My Lord Murderer (15 page)

Wys watched the machinations of the hack-driver with some amusement, in spite of his irritation. Every time the driver tried to pass the cart, some vehicle appeared to block his way. His curses became louder and more crude, but neither his maneuvers nor his language assisted him in his progress. Suddenly the driver’s patience exhausted itself, and—seemingly heedless of the consequences—he urged his horses to move around the cart. There was a horrid, wrenching sound, the rear right wheel of the cart broke off, and the cart tipped over directly in the path of the hack and spilled its russet contents all over the street. The horses, after a moment of nervous shying, calmed down and nosed interestedly through the apples.

The wizened old apple-vendor confronted the hack-driver, amply proving that he was the driver’s equal both in the volume of his voice and the crudity of his curses. To Wys’s surprise, the door of the hack was thrown open and a young lady, blushing hotly in embarrassment and chagrin, stepped out. Wys could not help staring at her. Wrapped in a rose-colored pelisse and a modest poke bonnet, she made a startling contrast to the drab surroundings, like a blooming rose in a winter landscape. Wys could see that under her bonnet her hair was dark, her eyes, now beginning to brim with tears of frustration, were a soft grey, and her mouth had an expression of unusual sweetness. She tried to say something to her driver, but her voice had no effect in the din of the street and the shouts of the two antagonists.

Wys could not help but go to her aid. He strode into the street and gave her a quick bow. “Your servant, ma’am,” he said politely. “May I be of assistance?”

The grey eyes flew to his face in gratitude. “Oh, yes, sir, if only you would,” she said in a voice that, Wys noted with pleasure, seemed perfectly to suit her modest demeanor. “I find I am not at all equal to this dreadful situation. No one is paying the least attention to me.”

Her words, spoken with a woeful tremor of the voice, were accompanied by the lowering of her eyelids, on which some tears were already clinging. Wys, always susceptible to feminine affliction, was particularly inspired by the young lady now before him. He turned on the disputants with greater fury than his moderate nature had ever before permitted him. “Will you both be still?” he shouted. “Hold your vile tongues!”

The driver and the old man turned to him in surprise, their argument suspended. “Eh?” the driver asked, blinking. “And ’oo the devil might
you
be?”

The wizened old apple-man knew quality when he saw it and touched his cap to Wys respectfully. “Beggin’ y’r pardon, sir, but look what this damn’ chaffer-mouth ’as done to me cart!”

“That’s no excuse for using such execrable, disgusting, and repellent language!” Wys said furiously. “Don’t you see there’s a lady present?” He wheeled around to the driver. “And as for
you
, you unspeakable cur, have you so forgotten yourself as to ignore your passenger? When a lady hires your hack, she puts herself in your charge! Have you no sense of your own responsibility?”

The driver glanced guiltily at the lady standing alongside the carriage. He dropped his eyes to the ground, and, seeing an apple lying at his feet, kicked it away shamefacedly. “I wuz only tryin’ to get ’er to ’er destination. What wuz I to do when this idiot kept blockin’ me way!”

“I got a right to the street, same ’s you, you bum-squabbled bag-pudding!” the old man burst out, waving a fist in the driver’s face.

“Enough of that, I said!” Wys told the old man in a voice that indicated he would not be disobeyed. The old man subsided, muttering under his breath about the ruined cart and the lost apples.

Wys put a hand into his pocket and pulled out five guineas. “Will this cover the price of the apples and the repair to your cart?” he asked.

The man gaped at the gold coins in Wys’s hand. “Oh, yes, sir!” he said, licking his lips eagerly. “Yes, indeedy. And much obliged to you I’d be!”

“Very well, then. And here, take this and pay some of those boys to help you pull the cart out of the way.”

It was done with a dispatch Wys could scarcely credit. The old man was out of sight before Wys had helped the lady back into the carriage. The driver looked at the mound of apples in the middle of the road and shook his head. “You should’ve made ’im clean up, you should,” he said to Wys accusingly. “Can’t leave a pile of apples in the middle of a public thoroughfare.”

Wys regarded the apples thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. He looked at the crowd of passers-by who were watching the little scene delightedly. “Ho, there,” he called to them. “You’re welcome to these apples—as many as you can carry away.” A cheer rose from the crowd, and the pile was set upon with alacrity. Soon every apple was gone. Wys turned to the carriage, where the lady was watching him from the window.

“Oh, sir,” she said breathlessly as he came up to the window to take his leave, “I don’t know how to thank you. I … I know I could not have extricated myself from this muddle without your help.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” Wys said, feeling suddenly quite tongue-tied and awkward. “It was nothing at all.”

The young lady held out her hand to him shyly. “You are too modest, sir. I shall never forget … I mean, I am quite in your debt.”

Wys took the gloved hand in his and glanced up at her warm grey eyes. He would have liked to say that he wished he could do
more
for her … fight a dragon for her … win a joust for her … buy the
moon
for her. There was something about her that brought out these extravagant emotions in him. He felt quite unlike himself. But a lifetime of restraint is not easily overcome. “It was my pleasure, ma’am,” was all he said. He bowed, kissed her fingers, and reluctantly stepped back from the carriage. The driver flicked the reins, and the horses set off down the street. The carriage was almost out of sight when Wys realized with a blow that he had not learned the young lady’s name.

Inside the carriage, Miss Anabel Plumb struggled with herself. Her hand had just been kissed by the most divine gentleman she had ever met, and she wanted to get one more glimpse of him. But if he should see her gawking at him, he would surely think her quite ill-bred. She hesitated for a moment, and then—throwing caution to the winds—she turned around on the seat and pressed her face to the little window behind her. But it was too late. Several carriages and wagons had already come between her and her splendid rescuer. Peering desperately down the crowded street, she managed to get a glimpse of his brown greatcoat and his tall beaver hat, but at that moment the carriage turned a corner and she was carried inexorably away from the most romantic encounter of her life.

Chapter Nine

P
OLLARD LOOKED AROUND AT
the dusty office overlooking Fleet Street in distaste. The sun shone through the smeared windows, making a streak of mottled sunlight through the dusty air, illuminating the piles of notebooks and ledgers which were piled in a seemingly haphazard way on the shelves of the various bookcases ranged along the walls. The walls were completely unadorned, there being no picture or decoration of any kind to enliven their bleak grey-green expanse. Opposite Sir George, on a chair at a large, paper-laden desk, sat the man he had come to see, regarding him closely through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

George shifted uneasily under the directness of the man’s stare. Those owl-like eyes, large and protruding to begin with, seemed enormous and disconcerting through the spectacles. The man had a broad, ugly nose mottled by a number of broken blue veins which could be seen quite plainly through the reddened skin. His hair, thin on top, had been permitted to grow unstylishly long at the bottom and blended with his grizzled side-whiskers to give him a rather stern and forbidding appearance. His mouth had a full underlip, his cleft chin was nothing if not decided, and all in all, Sir George had the uncomfortable feeling that this man would make a formidable adversary.

After what seemed an interminable period, the man leaned forward and spoke. “All right,” he said brusquely, “fifteen thousand on the wedding day and three thousand a year thereafter.”

“I’d rather have forty thousand at once than the yearly stipend you suggest,” George said in a tone which did not at all betray his inner tremor at the effrontery of his suggestion.

“Do you take Joshua Plumb for a flat?” the man at the desk asked in disgust. “I didn’t amass a fortune single-handed by behavin’ like a damn fool. You ain’t an earl or a duke, y’know. You come pretty high for a baron, near as I can learn from my friend Harry Atwater, who got a real marquis for his girl for a lot less than I’m offerin’ you.”

“If, as I believe, you are speaking of the Marquis of Wetherbridge, your friend made himself a bad bargain even at
that
price. The marquis is a fop and a dolt and has cost your friend a fortune on his jewelry alone. I’m told the marchioness complains that her husband does nothing all day but change his clothes,” Sir George said with a sneer.

“That may be,” Mr. Plumb said. “But it’s worth it to Atwater just to hear himself say ‘my daughter the marchioness.’ Anyways, I’d be a damn fool to give you a sum outright. What’d keep you from runnin’ off as soon as the money was in your hands?”

George put up his chin in his haughtiest manner. “My dear Mr. Plumb, you are speaking to a
gentleman!
”

Joshua Plumb snorted. “In matters o’ money, I’ve yet to see a man behave gentlemanly. I’ve no wish to quarrel with you, Sir George, seein’ as how I’m considerin’ makin’ you my son-in-law, but Joshua Plumb ain’t a man to talk in circles. The straight of it is that you’re marryin’ for money. On matters of money, Joshua Plumb knows whereof he speaks.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, and wagged a pudgy finger at Pollard. “I don’t make investments without they have proper security. I make my fifteen-thousand-pound investment in you the day you marry my girl. As long as she keeps tellin’ me you’re good to her, you’ll get your annual payment. If she’s happy, you’ll find me more than generous. Well, take it or leave it.”

Sir George looked at the man balefully. “Very well. Agreed.”

“My girl has to see you first, before things can be settled. But if I tell her, she’ll have you, so there’s nothin’ need worry you there. But I ain’t got time for a long courtship. I want the thing settled as soon as can be.”

“Why is that, may I ask?” George said suspiciously. “You’re not trying to … er … pass on to me some
damaged goods
, are you?”

Mr. Plumb ogled at him owlishly for a moment, and then George’s meaning burst upon him. He sputtered speechlessly, his neck growing red and his face apoplectic. As soon as he could catch his breath, he rose to his feet and banged his fist furiously on the desk. “Why, you—! You damned make-bait! I’ll pull out your brummish tongue for you! My daughter is the sweetest, purest flower in all England, and much too good for a dirty-minded ivory-turner like you. Out of my office, you hear! Out!”

Sir George realized he’d made a serious blunder. The father’s shock at his suggestion that the girl might be less than pure was absolutely genuine. He had better find a way to make amends. Men of Joshua Plumb’s wealth, men who were eager to buy titles for ready cash, were not easy to come by. It was only through the good offices of Richard Warrenton’s man of business that he had learned of Mr. Plumb. This was his only lead, and he must not make a mull of it. He had the reputation of being a man of ready wit and good address. Now was the time to prove it. “Please, Mr. Plumb,” he said earnestly, “I beg to be forgiven. It was inexcusable. I see that now.”

“Inexcusable! It was …
unspeakable
! Just get out, you damned court-card. I won’t have anything to do with you.”

“But, sir, remember that I have not the advantage of having
met
your daughter. I’m sure if I had, I would have known that such an accusation was unthinkable.”

“That at least is the truth,” Mr. Plumb said, still furious.

“I see that now, of course. But you must understand my position. You are the one, after all, who put the idea into my head.”

“
I
, you jackanapes?” Plumb roared. “How could I even
hint
at such a thing about my girl?”

“Well, you
were
urging a wedding in rather unseemly haste,” George suggested carefully.

Joshua Plumb eyed him dubiously. There was some logic in what he’d just said. Joshua sank back in his chair and looked at the younger man. Pollard was good-looking and certainly not a fool. His clothes were up to the mark but not so foolishly foppish as Harry Atwater’s son-in-law was wont to wear. Pollard seemed to be the sort of man that women take pleasure in, though Joshua himself did not like him much. Something about the eyes … a coldness … something he couldn’t put his finger on. But his wife was pressing him to marry Anabel off, and there was no doubt that
this
specimen was better than some he’d seen. Well, he thought, I may as well try again. “All right,” he said gruffly, “perhaps I
did
put that curst idea in your head. Sit down, sit down, I’ll not strike you. I suppose I’d better explain why I said I wanted a short courtship.”

“It’s not necessary. I have no doubt you have a good and honest reason,” George said smoothly.

“Of course it’s necessary! I don’t want you to have the slightest doubt about my daughter! Not the slightest! She’s a good girl. The best! It’s my wife, you see, who’s the problem.”

“Your wife?”

“My second, y’know. Damned nuisances, second marriages, let me tell you. Anabel is the only child of my first wife, and as pretty and sweet a little thing as ever walked. But her mother passed on more’n ten years ago, and a man needs a wife, y’know, especially when he’s used to one. So I married the second Mrs. Plumb, without thinkin’ that her two daughters from
her
first marriage was goin’ to cause such a ruckus in the house. Plain as lemmings they are, poor things, and you can imagine that Mrs. Plumb don’t like my Anabel takin’ the shine out of her girls.”

“Ah,” said Pollard, his brow clearing. “I begin to see—”