Chapter 13

13

N ovember 13, 1826

Covent Garden

Dickie stood, shifting from one foot to the other to stay warm in the freezing morning fog whilst waiting near Covent Garden for the hack cabbie he knew had taken Col wherever he’d gone. The cabbie had been a special “friend” of Dickie’s for a number of years in his escapades throughout the stews of London.

He’d already raced to his father, Lionel’s, clinic to deliver Col’s dire message to “rally the troops.”

When his foster father surgeon had grabbed his long winter coat and hat from a hook near the door to the clinic, he’d ordered, “You’re with me, Dickie. We’re off to Framlingwood’s dratted Grosvenor Street row of townhouses where we’re all going to meet at Number Five. These are dangerous men that are no match for a child, even one as clever as you. I’ve just sent a message to Her Grace, er, Captain El, as well as the rest of the lads.”

In the seconds it took for his father’s well-meaning speech, Dickie had raced around his long legs and out into the streets of Seven Dials. He couldn’t leave Col to face his fate alone.

Time was not on the Bow Street runner’s side. He had to find that hackney cab driver and find out where he’d left Col, who was Dickie’s secret hero. As for his father’s inference, Dickie knew better than most that his twelve years in the stews of London had aged him far beyond the number that labeled him a “child.”

Dickie huffed out a cloud of steamy breath in the cold before jumping in excitement and waving both hands. His friend’s hackney cab had finally rolled into sight.

As soon as the conveyance slewed to a stop, Dickie scrambled up next to the driver. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

Dickie gave him an impatient look. “Col…that’s who. You picked him up late last night to follow another hack…wot happened? Where is he now?”

November 13, 1826

Number Five, Grosvenor Street

Derek, Earl of Framlingwood, should count himself among the heady group of the most powerful peers in the kingdom. However, at the moment, he felt utterly helpless and at the mercy of unknown, evil forces.

He’d spent several days forcing himself to stay away from his housekeeper, Cassandra, considering the unwise kiss he’d stolen. However, when he’d received the message from CB that Col was in peril, Gabrielle had been taken, and Number Five Grosvenor Street was in complete upheaval, he’d pushed all other concerns from his mind.

He’d had his groom saddle the fastest of his riding cattle, Goldie, and had hied himself to Number Five Grosvenor Street which apparently had been chosen as a war room.

Cassandra met him in the entryway when he arrived. After she’d passed off his hat and riding jacket to Young Rutherford, she spoke low. “Just so you don’t have to walk in there and feel a complete fool, let me enlighten you as to a number of developments over the last two days.”

When she’d explained how Gabrielle’s brother had forced his way into the house repeatedly to snatch her away, Derek feared his roar of anger could probably be heard several rooms away.

“Great St. Alban’s horn…how did all this transpire under my roof without someone alerting me to the danger?”

“It was my day off. I’d gone to visit, um, a friend, and by the time I’d returned, Gabrielle had made up her mind to go with her brother to keep all of us safe.”

“I could have kept everyone safe if only I’d known. I could have called on Prinny to send over a contingent of Marines.”

She lowered her eyes. “Gabrielle’s brother is a captain with the East India Company,” she muttered, almost under her breath.

“Oh—.” That news seemed to deflate his ire somewhat. “Prinny loves money, and I’m sure they keep him well supplied.”

A small army of drapers’ workmen were busily tearing apart the formal drawing room, so all of the troops had to crowd into the smaller parlour on the ground floor.

Derek spun around the entryway, observing the buckets of paint, workmen balancing long pieces of wood on their shoulders, and the two drapers directing traffic. “Who, in the name of all that’s holy, approved this mess in midst of everything else we’re dealing with?”

“You did.” Drapers John Kenton, Will Bullock, and Cassandra spoke nearly in unison.

“Now, follow me.” Cassandra beckoned him toward the parlour. “You wanted to make sure all of your mistresses, present and former, were properly introduced. They all await you in the parlour. We were going to have a tea party, but considering the dangers we’re all facing, we may have to combine tea party introductions with the ‘war room’ of your school chums as well.”

Cassandra held her breath and prayed she could get through facing all of the mistresses again in one place. She was painfully aware of their suspicions about her and Derek, and truthfully, she deserved the gossip. She should have stopped him using her as his listening post long ago.

She should have. Cassandra feared the brief kiss they’d shared had ended any notion she might have had of keeping the earl at arm’s length.

Young Rutherford, armed as if he were expecting a ship full of corsairs, opened the parlour door for them with a flourish.

Inside, the rise and fall of at least four different conversations were abruptly silenced. All eyes turned toward the two people in the entryway.

Any hope she might have had of entering as though nothing had changed was dashed the minute she felt a hot flush spreading from her face to her bosom. Next to her, Derek was similarly afflicted.

Lily was the first mistress to break the silence. “What have I been telling all of you?” She swung her gaze around the room, and most of the mistresses, as well as their husbands, were nodding as if to say, “Didn’t everyone know?”

In spite of her better instincts, Cassandra could not help mouthing a short denial. “I have no idea to what you’re referring.”

That brought a hearty round of laughter, quickly silenced at the the thunderous look from the earl.

Slow Rutherford broke up the silence by scratching on the door before wheeling in a huge tea cart full of hearty sandwiches, sweets, and two large silver urns full of steaming water. Pistols protruded from each side of the waistband of his trousers and bumped out the tails of his under-butler’s jacket.

Lady Camilla beckoned him over from her place of distinction in the center of the room. Bring that cart to me. I’ll manage the tea box and you can pour from those beastly heavy urns.

CB leaned forward. “Aunt, you don’t need to tend to the tea. Nathaniel or I can help.”

The look she sent him would melt cold butter. “I’m on to you, Lionel. You want first choice of Nathaniel’s raspberry macarons.” She shook her finger back and forth. “None for any of you until I get mine.”