* * * *
He ended up south of Russell Square. He walked down several streets and then stopped in a corner pub for a glass of ale. He hadn’t eaten since last night’s supper, and the ale went right to his head. He had intended to save his money and eat only once a day, but decided to make an exception and ordered a plate of bread and cheese. When the barmaid brought him his food, he smiled at her and said he was new to the neighborhood and looking for a place to say. Did she know of anyone who’d be willing to rent him a room?
“There’s Mrs. Jarvison’s. Or Mrs. Spencer’s,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Mrs. Spencer always has rooms, although you may have to share,” she added with a wink.
“Oh, I don’t mind sharing,” said Jim, thinking what a good-natured girl she was. “Bucknall Street, you said?”
“Yes, sir.”
The food and drink had revived him, but Jim wanted to find a place quickly so he’d be off the streets. He decided to go straight to this Mrs. Spencer’s, since it was closer.
Number 17 Bucknall Street was a small house which stood out from the others on the street because of its newly whitewashed bricks and the cleanliness of its windows. Jim knocked at the door, which was opened by a young woman who appeared somewhat overdressed for a maid. Overdressed and underdressed, thought Jim, trying not to look at what the girl’s low bodice revealed.
“Can I help you sir?” she asked.
“I am looking for a Mrs. Spencer,” Jim responded. “I understand she has rooms available.”
The girl laughed. “You might put it that way. Come in, sir, and I’ll get Mrs. Spencer.”
Jim was shown into the parlor, a very tastefully decorated room. The place seemed clean and respectable, and with a very pretty print on the wall, Jim thought as he gazed at the light-filled landscape.
“That is a Constable,” said a clear, strong voice behind him.
At the word, “constable” Jim almost jumped out of his new and rather ill-fitting suit.
“Constable? Where?” he asked without thinking, as he turned and faced Mrs. Spencer, or so he assumed her to be. How could anyone have found him so quickly? He glanced around the room. There was no place to hide. He was about ready to push past her when she said, more gently:
“John Constable, the painter. You seemed to be admiring my painting, Mr…?
“Oh, yes, uh, of course,” Jim stammered. “Jim…Jones, ma’am.”
Mrs. Spencer smiled. “Mr.…Jones, then. I understand you are looking for a…room.”
“Yes. How much do you charge per night?”
“It depends on what you want, Mr. Jones.”
“Nothing fancy. And breakfast in the morning?”
“You sound easy enough to satisfy, Mr. Jones. This is perhaps your first time in a house like mine?” Mrs. Spencer inquired.
“Uh, yes. I have never stayed at a boarding house before.”
“Well, I have just the…room for you, then. Number three, right at the top of the stairs. Ten shillings for the night.”
Jim let his breath out. He had been afraid he wouldn’t be able to afford such a clean place. “Good, I will take it.”
“Carrie will show you up. Enjoy your time with us, Mr. Jones.”
Mrs. Spencer opened the parlor door and summoned the buxom young woman who had met Jim at the door.
“Here you are, then,” she said, when they reached the top of the first flight of stairs. “A whole night, eh? There’s not many who stay more than a few hours. But, then, you are young and perhaps new to the city.”
“Er, yes,” said Jim, thankful when she left, shutting the door behind her.
He looked around. It was a very nice room. A little over-decorated for his taste, perhaps. A bit odd to have a crimson coverlet and pillow sham, he thought, and the prints on these walls were certainly not landscapes! But it was clean and it was his, and now that his foolish fear had subsided, he felt very safe. He slipped off his shoes and lay back on the bed, which was very comfortable.
There was a soft knock at the door, and without thinking he called, “Come in,” expecting the maid with a pitcher of water for the washstand.
Instead, a slight, dark-haired girl entered, dressed even more revealingly than the maid.
“Good evening, Mr. Jones. I am Nancy.”
“Good evening, Nancy,” said Jim, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. Could this be Mrs. Spencer’s daughter, who acted as some sort of hostess? They had the same dark hair, although this girl’s face was freer of cosmetics.
The girl closed the door behind her and drew the latch shut.
“You have the room for the whole night?”
“Yes.”
“If you like me, we can spend all of it together,” said Nancy, who had put a foot up on the chair in the corner and was beginning to peel off her stockings.
“Together?” Jim wondered if he had drunk more than one tankard of ale without realizing it. And then he remembered the barmaid’s wink and her description of Mrs. Spencer’s as a place where one sometimes shared a room. He groaned and sat down on the bed. He had taken refuge in a bawdy house!
Nancy came over and sat next to him. “I understand this is your first time, Mr. Jones. Don’t worry, I can help you,” she reassured him as she started to unbutton his shirt.
Jim shrank back. “No, I mean, I said it was my first time, but I meant in a boarding house, not a bawdy house. There’s been a mistake. I must get my money back.”
“If you already paid Mrs. Spencer, you won’t get it back,” said Nancy matter-of-factly. “But you have the room, whether you want me in it or not,” she added with a rueful little smile.
“Oh, it’s not that you aren’t a pretty girl,” protested Jim. “It is just that right now, I don’t…need one.”
“Well, I’d better get Mrs. Spencer and see what we are to do with you.” Nancy was gone before Jim could protest.
He groaned again and then laughed. Here he was, a fugitive from both the law and a murderer, locked up in a brothel. And he, raised by two of the most respectable parents one could have.
Of course, he knew such places existed. But he had never even contemplated going to one. No, he had thought that one day he and Polly Hemmings, the daughter of the butcher who owned his parents’ flat, might make a match of it. A kiss or two from Polly was all he had experienced with a woman thus far. The image of Nancy’s shapely white legs came unbidden to his mind, and he felt a tightening in his groin and was appalled. How could he even think of such a thing? He needed to get his money back and find another room, was what he needed to do. Not sit here and imagine what a pretty young whore would look like with all her clothes off!
The door was opened again, this time by Mrs. Spencer. Her face, which was skillfully made up, looked a little older and harder than it had in the parlor.
“I understand you want your money back, Mr. Jones.”
“Yes, you see, there has been a misunderstanding…” said Jim, hastily standing up.
“It would seem so. Please sit down.” Jim sank back onto the bed and Mrs. Spencer pulled the chair over and sat down also.
“The question is, Mr. Jones, who should pay for the misunderstanding, you or I?”
“Perhaps we could split it?” Jim suggested tentatively. “You see, I don’t really have that much money and now I’ll have to go and find a real boarding house.” he said with a smile.
“You seemed a bit nervous when you arrived, Mr. Jones. And while having no change of clothes is no crime, it seems a bit odd, don’t you think? Just what are you running from? I don’t want any problems with the law. I run a decent business here and am very careful to keep rough customers away from my girls.”
Jim blanched.
“Although you do not look like a hardened criminal to me, Mr. Jones,” added Mrs. Spencer with a smile that softened her face and made one focus on her mouth, which was full and tender, in contrast to her businesslike expression. There was an air of sympathy about her, and Jim, without knowing why, decided to confide in her.
“I am not a criminal, Mrs. Spencer…or at least, I don’t consider myself one. But the law might well be after me.”
“For what?”
Jim told his story haltingly.
“You never went back to your parents’ house, then?”
“No, I was going to, but then it seemed the first place they would look for me.”
“And you used your mother’s maiden name at Lady Fairhaven’s?”
“Yes.”
“Then it may take longer than you think for them to identify you, much less make any connection to Lord Fairhaven. I think you have much more to fear from him than the Runners, Mr.…?”
“Rooke. Yes, I admit I am most afraid of him. Although I am pretty sure he didn’t see me.”
“No matter if he didn’t. You disappear the very night of the murder and you know he was the last person to be admitted into the house. He will wonder why you disappeared.”
“Well, it is none of your business,” said Jim resolutely. “I will leave right away. And if you could give me half the money back, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“I have another proposition for you, Mr. Rooke,” said Mrs. Spencer after a moment or two. There was something about the young man that drew her sympathy. “You now have some experience as a footman in a Mayfair household. And a footman answering the door to the gentlemen would add a certain…
Je ne sais quoi
to my business, don’t you think?” asked Mrs. Spencer with an ironic smile.
As Jim started to splutter a protest, Mrs. Spencer lifted her hand. “You seem to have covered your trail very well. You have a limited amount of money. I can offer you room and board in exchange for a position. My customers are all very respectable, I assure you. If anyone behaves like a ruffian, which is rare, I call my neighbor next door. He is a farrier for the coach company, and large enough to bounce the most troublesome off the premises. And after all, who would ever think to look for you in a bawdy house?”
Jim thought a few minutes and then decided he had no choice. She was right. His money would soon run out and then what would he do? And who would ever track him here?
“My parents would die if they knew. All they ever wanted was for me to be free from a life of service. And here I am gone from clerk to a footman in a brothel in a month!”
Mrs. Spencer laughed, but there was sympathy in her voice when she said: “You are in good company, then, Jim. I may call you Jim? All of us here have suffered rapid changes in circumstance. And Jim, if you will also run errands and help with the shopping, you can have your choice of the girls once a week. Nancy seemed to find you very appealing.”
“Er, thank you, Mrs. Spencer, but I think not.”
“If you change your mind, let me know… And Jim…”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Come downstairs and I’ll give you some money for a new suit of clothes. I expect all my employees to be well-dressed, and that suit leaves much to be desired.”
Tony was roused early on the morning of his hearing. He did his best to clean up and make himself look presentable, but a few days in Newgate, even in a private room, didn’t do much for one’s appearance. Nor did the handcuffs around his wrists.
He had managed to get the family solicitor to make a brief visit and review the procedures with him. In a magistrates’ hearing, unlike a trial, witnesses gave their testimony only before the magistrates, so Tony would not even hear the evidence against him. He sent John off to the War Office to request affidavits and a character witness. Colonel Bain, who had served with Tony in the Peninsula, would at least speak for his loyal service to the Crown and his care for his men.
When they got to Bow Street, he was kept in a separate room for what seemed forever, his hands cuffed, and guarded by an officer of the court.
He could hear doors opening and closing and at one point he thought he heard Gideon Naylor’s voice in the corridor. He found himself hoping that Naylor would open the door and pay him a visit. The sight of a familiar face, even if not a particularly friendly one would have been welcome.
It was nerve-racking to sit there and not know what was being said about him, about Claudia. He had never felt so helpless in his life—not even when he and his sergeant had been huddled behind some boulders in the mountains of Spain, hoping that the evening patrol that was walking within a foot of them would pass by.
Finally, after what seemed days, he was summoned before the magistrates. Naylor was there, sitting in the corner, and looking blander than usual. Tony was sworn in and the questioning started.
“Anthony Varden, Lord Ashford?”
“Yes, my lords.”
“You understand the charge brought against you?”
“Yes, my lords.”
“And what do you answer to this charge?”
“I am not guilty.”
Tony at first addressed both magistrates, but only one was asking the questions. The other sat there with his eyes half closed, looking as if he was ready to fall asleep, and Tony was afraid that the questioning was only for form’s sake. They had probably decided already to hand him over for trial. And if he was handed over, he would be spending weeks in Newgate.
“Could you please tell this court about your relationship with Lady Fairhaven.”
“We were good friends.”
“Come, come, Ashford, we want the whole story. When did you meet Lady Fairhaven?”
“We met at the beginning of this Season. She had spent two years in mourning for her husband and had just returned to the city and to a social life. We discovered immediately that we had something in common: we had both lost someone we had loved.”
“I presume you mean your brother?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Lady Fairhaven was an older woman, was she not?”
“Only by five years.”
“And a rich widow? And you had inherited an impoverished estate?”
Tony nodded.
“Your brother had worked very hard for the recovery of Ashford, had he not?” The magistrate did not wait for an answer. “And what were your methods, once you inherited? Not the same as your brother’s, I take it.”
“No, my lords.”
“No,” the magistrate agreed flatly. “You resigned your commission and came to London and decided that
Rouge et Noir
offered you a better chance than crop rotation?”