Chapter 4

4

"We're buggered, guv'." Dickie Jones burst into Derek's study with his usual aplomb and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Bow Street runner Archer Colwyn and barrister Stephen Forsythe seated in the chairs before the massive mahogany desk. Fast on the boy's heels, Derek's butler, Brighton, raced into the room, breathless.

"I do apologize, my lord. The little vermin slipped past me before I could throw him out."

"He were taking too long to let me see you." Dickie strolled to the window and dropped onto the cushioned seat. "Who you calling vermin, you palsied old fool?"

"What would Carrington-Bowles say if he heard you speaking like that?" Forsythe asked. At the mention of his adoptive father the boy stilled, but only for a heartbeat.

"You tell him and I'll tell your wife who et the last of her marzipan last week."

"Jesus," Forsythe muttered. "CB has got to move this child out of Lady Camilla's house. He's worse than she is." Their Bow Street runner friend chuckled.

"That will be all, Brighton. Thank you." Derek gave the butler a commiserative smile.

"Very good, my lord." The man could not resist one last glare in Dickie's direction. To which Dickie replied with a rude hand gesture.

"To what do I owe this unexpected visit, Mr. Jones?"

"Bit of information about a certain vicar that could be trouble," the boy replied with a quick meaningful glance at the other two gentlemen.

"When?"

"Last night. At the Lamb and Flag." Dickie continued to study Col and Sythe.

"What the hell were you doing in Covent Garden last night?" Col asked. "And don't tell me CB and Nathaniel allow you to run tame all over London now that they have taken on the raising of you, you little miscreant."

"That would be my business, now wouldn't it, Bow Streeter?" Dickie said as he strolled across the thick Aubusson to peer at a piece of parchment on Derek's desk. "Bloody hell. Another one? I thought you paid the blackguard that took Obadiah's lady." He picked up the note and perused it with care before he dropped it back onto the desk and gave a long low whistle. "He's got some brass ones, ain't he?"

The barrister laughed, but raised his hands in surrender when Col and Derek stared at him in disbelief. "The lad's assessment is as fair as any. We nearly caught the man, and he has the bluster to ask for five thousand pounds this time?"

One down. Four to go. Time is growing short. I want the name of your murderess or I will extract the information myself. I was kind with Miss Godet. I won't be as kind with the next. The price of my silence is now five thousand pounds. Leave the bank draft in a sealed envelope with a serving wench named Betty at the Prospect of Whitby by Thursday next. I suggest you leave the name of your murderess with the money.

Dick Turpin

"Prospect of Whitby," Dickie said softly. He and Derek exchanged a look. Which, of course, Archer Colwyn caught.

"You two want to let us in on what brought Lady Camilla's favorite source of information running to you this morning, Framlingwood?"

"It very likely has nothing to do with—"

"I'll be the judge of that." Col had his full Bow Street runner tone and face on at this point. "You involved us in this blackmail scheme. You have asked for our help."

"Not to mention your involving Lady Camilla and our wives whom neither of us dares disappoint." Forsythe and Colwyn both leaned forward in their chairs. Derek tapped his forefinger on the note and stared at the words, written in a different hand this time, no doubt to confuse anyone trying to discover the blackmailer's identity. He traced his finger under the name of the tavern and raised his head just enough to allow his eyes to meet Dickie's. Then he shook his head. Dickie nodded in understanding.

"Well?" Col finally urged when no one spoke.

"Someone was at the Lamb and Flag last night asking after the vicar's wife," Dickie said carefully. He brushed his hand across his worn woolen trousers, the ones he wore when he wanted to blend into his old life before Lionel Carrington-Bowles and Nathaniel Charpentier took him in and made him their son. "No one knew anything, but I heard this man already asked at the church and even showed up at Mr. Lionel's charity clinic a few days ago."

"What does any of this have to do with—"

"The vicar's wife is one of my mistresses," Derek said. "Sophia Hawksworth. He was a monster, and she left him. She found work at the Duchess of Chelmsford's club and became my mistress three years ago. Hawksworth is not her real name, but I expect you to keep that knowledge in this room."

"Of course."

"Naturally."

"Do you think this may have something to do with our blackmailer?" Col asked. "Was the man asking after her the vicar?"

"No," Derek and Dickie answered at once.

"How do you know?" Sythe asked.

Derek took a deep breath. "The vicar is dead." Dickie flinched. "That information also does not leave this room. Not even Sophia knows that. Nor does the duchess."

"Are you certain Mrs. Hawksworth doesn't know? Perhaps she is your murderess. She wouldn't be the first wife to kill a husband who deserved it. What?" Forsythe looked at Derek and Col askance. "I'm a barrister, not a saint."

A log shifted in the fireplace. The clock on the mantel struck the hour. Derek began to realize exactly how delicate the web of lies his life had become was. He'd done all he could to keep the Grosvenor Street ladies safe. He'd done so alone for many reasons. Asking for help was not something he did easily. Especially when he would have to share secrets that were not his own to share.

"Is there a reason the lady does not know her husband is dead, if indeed she does not know?"

"There are reasons, but they have nothing to do with our blackmailer. He was…He died a few years after she left. She had already changed her name and gone into hiding so no one came looking to tell her of his demise. I'd like to keep it that way." Sweat trickled down the back of Derek's neck. The fire was not that high nor was the hearth close to his desk. His jacket was hung over the back of his chair, but his neckcloth and vest began to smother him.

"Until now," Col said.

"Until now?"

"Framlingwood," the Bow Street man chided. "No one has come looking for her until now. Surely you don't at least want to entertain the idea this may have something to do with your blackmailer. The man has used minions before and quite successfully. Perhaps this man making inquiries is trying to track Mrs. Hawksworth down to deliver her to your blackmailer."

"Or he may be using these inquiries to draw our attention from one of the other ladies," Sythe added. "Whatever the situation, we need to have all of the information, and we need to act quickly before he does something more dire to one of them this time."

"I'll kill the blackguard." Derek's entire being went cold. "I will never allow that to happen to another woman in my care again."

Dickie cleared his throat. Sythe looked at Col, his eyes full of questions. Col shook his head.

"How and when did the vicar die?" Col asked.

"Don't know,' Dickie said, hands in his pockets as he shrugged and spotted the tea tray on the table next to the high-backed leather fireside chair.

"They fished him out of the Thames," Derek said, his gaze steadily on Dickie. "Help yourself. The tea is still hot." The boy shuffled across the Aubusson and settled into the leather chair before he attacked the tea and plate of blackberry tarts.

Derek suddenly realized Col had been scribbling furiously with a stub of a pencil in the little notebook he always had with him. The Bow Street man tended to write everything down. Whereas Forsythe tended to keep his thoughts locked firmly in his head until he needed them. At least that had been Derek's experience since they'd started trying to unravel the mystery of the blackmailer together.

"Can you find this man before next Thursday?" Derek asked. "Do you have any idea who he is?"

"I don't know," Col said. "But I am beginning to have some ideas about what sort of man he might be. I need to discover if there is any connection between this man looking for the vicar's wife and our blackmailer."

"How do you plan to do that?" Derek shifted in his chair. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

"With young Mr. Jones's help, of course." They all three turned toward Dickie who nearly choked on a bite of blackberry tart. He gulped down some tea and dragged his sleeve across his mouth.

"Not for nufin' you won't. I don't work for Bow Street. You want my help it'll cost yer."

"Of course it will," Sythe said. "And the earl will happily pay you for your efforts." The barrister turned a smug smile on Derek.

"I don't know about happily," Derek muttered.

"Then I'm at yer service, guv', so long as his lordship's paying." Dickie gave Derek a meaningful nod of his head. Derek's shoulders loosened. His secrets were safe with Lady Camilla's protégé. God help him if the lady ever discovered what he'd involved the boy in a few years ago. Had Dickie really only been a child of seven? Then again, Dickie Jones had been on the streets from the age of five. He had experienced things in his ten years that some men of thirty would never know.

Col picked up the blackmailer's note and tucked it into his waist coat pocket. "I will do my best to track this villain down, but I would prepare the bank draft just in case of I were you. And I will make arrangements for me to make the delivery at the Prospect of Whitby. I'll brook no arguments from you, Framlingwood," he put in when Derek opened his mouth to object. "I am the trained investigator. I am the one who will notice anything pertinent. The details are what will reveal his identity. He's clever and if my suspicions are confirmed, he'll be a formidable opponent to find."

"Suspicions? What suspicions? If you think you know who he is, why would you keep it a secret from me?" Derek demanded.

Forsythe cleared his throat.

"Turn about is fair play, Framlingwood. You are keeping secrets. From us. From the ladies. From the Duchess of Chelmsford, which I thought to be nigh on impossible. You are even paying a blackmailer to keep some of those secrets. You would not be paying if each of those ladies did not have secrets of her own. Secrets you know and secrets you dare not ask."

"Their secrets are not mine to tell. And the last time I asked a lady about her secrets Col found her murdered body in the Thames." Derek turned away from them to stare out the window. "I won't do that again."

They sat in silence for a while. Though Derek sensed Col and Sythe's eyes on him. Searching for what to say next, no doubt. He wished them luck in the endeavor. There was nothing to say about Celeste's death. Not anymore. There was nothing he could do for her. But he could take care of the four women still under his care. He'd keep secrets, pay money, and do whatever was necessary.

"At some point you will have to tell Mrs. Hawksworth her husband is dead." Sythe's voice, solemn and still, cut like the sharpest of blades. "I will let you choose when. Perhaps when this is all over. But you cannot keep that news from her, whether she be glad or not to hear it. You will have to tell her all of it, every part." Derek snapped his head around to find Col and Sythe standing, Sythe with his leather satchel and Col with his little book. "I, on the other hand, do not need to hear it all. Neither does Col." He paused a moment and then quit the room as quietly as a ghost.

"You'll send for me if you receive another note?" Col asked.

"Of course. You'll tell me if you discover anything? Anything at all?"

"Yes. And let me know if Joshua Norcross has anything to report. He is settled in Mrs. Hawksworth's establishment?"

"He is. I will confess it, though if you tell him, I will deny it. I am glad he is there. Musician he may be, but we both know he's a brawler of some mettle."

"Trounced Lord Livingston's arse more than once," Dickie announced as he came to flounce into one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Makes him good enough for me."

"Do I want to know the source of your animus toward Lord Livingston?" Derek asked as he and Col shared a grin.

"If yer mean why I wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire, he named me for a thief and tried to come between Mr. Lionel and Mr. Nathaniel. Call me a thief I can forgive. Hurt those two gentlemen? Never if I live to be a hundred and three." He scrubbed his hands over his face, though Derek and likely Col did not miss the glint of tears in the boy's eyes.

"You'll come to see me at Bow Street when you're finished here?" Col asked Dickie. "I want to see what we can discover about this man asking after the vicar's wife."

"I'll be by, Bow Streeter. Long as you promise none of your sort will lock me up."

"I make no promises," Col said as he saluted the boy and left.

Once the door closed Derek slumped into his chair and fixed Dickie with a narrow gaze. "Tell me everything about the man looking for the vicar's wife."

"Send for some real food, guv'. To my way of thinking, this could be bad."

"Bad?" Derek ran his hands through his hair. "Dickie, I have five mistresses."

"Four." The impudent master spy held up four fingers.

"Very well, four mistresses. One of whom may be a murderess. I am being blackmailed. And most aspects of my life, I am uncertain as to which, are being managed by a Bow Street Runner, a barrister, the Duchess of Chelmsford who is formerly a notorious pirate, and Lady Camilla Bowles Attington Carrington Whitby. The way my life has unfolded these last several weeks, anything less than a complete disaster would be a relief. Now. What do you know of the man inquiring after my Sophia?"