Queen of Diamonds (23 page)

“They wasn't wee, 'cause I've seen those pearls. As big as my littlest fingernail, they was.” He held up his hand, showing the smallest finger with dirt under the nail. “And they better be as long as they was afore her mother gets back. I know Valerie Pettigrew, and she has her baubles counted to the bead.”

“No,
monsieur
, you do not take my meaning.
Mademoiselle
has her pearls returned, so your visit is unnecessary, no? You will be leaving now, I think.”

Charlie was standing in front of the door, no deterrent to Ize, but the dog was growling again, and the woman's hold on its collar did not appear that strong.

“I was wanting to ask her about something else, too. Mayhaps you know what a Bow Street man's been doing, hanging around here. He's been to Valerie Pettigrew's too, the neighbor says, and he's been asking around town for me.” Ize had had to move, again.

Queenie gave her best Gallic shrug. “But how can I know, when I do not know your name?”

“I thought everyone knew me. Ize, they call me.”

“Ah, because of your—”

“No. Because my name is Ezra Iscoll,” the small man angrily insisted.

“Yes, I have heard your name.”

Ize instantly reached for the knife in his boot. “And? What does the Redbreast want?” he asked, pretending to clean his nails.

Queenie thought he must seldom use the knife for that job, judging from the results. She shuddered to think what else he used the sharp blade for. She petted the dog, so Ize would not see her hands tremble. Trying to keep her voice steady, and disinterested, she said, “He wants to know about
mon cher
Harking's diamonds.”

“Ah. That's all right, then. I heard about them too.”

“Yes? There is a reward.”

“Didn't hear that.” He stopped picking at his nails, as if he could not do that and think at the same time.

“You are a jeweler,
non
?”

“In a manner of speaking. I might know something about them diamonds, though.”

“Then you should speak to Monsieur Rourke, or Viscount Harking. If you tell me your address—”

He looked at her sharply. Queenie knew she had made a mistake, and quickly added, “But you know where this Bow Street is,
certainement
.
Mon ami
Harking stays at the Grand Hotel.”

“Enemy, is he? I thought you was lovers.”

“And
moi
, I think I have heard enough.” Queenie started to let go of the dog's collar, after telling Parfait to stay, in French. She knew the dog would not move; Ize did not.

He took a step back, away from the shop. “Here now, no insult. A pretty gal could do a lot worse.” He started to walk away, but turned back.

“You sure that's all the Runner wanted? Hellen and her mother didn't mention nothing else to him?”

“Mademoiselle's mother is away from home.”

“The girl, then? She always did have more hair than wit. She didn't talk to the Runner, did she?”

“What should
mademoiselle
know about the vicomte's jewels?”

“Nothing. And you tell her to keep it that way.”

“
Je ne comprends pas
. I do not understand.”

“But the widgeon will.” Ize tossed his knife from hand to hand. “You tell the gal that she better not have any conversations about me with no Runners, you hear? And especially nothing about a mutual friend we might have.”

Queenie did her best to look confused. She shrugged again.

“A kind of royal friend. And if I get wind she said something, or thought about that reward money…” He made the universal gesture of sliding his hand across his throat, only this time he had a knife in it. “Understand?”

Queenie understood. She swallowed hard and nodded. “But what about the reward money? It is for the diamonds, no? And for Sir John Martin?”

“I might know a thing or two about both of them. I got to think on that. But you tell the peagoose, you hear?”

Queenie heard her heart beating so loudly she was glad a carriage drove by then, hiding the sound. She nodded again.

He put his knife back in his boot and scuttled down the street.

White-faced, Charlie came to stand beside Queenie and the dog. Queenie put her arm around the boy, for both of their comfort.

She had to send those letters. Now.

Chapter Twenty-Three

First she was going to send a spy, if possible.

“Charlie, do you think you could follow that man, without him knowing?”

“A'course I could, ma'am.” He pulled a wool cap out of his waistband and put it on to cover his red hair, then he wiped the polishing rag over his cheeks to dirty them. “No one notices a street sweep or a beggar boy. And he's too ugly to lose in a crowd. I'll follow him to hell an' back, I swear!”

“Stop short of that, Charlie. I would not want you in danger. But go.” She pressed some coins from her pocket into his hand. “Find out where he lives, if you can. Or where he does business, or has his coffee. Then hurry back.” She handed over more coins. “Take a hackney so you are here sooner. And remember that he is as crafty as he is mean. Do not let him see you.”

Charlie set off at a run.

Queenie stood in the street looking after him, hoping she had done the right thing. Charlie was a child of the city who knew his way around the streets, and around the pickpockets, press gangs and predators. He would be fine.

No one would be safe while Ize was free, though.

If Queenie knew where he was, she could send Rourke a message when she was on her way out of London. That had to be soon, before Hellen's mother returned, before Ize grew impatient. Harry might not want to leave, not right when his diamonds might be recovered, but Queenie decided she could not take the chance.

Harry would not be happy to give up their privacy on the drive north—neither was Queenie, to be honest with herself—but she would take Hellen and Charlie with them, so Ize could not take revenge if he escaped capture. They were all safer that way, and her virtue, too. If Harry chose not to go with her, well, she knew they had to say farewell sooner or later. That emptiness was already eating at her insides.

She would not cry, Queenie vowed. Let him see the pretty woman he admired, not one with black streaks down her face from the paints she used to darken her lashes and brows. Let him not see that he was taking part of her with him when he went home.

If he did not go north with her, Harry would be gone before she returned to London. He might never hear her explanation, not that it would change anything. He would always be a viscount and she would never be a lady.

Neither would she come back to the city while Ize was free. Sooner or later he would look at her eyes, or she would forget the French accent, or Hellen would call her by her name.

He would kill her. Queenie had no doubt of that. He had to, to silence her.

So she and Hellen would start packing as soon as Charlie came back, without bothering to send the letters to the earl and his brother. She would get to Carde Hall in Northampshire before the post. If the earl was not there…She would face that later.

“Just let him not hurt Charlie meantime,” she told the dog, picking up the cleaning supplies to bring inside.

“Who is going to hurt Charlie?” asked a voice that warmed Queenie, from her toes that tingled to the lips he'd kissed to the heart he had stolen.

She had not seen Harry come, yet here he was, his rented curricle and the bay horses being walked down the street by a groom from the livery stable. Harry's hair was still damp from his morning wash, and his jaw was freshly shaven. Surely there was no handsomer man in all of England, Queenie thought, clutching the bucket so she would not clutch his broad shoulders right in the street.

He looked tired, she noticed, as if he had not slept well. Queenie wanted to caress his skin, to soothe him. How could she bring him ease when she was about to lie to him again, though, then leave him?

“No one, I hope. But Ize, if he catches him.”

“Eyes? Oh, Ize, the fence. He was here, then?”

Diable
, she should not have spoken! “He was looking for Hellen,” she quickly said. “About her pearls. I got rid of him, but thought to send Charlie to find where he lives.”

“Capitol! I'll send a messenger to Rourke to come here and wait for the lad to get back. We'll get there and nab the dastard before he has a chance to leave again.”

“NO!” Then Ize would guess who had sent the Runner. Queenie needed more time to leave the city. “That is, no, it is the Runner's business, not yours.”

“But he might know about my diamonds, too.”

“You cannot know that. There is no proof that Ize stole anything or dealt with Sir John Martin at all. You cannot have him arrested on such flimsy charges.”

Harry's forehead was furrowed. “You don't want me to see him put in prison? You were the one who told me the man was dangerous. And now you are worried he might hurt Charlie.”

“I—Oh, I do not know if I should have sent the boy or not. I am upset, merely.”

Harry brushed a speck of dirt off her cheek. “Rourke will want to know where the knave is hiding. He has merely to interview Ize, not arrest him.”

“But then he will know I told Rourke.”

“Gammon. Why would he think that? And what does it matter?”

“It matters that he is a villain, and he will want revenge. Harry, I want to leave London today. Will you still go with me?”

“Before we hear what happens with Ize? You have waited this long, a day or two will not matter.”

“Yes, it will. You do not understand. I have to leave, and take Hellen and Charlie with me.”

“Silly. I won't let anyone hurt you. Don't you know that by now?” He started back toward his vehicle, to send the groom to Bow Street.

Queenie set down the bucket and ran after him, tugging on his arm. “You do not know Ize.”

He turned. “Do you?”

If Queenie had the bucket in her hand she would have tossed it at him, slop water and all. Why did he have to pick today to be suspicious? “Too well, after this morning.”

“Then he has to be dealt with, especially if he threatened you. Running away solves nothing. Don't you know that?”

She wanted to shout that running away kept her alive, and kept him out of harm's way. Running away to Lord Carde was an act that took more bravery than she possessed, but it was the only way now. “If I leave London, I can get help to get rid of Ize once and for all.”

“I am not enough? I know you do not trust Rourke, but I thought you had more confidence in me than that.”

Queenie had nothing to say that would not offend him worse.

Harry turned his back on her and gave the groom a message for the Bow Street man, then watched him drive away.

Queenie was frantic. Maybe Charlie would not find Ize's lodgings, only a coffee house or a grog shop. Maybe Ize lived in a rat hole Charlie was smart enough not to enter. Maybe Ize took a hackney Charlie could not follow. And maybe Harry could forgive her for seeking another man's protection because he had a higher title and deeper pockets.

“It is part of a debt I owe,” was all she could say to his back.

He finally turned. “Which you also do not trust me with. I know I swore to wait, but you make it deuced difficult, woman. And if you are in danger, I shall not stand aside and let you be hurt by anyone. I shall not! Do you understand?”

Parfait started growling at the anger in his voice. Then the dog started to sniff at the basket Harry had taken from the curricle before sending the groom off.

Queenie called the dog away. “I do not understand myself. How can I understand you?” Out of frustration and fear, she lashed out: “And I thought you promised to stay away from the shop.”

She got nothing done with him around, and all her cabbage-headed customers giggled and simpered over him until she felt ill. Besides, if he kept stealing kisses in the back room, she would never go into the front room, and to the devil with her business.

“The shop is not open,” he said, reasonably. “And I wanted to ask you two questions. Will you—”

Queenie kicked out at the bucket, sloshing some of the dirty water onto her shoes, which made her angrier. “
Sacre Bleu
, you promised not to look for any more answers. I told you I would tell you the whole sorry story as soon as I could.”

“Those were not the questions. I have been up all night thinking about them, about you.” It had been a deuced uncomfortable night, too. Now Harry was resolved, and as ready as he would ever be. “Would you—”

Parfait nudged again at the basket in Harry's hand.

“Blast.” Harry raise the basket higher.

“What is in there, anyway?”

“Just some liver, and kippers and meat pasties. A few lamb chops and a bit of eggs and ham. And bread and cheese. I thought you might like to share breakfast with me.” Forever. “But not the dog. I brought him a steak bone.”

How could he think about eating at a time like this? For that matter, how could he eat all that at one meal? Queenie had nibbled on a sweet roll along with her morning chocolate, and that was enough. If it would keep Harry from more questions, though, she would fight Parfait for the bone. She picked up the bucket again. “Come inside, then. I am done here. Hellen will be awake and hungry.”

“Hellen? But if she is there how can I ask you to ma—”

Queenie was already inside.

* * *

“Do not say anything about anything,” Queenie ordered when she helped Hellen with the fastenings of her gown.

“How can I not answer if Mr. Rourke asks me questions?”

“Eat. Keep your mouth busy so you cannot talk.”

“But I ate the sweet roll you left for me.”

“Hellen, if you do not wish to be speaking to the magistrate tomorrow, do not speak to Rourke today. As soon as he leaves we can start packing, so we will be done with his prying.”

“Packing? Where are we going?”

“North. That is all you have to know, so you cannot let anything slip out.”

“But I cannot leave London now. You know Mama is coming back any day, so we will know about the money from the baron. Besides, John George cannot leave his post.”

John George was not invited, but Queenie supposed he would have to come, since she was going to speak to his employers. That carriage was growing less and less private.

“And what about the shop?” Hellen wanted to know. “You cannot just leave it, after you worked so hard to make it a success.”

Making things right with the House of Carde was far more important. That was the reason she had gone into business in the first place. “We will talk about it later.”

“But you told me not to talk.”

* * *

Rourke came and ate Harry's food. Luckily Harry had brought enough for a small army, or several hungry men and growing boys. Hellen cowardly declared a headache and took a filled plate upstairs. Queenie took a slice of bread.

Rourke seemed impressed that Queenie had the presence of mind to send Charlie after Ize. Just like a good citizen.

Queenie shredded the bread. Then she went to wait by the window, so she could watch the street for Charlie's return. She moved the Closed sign to the other side of the window, where she had not left a big streak in her distress.

She let in her seamstresses and fitters, telling them the store would open late today, if at all. On their way to the work room they all batted their eyelashes fast enough to chill Harry's eggs with the draft.

“Ladies, we have orders to fill,” Queenie said, wondering if they could keep the store running when she left. If Hellen stayed behind…No, she needed Hellen to satisfy the conventions. Alone, Hellen and Browne just might satisfy their baser urges. Alone, Queenie would look like a fallen woman, under Harry's protection. Lord Carde might not agree to see her, not with his wife and children nearby to be contaminated with her presence. Hellen was no proper chaperone, but she was Browne's betrothed, and she was all Queenie had.

And Hellen might not be safe in London, staying at the shop. Queenie recalled that suspicious fire at Captain Jack Endicott's gambling club, right after she had tried to make inquiries there before she fled for France. She decided to hire a guard to watch the store while she was gone, to protect her investment and her seamstresses. They had enough orders and new patterns to complete to stay busy. The store would suffer, but the women would suffer worse if she merely left the closed sign out. They needed their wages the same as Queenie needed the income and the good will of her customers.

She also needed to go to the bank before leaving. Queenie tallied sums in her head: how much to leave for running the store, how much to pay a guard, how much to take for travel costs. She would not let Harry pay her way, if he came.

The rest of her bank account would go with her, for the family looking for their half-sister, Lady Charlotte. Lord knew the Earl of Carde did not need Queenie's paltry sum and her promise of part of whatever she earned in the future. He had a fortune, fields and investments, enough to support his family, his brother's family, the Browne family at their inn, charity schools and heaven knew what else. Giving him the money, though, was Queenie's act of good faith, her proof that she never meant any harm.

The Endicotts were born to wealth. The money would mean little to them. It meant everything to Queenie, because that was all she had and she had worked so hard for every shilling.

Money was the only thing she had to give. She could not give them back their kin. She could not repay what Phelan Sloane had paid in blackmail. She could never even hope to restore what Lord Carde and his brother had spent in the search.

Her shop and her dog were all she had. And the dog was begging for scraps from Lord Harking.

She would miss Harry far more than the money. Whether or not he came with her to Cardington, the earl's seat, he was nearly gone already. The lies and the mistrust would send him away long before the nature of her birth did. Not for the first time, Queenie damned whatever fate had tied her life to a dead child's.

Harry was finished with his meal, and finished with being angry at his beloved. She could not help holding her own counsel, not if creatures like Ize were what she knew of men. Nor had Harry acted entirely honorably, stealing kisses and caresses whenever he could. She had never slapped him or pushed him away, so he knew his attentions were not repulsive. His passion was definitely returned, judging from how his own clothing was often disordered, his own carefully combed hair was looking like a gale had passed through the shop's tiny rear yard after he led her out there.