It’s been my experience that once a woman gets started nagging on a subject, it’s like a toper with strong drink. She pretty much becomes addicted to the taste of it.”

Will snickered, and with a wave of his hand, started off in the opposite direction as did most of his fellows. John swung Catherine into her saddle, and she watched as he mounted Caliban. For some moments they rode in companionable silence.

“Still,” said John at last, “I must say I think the exercise agrees with me. I can feel muscles strengthening that I didn’t even know I possessed. And, if I do say so as shouldn’t, I manage to keep up with those young giants back there.”

“Indeed you do,” replied Catherine, smiling. “Perhaps you will win the prize yourself one of these days.”

“I think not.” John sighed gustily. “I fear me old mum will have to look elsewhere for a new washing machine.”

Catherine laughed. “Will’s mother is a bit of a tartar. And he’s such a good lad. He brings every penny of his wages home to her and helps her with her little garden.”

“He sounds a dull dog,” remarked John.

Nettled, Catherine looked sharply up at him. “Oh? Does doing one’s duty by his family make a man dull?”