Barbara Metzger (16 page)

“Everyone stop shouting!” he shouted. Having been heard across battlefields and over cannon fire, he got the attention of everyone in the little room. He hadn’t forgotten how to be a very commanding officer. “That’s better. Now, let me get this straight. You, sir, are a representative of Bow Street’s new police force?”

“Aye, Cap’n, Jeremiah Dimm, at your service.”

Well, he wasn’t, thought the viscount. If the white-haired man were at Courtney’s service, he’d have had this whole mare’s nest resolved hours ago, without disturbing Nanny. The Runner was very much at his own leisure, it appeared, pipe in hand, feet propped on the footstool, a few scattered crumbs on a dish at his side, and Wolfie’s head on his knee.

“You’re his assistant?”

“Ned Ripken, my lord. ‘Twas I who made the connection between all the crimes. The way I see it—”

Courtney scowled at the young man. “Do you even shave yet?”

“No,
my lord.”

“Then sit down and keep your opinions to yourself until I ask for them. Now, you two gentlemen came here to ask Miss Kathlyn Partland about some missing jewels connected to a man she befriended on the mail coach to London. Is that correct, Mr. Dimm?” He addressed the senior investigator, with his eyes narrowed at the younger, daring him to speak out of order.

“Aye, Cap’n, in a nutshell, except the man was murdered and the jewels belonged to Miss Partland’s maternal aunt.”

“Her aunt who was Lord Fowler’s daughter,” Nanny Dawson put in, not fearing his lordship’s temper one whit.

“I don’t care if she was a guinea fowl’s daughter. She couldn’t be much of a relative, letting Kitty, Miss Partland, that is, go into service. That’s neither here nor there. What does matter is that Miss Partland was not here to answer the questions, and hasn’t come home yet.”

“Right.” Ripken jumped up, then cleared his throat. “Ah, that is correct, my lord.” He pulled out his daybook and carefully read, “We arrived here at this residence at eleven o’clock. Miss Partland was not present. At twelve-thirty Miss Partland had not returned. I went to Mrs. Dawson’s daughter’s home, at number fifteen, Marion Lane, where I ascertained that the subject had been earlier and had left at approximately ten-fifteen. At one-thirty a message was sent to your other residence, my lord, in case the subject was, ah, spending the day in your company.” He bowed before resuming his seat. “My lord.”

Courtney looked to Dimm, who only puffed on his pipe and hunched his shoulders. “He’ll outgrow it.”

“If he lives so long,” the viscount muttered. He turned to Nanny. “You said some of her things were missing?”

“Her comb and brush.” Nanny wrung her hands on her apron. “And a robe and a valise.”

“Aha!” Ripken was out of his seat again, despite the viscount’s glare. “That means she packed. I was right, this was no abduction at all. The jade rejoined her gang. You better check your silver, Mrs. Dawson.”

“When one of her new dresses left upstairs is worth more than all my belongings?” Nanny moved the tray of gingerbread farther out of his reach. “Use your brain, you chowderhead, if the good Lord gave you one.”

Courtney was nibbling on a macaroon. “But where would she go in such a hurry, without leaving a note? I can’t figure it out. Couldn’t be another position, for I was going to furnish references.”

Ripken mumbled to himself, “Didn’t know toffs required references for their doxies.”

Three pairs of eyes turned on him, and one growl. Wolfie hadn’t forgiven the young Runner for snatching his bone. Ripken thought he might visit the necessary out back.

When he left, the viscount turned to Inspector Dimm. “Miss Partland is a governess. She is going to be a schoolteacher.”

“If you say so, Cap’n. His nibs at Bow Street vouched for you. Hero and all, man of honor, he said. Howbeit, seems you ain’t seen this morning’s paper.” He unfolded a sheet for the viscount’s viewing. There was a drawing of Kathlyn in her Gypsy outfit, twenty gentlemen at her feet holding out their hands. The caption read “Me next.”

She wasn’t going to be a schoolteacher for anyone who read the newspapers. Courtney cleared his throat. “Well, ah, there was an, um, a bet, you see.” Lord Chase wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself, but there was something about Inspector Dimm, looking like a kindly old elf, that made him want to justify his actions. “Miss Partland needed a place to stay while she got herself established. She agreed to help me, in exchange.” Blast, that sounded lame, even to Courtney’s ears. The chit had no choice, adrift in London without any other lifeline to grab. He should have sent her right to his mother, or brought her to Nanny, handed her his purse, and turned his back. He hadn’t, by Jupiter; he’d taken advantage of her innocence instead.

“She’s not a jewel thief or a criminal, Inspector. She’s not even a courtesan.”

“Of course she’s not. Dearie’s Lord Fowler’s granddaughter,” Nanny insisted.

Dimm merely nodded, puffed on his pipe, and repeated, “If you say so, Cap’n, as should know.”

“I do say so, and I’ll prove it if it’s the last thing I do, once I find her.”

The only problem was that no one knew where to start looking. Then Little George came into the room to replenish the coals. Now, Little George could neither speak nor hear, but he could draw up a storm. He handed Nanny his slate-board, covered with colored chalk marks. They all gathered around to look. There was a cat carrying a suitcase, getting into a coach drawn by four horses.

“That must be Kitty, leaving. But what are these other marks?” Nanny fished her spectacles out of her apron pocket. “They’re two stick men, I think, wearing top hats and high collars. Gentlemen, George must mean. One’s much taller than the other. Now, who could that be ... ?”

Courtney tripped over Wolfie in his haste to get to the door. “My God, today is Friday. Epsom. I’ll kill them.”

“Remember she’s Lord Fowler’s granddaughter,” Nanny called after him.

“She could be King George’s granddaughter. If that peagoose went with those dolts voluntarily, I’ll strangle her.”

Chapter Seventeen

With every drop of freezing rain that dripped off his hat brim down his neck, with every pellet of sleet that stung his cheeks, Courtney’s resolve hardened. Someone was going to pay for this nightmarish ride. Woe the stableboy who didn’t move fast enough. Pity the innkeeper late with his reckoning. As for Woody and Algie, dismemberment was sounding attractive. And if Lord Chase lamed his horse in this headlong gallop in murk and mud, those two cods-heads would be lucky to get off so easily. It was bad enough that the viscount himself was likely to be permanently crippled from this ride through hell, but his horse?

Nanny’d urged him to take the curricle, at least, to protect his injured leg and so he could bring Miss Kathlyn back with him. Dimm opted for the closed carriage, so he and his assistant could come along to prevent mayhem. Too dangerous, too slow, too much interference. He was a cavalry officer, by George, and he’d do things his own way.      

* * * *

Kathlyn wasn’t sleeping well. She kept being disturbed by the loud noises coming from the public room below, the heavy boot-steps and high-pitched laughter on the stairs down the hall. As for the sounds from the room next door—she put her pillow over her head and tried to go back to sleep. She was safe, she told herself. The window was locked, the door was bolted. No one would bother one lone female, even in a disreputable place like this. Or would they?

Then Kathlyn heard a louder commotion, screams, breaking glass, and running feet. She jumped out of bed, lit her candle, and grabbed up the fireplace poker. Sure enough, someone was trying her door! Whoever it was pounded on the thin wood and bellowed, “If you don’t open this door, I’ll knock it down.”

The intruder sounded like an ogre from under a bridge, over the landlord’s shouts, a woman’s shrieking, someone else’s moaning.

“If you do, I’ll... I’ll shoot,” Kathlyn quavered back, vowing to purchase a pistol before the sun set on another day, if she lived that long.

“Bloody hell.” Then came an even louder crash. The lock splintered and the door swung open, sending the chair flying.

Kathlyn shut her eyes and brought the poker down with all her might.

“Bloody hell,” the viscount repeated when he finally regained consciousness some hours later. “I should have known you could take care of yourself.” He felt the lump and gash on his head under the bandages and winced.

So did Kathlyn. Then she swiped at the tears on her cheeks so he wouldn’t see how she’d been crying over his worthless body, and bristled, so he wouldn’t hear how her voice still trembled. “Well, you should have identified yourself. How was I supposed to know you were not some marauder bent on wreaking havoc?”

“You should have known I’d be coming after you, blast it!”

“Of course. You needed to retrieve your property.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Deuce take it, the wretched female wasn’t even glad he’d come. So much for riding
ventre-a-terre
after damsels in distress. He took a sharper look at his rescued maiden, sitting on the bed beside him. “What the devil is that you’re wearing?” He tried to sit up, moaned, and fell back, still frowning dreadfully.

Kathlyn fingered the almost nonexistent neckline of the white, ruffled gown. “It’s Algie’s sister’s. He brought it for me to wear.”

“I knew I should have killed the dastard.” He looked away. “Well, put a wrap over it or something, unless you’re looking to get ravished.”

“Here? You cannot even sit up.” Still, she arranged her shawl over her shoulders, tying the ends modestly close to her throat. His lordship meanwhile muttered about how certain men would pay fortunes to defile such voluptuousness dressed in the guise of innocence.

“Are you delirious? The landlord did not think you needed a surgeon, but I could send for one.”

“No, I’m not out of my mind, and you are too green by half. And what the deuce did you mean about being my property? It was no such thing, and you know it. We had an agreement, is all.”

“You might believe that, and I might believe that, but no one else in the world believes that. Your friends even admitted they asked your permission to take me with them. That was bad enough, but without your nod of approval, they felt justified in absconding with me anyway, as though my wishes were of no consequence.”

“I might have, ah, mentioned their lapse to them.”

“You might have knocked some sense into their thick heads, but I doubt it. That’s not the point. The world sees me as a fallen woman, and I cannot care for it. I do not like the way men look at me, nor the way decent women avoid looking at me. I feel soiled and unsafe, even though my conscience is clear. I did what I did for decent reasons, to help you in your, ah, difficulty, but now I cannot stay any longer. I wanted you to know that I appreciate your offer for me to remain at Mrs. Dawson’s, but I can no longer pretend to be what I am not. And I wish you the best in finding a bride, although I suggest you go about it another way. Some woman will appreciate you for yourself, I’m sure, and not care so much about the other.”

“What other? No, it doesn’t matter. You cannot go. Where will you stay, what will you do? The pittance I gave you won’t last forever.”

“I shall find a respectable lodging, then look around for a suitable location for my school. London’s merchant class is eager to have their daughters educated.”

“Not by Gypsy whores, they’re not.” He reached into his pocket, trying not to move his aching head in the process, and pulled out the newspaper drawing. “Excellent likeness, don’t you think?”

Kathlyn gasped, color flying into her cheeks. “Did I look like that?”

“Better, in color. The cartoon missed the red petticoats and the rose in your hair.”

“Oh dear. Then I suppose I shall have to establish my young ladies’ academy in Bath, or Leeds.”

“What, do you think they don’t receive the London journals?” Courtney shook his head, which was a mistake. He groaned, and Kathlyn hurried to put a cool cloth on his forehead. When she was finished, he took her hand. “There is another solution.”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure I’ll be glad to hear it, my lord, since, in hindsight, your last solution wasn’t precisely needle-willed.”

“You could marry me.”

Kathlyn laughed. “I must be the one who is delirious. I thought you said I could marry you.”

He was still holding her hand. “Kitty—Miss Partland— will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

Somewhere on that soggy ride, halfway between London and Epsom, the ramifications behind Nanny’s repeated revelation finally sank into Courtney’s waterlogged brain. Miss Kathlyn Partland was Lord Fowler’s granddaughter, Lady Bellamy’s niece. The implications were staggering.

He cleared his throat. “You’ll have to forgive me, never done this before. That is, I did it once, but only as a formality. The arrangements were already made by our families.” Courtney knew he was blathering, so he closed his eyes a moment to gather his thoughts. He missed seeing the dawning joy on her face fade to despair, the light of love shining from her remarkable eyes turn to mourning as he launched into his prepared speech.

“It has been brought to my attention that you do, indeed, have important connections among the aristocracy. You are a gently bred female of good family whose reputation, once besmirched, can never be restored except by the holy bonds of matrimony. As the, ah, instrument of your fall from grace—in the eyes of the world, if not in actuality—I am honor-bound to offer for you. You could not have foreseen the outcome of our sham affair, but I should have, being more familiar with the world of scandal and society. Therefore I take the entire responsibility for the loss of your good name by offering mine in exchange.”

There, he’d gotten it out. Courtney opened his eyes again to see how his speech had been received. Not well, obviously. Kathlyn had snatched her hand from his and was busy wringing the washcloth, as if she wished it were his neck. Her chin was raised so high, he could see the pulse beating under her throat. She picked up the basin of water with murder in her flashing blue eyes, and the viscount groaned to himself. Dash it, he was barely dry from his last soaking. “Remember you’re a lady.”