8. November 9, 1826

8

NOVEMBER 9, 1826

ALLEYWAY CUT ON BOW STREET

A rcher Colwyn, Col to his friends, rubbed his cold hands down the grubby trousers that were a staple of his undercover work for the Bow Street Runners. He’d been standing for more than an hour in the raw November wind that blew down Bow Street like a pack of runaway horses.

He’d give anything to be able to amble into the Brown Bear to savor a tankard of ale at a table close by the fire. Unfortunately, the criminal he was waiting to follow through the icy streets was a fellow Runner.

He had to stay in the shadows long enough to hear a voice that would match the one he’d heard Saida’s exotic parrot mimic. He knew the voice was familiar but couldn’t yet connect the voice with a name. An intruder had yelled warnings at Saida’s talkative pet during a break-in of her townhouse on Grosvenor Street. He’d apparently believed the bird was a person lying in wait in the darkened house.

Col could sit in the Bear for a few hours and wait in the warmth for a group of Runners, but he’d be recognized immediately, even in his undercover costume. A slouchy hat covered his eyes, he’d darkened his face and hands with dirt, and he’d affected a limp, all to throw off any possible suspicions from other Runners.

It wasn’t enough to merely identify the runner who’d been dogging the Earl of Framlingham’s steps and taking his money. Col had to follow the bastard to see who he was working for; otherwise, the whole lot would slip through their hands, and Derek and his mistresses would never be safe.

And then he got a break. Three Runners sauntered up the street, one of them telling a ribald story, and the others laughing. Their voices carried well across the crisp air.

Suddenly, one of the men caught sight of the ragged beggar trying to hide at the alleyway. “You…who goes there?” he shouted, when Col circled rapidly away from his watching post. And then the identity of the name connected with the voice that had been plaguing him clicked into place. Elias Shell . He had the bastard.

But now Col had two other problems. First, he had to get the hell away from the trio, and second, he had to figure out how to trap the man into giving himself away as the blackmailer.

Instead of running away from his pursuers, he headed straight toward the group, slamming into the one walking at the street side. When they followed in heated pursuit, Col swerved into the street and gave out an ear-splitting whistle. A door swung open from a dark, unmarked hack moving slowly in his direction. Once he’d pulled himself inside, the driver whipped hard at the team of grays that were far too expensive and fast for a cheap taxi hack.

“About time you hauled your bony arse in here. I thought we were all goners.”

Col tipped his grimy hat at Carrington-Bowles. “You gave me some heart palpitations before that door opened. I thought you might have forgotten about me.”

CB pointed to his young partner-in-crime seated beside him. “Dickie knew exactly when you were about to make your move and raced over to Russell Street to warn us.”

“Cor…thought you’d never find the mark.”

Dickie’s disguise, as usual, was far more inventive than Col’s. He’d worn a dress and a wig, and had been carrying a basket, making him look for all the world like a young house servant running errands for her mistress. Col realized, with a touch of envy, that Dickie would someday be either a master criminal or a celebrated detective.

CB knocked on the roof before sliding the cover off the opening between them and Mean Meg. “Like the wind, my girl. Like the wind.”

They slewed toward Covent Garden and into the crowd of carriages amongst the market crowd there. The three passengers left the conveyance one by one and disappeared into the crowds of shoppers.

CB’s coach driving wizard expertly wound through the mass of carriages and produce carts before vanishing into the maze of mews surrounding the market.

November 9, 1826

Number 5, Grosvenor Street

Margot found Young Rutherford in the butler’s pantry, pretending to polish the silver. More likely, he was assessing the number of knives, forks and spoons, to gauge whether or not a piece or two would be missed.

Worrying about the Rutherfords’ thieving ways was not her problem. The earl and Captain El apparently had a good reason for employing the larcenous family as servants. She came straight to the point. “Who are those two drapers? Really?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because Gabrielle and I aren’t debutantes recently out of the nursery and dressed in white. We’re not going to change our feelings for each other, fall madly in love with these two impossibly handsome men, and live happily ever after.”

To her extreme annoyance, a tear leaked out the side of one of her eyes and rolled down her cheek. “If that’s what the earl has planned for us, he doesn’t know us at all. We care for each other, and we’re certainly not going to live apart, pretending to be someone’s wife.”

“Maybe he thinks marriage might be good for you.” Young Rutherford had to duck fast to avoid being bashed in the head by a flying silver platter.

“Might build character for you two to practice being submissive for awhile to your husbands,” he shouted, whilst dashing back toward the stairs to the lower-level kitchen. Margot followed, throwing a handful of sharp-pronged forks, with deadly accurate aim.

At the sound of crashing cutlery and possible impending doom, Toplofty scrambled out of his cozy parlor in the servants’ quarters to intervene and caught the tail end of his youngest son’s taunts.

“Oy—. Why in the name of St. Barnaby are you telling this poor woman such a Banbury tale?”

By that time, his youngest son was doubled over in laughter.

Just as the elderly Rutherford drew back a fist, poised to teach his youngest a lesson, Slow Rutherford ambled past balancing a tray with a tea service for Number Four. “Not the face, Da. Not our moneymaker,” he warned.

“Is this some horrid joke you’re all enjoying at our expense?” Margot had rubbed away the tears and her face was now red and blotchy with anger.

Mrs. Collins joined them and put an arm around Margot, guiding her back to her parlor. Margot’s body was stiff, and she’d stuck out her chin in defiance. “Who do you all think we are?”

Once they were in her private parlor, Mrs. Collins shut the door and turned to face the mistress from Number Five. “This experiment is not working the way the earl thought it would.”

“What made him think whatever this is with the drapers would work? And…what? We’re an experiment?”

Mrs. Collins laid her hand lightly over Margot’s. “He’s a man…and sometimes men, in their never-ending quest to keep their own lives simple, end up complicating the lives of others.”

Margot left Cassandra’s parlour a little later, a little wiser. In a way, the earl’s crazed efforts to protect them all from the blackmailer kind of made sense…kind of.

After being filled in by the housekeeper, however, she’d determined it was time to take control of the farce under way at Number Five Grosvenor Street. She wouldn’t wait for the sword of destiny to fall from the sky and destroy her and Gabrielle. She’d go straight to the dragon’s lair and demand some answers.

When she slipped back into her own drawing room where she’d left Gabrielle engrossed in all the gorgeous samples the drapers had brought, the cavernous room was empty with only one candle lantern throwing low light across the room. The fire in the fireplace had been banked for the night.

Soft sounds of laughter drifted up the hallway from the two bedchambers at the rear of the first floor where the drapers were going to stay whilst finishing the renovations.

Margot’s heart sank. No matter how long she lived, she’d recognize the sound of the tinkle of Gabrielle’s giggles. Her lover must have gotten bored waiting for her to return. And now she was…Margot couldn’t bear to consider where she was or what she might be doing.