Maggie MacKeever (29 page)

“I’ll disappear.”

That was what he feared. “At least remain here until we decide what’s best to do.”

Julie opened her mouth to argue. Ned raised his free hand to lightly touch her swollen lip. “Stay the night. What difference can it make?”

“You’re putting yourself in danger. All of you.”

“How so?” Ned kept his voice calm. “No one knows you’re here.
Bates is certain he wasn’t followed. Since the pair of you came in through the tunnels, your arrival wouldn’t have been noticed even if the house
is
under watch.”

Julie hesitated; let out a deep breath. “Have it your way. But I don’t want to be left alone.”

Ned didn’t want her to be alone. Until the Cap’n’s claws were drawn, he didn’t want her out of his sight.

He released her hand. Julie sat quietly watching as Ned stripped off his coat and waistcoat, pulled off his boots, unwound his cravat.

“You can’t sleep in that.” She didn’t protest as he deftly unfastened her cloak. He added, “Scoot over.” She scooted. Ned stretched out on the daybed.

Julie hesitated for a moment before she arranged herself stiffly at his side.

Ned slid one arm around her shoulders. Moments passed before she began to shake. When the tears came, he said nothing, but held her as she wept, his hand stroking gently up and down her back. Gradually, her body relaxed. Julie nestled as close to him as she could get, her cheek pressed against his heart.

Careful not to disturb her, Ned pulled the coverlet over both of them.

Though neither would have believed it possible, before dawn broke they slept.

Chapter Thirty-One

He who holds the hook is aware in what waters many fish are swimming
.
— Ovid

It was quiet in the library, save for the sporadic clink of Clea’s china
chocolate cup, and the occasional
canine snort and snuffle from Cerberus, who was dozing on the hearth. Ned
sat silently behind his desk, studying a seventeenth century smallsword fashioned of Toledo steel. Julie explored the perimeters of the room, munching on a muffin taken from the
plate sitting on the desk. She was rigged out in a pair of baggy breeches, yellow stockings and ribbon-tied leather shoes; a long-sleeved linen shirt; and, incongruously, a Spanish-looking shawl
embroidered with bright flowers and trimmed with fringe. Clea, conversely, appeared remarkably grown up in a morning dress of pale green chintz that brought out the green of her eyes. Grown up, that was, save for the extravagantly plumed gentleman’s hat she’d plopped
upon her head. In her lap rested a bedraggled fur muff. The servants were off about their business. The library door was safely locked.

Lord Saxe picked up the smallsword, which along with Julie’s clothes and the plumed hat numbered among Clea’s latest finds. The weapon was complete with a small guard composed of two oval lobes fashioned in a figure eight, a single short quillion, two small arms and a knuckle-bow. “This is essentially a thrusting piece,” he said, as he balanced it in his hand. “See how the relatively short blade tapers to a point.”

That the baron would like to take the smallsword to her, Julie had no doubt. His eyes had almost crossed with anger when Clea announced she meant to be part of this council of war. Julie’s own mood had been much improved by a few hours passed sleeping in Ned’s arms. Or sleeping draped atop him, because that was how she woke. To her disappointment, sleeping was all they’d done. She ran her fingers over the copy of
Debrett’s Peerage
that lay open on a shelf.

The scare she’d had at the brothel hadn’t changed Julie’s mind about dancing the feather-bed jig. At least, about dancing it with Ned. Unfortunately, he hadn’t changed his mind either, about the proper time and place. She asked him, “Did you tell Milord High-in-the-Instep about Cap’n Jack? Because if you did, it could have been
him
as blew the gab.” The baron scowled at Julie’s choice of words, which was exactly why she’d spoken as she did.

Ned said, “Kane may be many things, sunshine, but a gab-blower isn’t among them. Did the Cap’n say anything to you that would indicate he knew you’d told me about him? Because from what you’ve said, I suspect that if he
had
known, we wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

“Yes, well
,
I
shouldn’t
be here.”

“Amen,” muttered Lord Saxe.

“‘
Stultum facit fortuna quem vult perdere.
’”
Clea stroked her muff. “If fortune wants to do you in, she makes you stupid. Syrus.”

It wasn’t fortune that wished to do her in. Julie
met the baron’s gaze. “All right then. What do you want to know?”

“You say you saw the Cap’n. Tell us what he looks like.”

The baron sounded suspicious. Julie felt like thumbing her nose. She reminded herself that the man
had
saved her from being crushed to death under the wheels of an oncoming carriage, though he would doubtless have liked to push her there himself.

She described the Cap’n. “He dresses like a toff. Talks like a swell. Might have been any of the gentry coves I’ve been rubbing shoulders with these past weeks.” She contemplated the man sitting behind the desk. He winked at her. “Excepting Ned.”

A muscle twitched in the baron’s jaw. “A tall dark-haired, dark-eyed gentleman. That hardly narrows the field. What more can you tell us? The smallest detail sometimes can help.”

“What’s the point? It was probably a disguise. There’s ways for a person to seem taller or shorter, and he might have worn a wig.” There’d be no changing those soulless eyes. Julie would know the Cap’n if they met again. “He’ll be mad as fire that I escaped. Next thing, I’ll be back in Newgate.”

Clea could no longer restrain herself. “Why
were
you in Newgate?”

“I filched a set of silver teaspoons. When I was nabbed, I had on my person a diving hook and picklock, and a ginny to pull the grate.”

“I thought you were a pickpocket.”

“I was. I am. Which is why I got caught when I went on the day sneak.”

Kane looked more disapproving. “What made you decide to broaden your theater of operations? If one may ask.”

The baron was a handsome man. He knew it far too well. Julie skirted a tipsy pile of books and a stack of maps, came to a stop in front of him. “You have hair on your coat,” she said, and brushed it off. “Probably from the dog.”

How to explain her life to one who hadn’t lived it? One, moreover, who had only contempt for such as she? Julie turned away. “There are class lines in the rookeries, no less than between rich and poor. A nipper goes from stealing apples to filching from stalls, and on to swiping stickpins and handkerchiefs. Natty lads aspire to be lifters and then knuckles, the better class of pickpocket who goes to public places and snaffles pocketbooks, watches, and that sort of thing.”

Clea leaned forward in her chair. “Like you.”

Julie touched the astrolabe, the use of which Clea had already demonstrated, along with her lack of ability on the lute. “I aimed above myself.”

“How old were you?”

“When I was hobbled? Ten-and-four. I think.”

“A year younger than I am now.”

“That circumstance has escaped none of us,” commented Kane. “You shouldn’t be hearing this, Clea.”

“I shouldn’t be hearing you sound like Cousin Hannah,” retorted that young lady. “I’ll be glad when the Allied Sovereigns go home so you can return to being yourself.”

Kane looked somber. “The peace is at last to be announced. Plans are underway for a victory celebration in Hyde Park.”

Julie wondered why Lord Saxe should sound unhappy about a celebration. Maybe he didn’t like to see people enjoying themselves.

Ned tapped on the pewter inkstand. “We’re getting off track. Julie was caught stealing teaspoons, and wound up in Newgate.
Does that strike no one else as odd? Almost all prosecutions are initiated by private persons, at their discretion, and conducted in accordance with their wishes. In other words, a criminal can’t be convicted unless a private citizen agrees to prosecute. Who would send a child to Newgate for stealing a teaspoon?”

Kane poured himself another cup of coffee. “Anyone who values his teaspoons, I should think.”

Clearly the baron valued his. Julie gave the old globe a spin.

Lord Saxe resumed his interrogation. “What’s the earliest thing you remember?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Humor me, Miss Wynne.”

She glanced at Ned. He nodded. Julie leaned a hip against the edge of the old desk, and thought back. She had a vague notion of being one of many, a roof above her head but not enough to eat, and overall the stink of gin; swarming the streets with other ragged bantlings in search of their daily bread.

Such children began to steal as soon as they were old enough to walk. By the time Julie came to the notice of Mother Yarwood, she was already making off with goods from places where adult thieves could not.

Clea was fascinated. “What sort of things?”

“Food. Small items of clothing, especially handkerchiefs. Brooches and bracelets, combs and looking glasses from the stalls. Rolls of fabric, tablecloths and individual fire-irons.”

“What happens to them?”

“The goods are taken to an angling cove. A fencing ken. Mother Yarwood has women in the streets who hide small things in their barrows until it’s safe to pass them on.” Julie moved away from the desk.
“Most operators find themselves in the Old Bailey or Newgate long before I did. A shifting lad doesn’t often live to an old age. His friends go with him to the gallows, giving him support so that he may die game, and have his last speech written down and sold, and be talked of for a week.”

Ned, Clea, and the baron were all three watching her. Julie bent to give the dog’s ears a scratch. He opened one eye, snapped his jaws, and went back to sleep.

Ned said, “You believe the Cap’n might be a member of the
ton
.”

The Cap’n talked like a swell, Julie repeated. Not like someone putting on, as an actor did, nor even like Ned, who hadn’t always been at home in aristocratic drawing rooms. The Cap’n spent enough time in those drawing rooms to know what was going on in the Polite World. She suspected he might be one of the elegant and expert criminals who promenaded in the West End, and attended fashionable assemblies, and were the true aristocrats of crime; who lived and dressed well, employed servants, acted every inch the proper gentlemen while meticulously planning out their robberies and swindles and frauds.

“But none of this,” Julie concluded, “explains why he’s had me doing the things he has.”

“Why
did
you do them?” Kane inquired.

“Remove the wax from your ears!” snapped Julie. “Because he threatened me.”

The baron contemplated her. “You don’t like me much.”

“It’s not for my sort to like or dislike yours. You, on the other hand, are judging me as if I was a respectable female, which I’m not and never hope to be.” Julie reached into her sleeve, withdrew the handkerchief that she’d palmed, and presented it to him.

“
Brava!
” Clea clapped her hands. Roused from slumber, Cerberus
ambled over to her, pausing en route to snarl at Kane. A brief diversion then occurred, for Cerberus took exception to Clea having what he took to be a strange animal in her lap, and the muff had to be rescued, and the dog soothed.

The baron accepted his handkerchief without comment and tucked it away. “Inquiries thus far have unearthed little about your Cap’n. He is a shadow man, a chimera, a will o’ the wisp.”

Julie scowled. “He’s real enough.”

“The man you saw was real enough. But is he who — or what — you have been led to believe? Does this business stop with Cap’n Jack, or does he answer to a higher authority?”

“A head of the hydra?” Clea guessed. “Kane, you have a very complicated mind.”

“Thank you. I think.”

Ned grasped Julie’s hand as she walked past the desk and pulled her down to perch on the arm of his chair. “You’re wearing a path in my carpet, buttercup. Leave the pacing to Kane. The Hydra was a mythological creature with the body of a serpent and many heads, only one of which could be harmed by any weapon. If any of the others were severed, another would grow in its place.”

“The stench of its breath was horrid enough to kill man and beast,” contributed Clea. “Destroying the Hydra was the second labor of Hercules.”

“Perhaps we may leave furthering Miss Wynne’s classical education
for another time,” the baron interjected, thereby adding to Julie’s annoyance, because he’d guessed she hadn’t the slightest notion of who Hercules was. “We must discover the Cap’n’s deeper purpose. What items have you stolen, and from whom?”

Julie had been dreading this. It went against the grain to own up to her misdeeds, especially in front of Ned.

But own up to them, she did. In truth, she had no choice. There was a brief silence before Clea said, “You must be very,
very
good. And very brave as well, to steal something right from under Prinny’s nose.”

“He wasn’t in the room,” Julie pointed out.

“Thank heaven for small favors,” said Ned.

He didn’t sound especially disillusioned. Julie risked a glance.

“Lady Jersey’s ballroom?” Ned inquired.

“After you left.”

The baron interrupted. “Lady Willoughby’s amethyst necklace came to light in a pawn shop. Her husband, who redeemed the thing, is furious with her
. This places the lady in an unfortunate position. He is the highest of sticklers and she hasn’t yet produced an heir. Rumor has it that he now refuses to share her bed.”

 “None of these items is in itself of particular value,” Ned pointed out. “However, they are all a source of embarrassment if they fall into the wrong hands. One wonders what the Cap’n hopes to achieve by this maneuvering.”