Maggie MacKeever (30 page)

“So one does,” agreed Kane.

“Flats, the pair of you!” Julie pulled away from Ned. “The world’s made up of sharps ready to take a man on all occasions, and flats waiting to be taken, and Cap’n Jack is the sharpest of them all. He doesn’t go easy on those who get in his way. I’m surprised that Mother Yarwood
. . .
” She broke off.

“What about Mother Yarwood?” Ned asked.

“It was her as let me out of that locked room. I wonder why she did it, because she has no more true liking for me than I have for her.”

“Which is another reason why you must stay here,” Ned said grimly. “You know too much. The Cap’n can’t be sure you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

“If he thinks I haven’t, he’ll hurt Rose.”

“That wouldn’t serve his purpose. He’ll expect you to get in touch with her.”

Kane interrupted. “Rose is the person who passed on the things you stole?”

He sounded censorious. Julie swung round to glare. “She didn’t have any more choice than I did. The Cap’n threatens his victims with what they fear most.”

Rose feared her lovers would be shamed. Tony feared his true nature would be revealed. Julie wondered if Lady Georgiana and Tony had realized she was missing, or if they had arranged for her to be taken away. If not, they might be worried to learn she wasn’t in the house.

More likely, they were both limp with relief. “You fear being sent back to Newgate,” Clea guessed.

“No.” Julie studied the toe of her shoe. “I fear being hanged.”

“A fair consideration,” observed the baron. “However, I must point out that it’s unlikely you would have hanged for stealing your first set of teaspoons.”

“That’s not what I was told when I was taken out of Newgate.” Julie raised her gaze, emotions back under control.
“‘
Death or transportation is the punishment for theft of property worth more than five shillings from a shop.’ And that’s a quote.”

Kane’s gaze narrowed. “If Cap’n Jack took you out of Newgate, how is it you never saw his face before last night?”

“Arch coves like the Cap’n don’t do things for themselves. They have people like Pritchett to do for them.”

Three sets of eyes fixed on Julie — four including Cerberus, wakened irritably from his nap. “Who is Pritchett?” asked Ned, speaking for them all.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The man who has experienced shipwreck shudders even at a calm sea
.
— Ovid

The conference underway in Wakely Court was not the sole
parlay to take place this day. In a more exclusive area of town, Tony sat plucking his harp as his mama heaped censure on his head. Since his mama hadn’t forgiven him for calling her a flap-dragon, they were barely on speaking terms, which made no difference so far as he could see to her ripping up at him. Many more peals rung in his ears and he would be stone deaf.

Tony revenged himself by thinking of maternal appellations. Prattle-box, clack-dish and harridan leapt immediately to mind. At the moment Georgiana was scolding him for eating too much bread and jam, and said his new waistcoat made him look fat.

Fat! Tony tucked in his chin to look down at his belly, currently encased in contrasting shades of Evening Primrose and Periwinkle Green. “Weston fashioned this waistcoat,” he protested.

“No doubt it made Weston as bilious as it makes me,” retorted his mama, who was herself dressed this morning in — what else? — her favorite lilac.

If his waistcoat made his mama bilious, it was no more than fair, because Georgiana affected Tony the same way. He played an arpeggio and wished he might have a cherry tart. No, he wished he might have
ten
tarts, and eat them all in front of Maman, and watch her gasp and turn pale from the shock of it, and maybe expire, at which point he might regain control of his pocketbook and his life.

He didn’t really want his mama to pop off, Tony amended. Even if she was a sneaksby. A crosspatch. An archwife.

“And where is Julie?” demanded Lady Georgiana. “The morning is too advanced for her to be lolling about in bed.”

Tony wished that he might loll about somewhere. Elsewhere. His mama continued for several moments in this vein, miffed that Julie was taking advantage of her new status as a blackmailer to sleep in and neglect her morning duties, which
mainly consisted — in Tony’s opinion — of coaxing her employer down out of the boughs.

Maman, that was, not Tony. Tony might be Julie’s employer, but no one humored him. This reflection cast a further blight upon his spirits. He struck a dissonant chord.

Lady Georgiana grimaced. “Try to hit the right notes, if you will. I don’t know why we wasted all that money on music lessons if that’s all the better you can play.”

Fortunately for Tony’s temper, because his grip on its reins was weakening, the butler chose that moment to scratch on the door. “A person to see you, my lord.”

To say that the butler displayed disapproval of the caller was to grossly overstate the case. Willets would never by so much as a twitch of a nostril do something so vulgar as indicate distaste. Still, Tony had no doubt that Willets
did
disapprove. There was a distinct chill in the air.

On Willet’s silver tray lay a calling card. Tony picked up the pasteboard square and immediately regretted he hadn’t left that last kipper on his breakfast plate.

Lady Georgiana broke off in mid-complaint. “What is it now?”

Pritchett is what it was, or who, and how Tony was to explain a Bow Street Runner to his mama greatly exercised his mind. “Show him to the study,” he said to Willets. “I’ll be right along.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Tony!” Lady Georgiana repeated, ominously, after the butler left the room. “
Whom
is Willets showing to the study?”

Tony brushed a stray breadcrumb off his waistcoat and strove for nonchalance. “It’s gentleman’s business. Nothing to bother your head about.”

Gentleman’s business, was it? Georgiana went on the alert. “If you have been gambling again
. . .
”

For every bucket there is a drop that makes the container overflow. For Tony, this was his. “Gamble? With what? You have the purse strings knotted up as tight as if you was one of those old Greek fellows, but you ain’t King Midas, and I ain’t a minotaur!”

His mama’s mouth dropped open. Before she could succumb to the vapors, or alternately hurl her teacup at him, Tony whisked himself out of the room.

There would be a reckoning. Already Tony regretted his rash words. But if he was going to be hauled over the coals in any event, it might as well be for a good cause. Heaven only knew what Maman would say if she knew they had a Bow Street Runner in the house. Heaven only knew what Tony
would say by way of explanation if she happened to find out.

If?
Of course she would find out. Maman insisted on knowing the minutest detail of everything that went on in her house.
His
house, in point of fact, though nobody would think so from all the say he had about anything. Tony spied his image in a pier glass and paused to give his coat a twitch. And furthermore his new waistcoat did
not
make him look fat.

Pritchett was indeed in the study, contemplating the china figures perched on the marble chimneypiece. Not that Tony had any reason to think Pritchett
wouldn’t
be in the study, but one could always hope. The Runner turned as Tony entered the room.

“I said
I’d get it!” protested Tony, once the door was securely
closed. “I have to find
the thing first. Can’t just go walking into Julie’s room, can I? Look what happened the last time.”

Pritchett turned away from the chimneypiece. “What the devil are you talking about?” he inquired.

“What
would
I be talking about? Head of a hippo, legs of a lion, tail of a crocodile: does that ring a bell? And now that I think on it — which I don’t
want
to do, by the bye, though what I
want don’t seem to signify! — it’s your fault I’m in such a pickle with Maman, because it was you as told me I should search Julie’s rooms in the first place.”

Pritchett knew a little French. The term
‘bête noire’
sprang to mind. “You searched? What did you find?”

“I found her corset, that’s what.” Tony seated himself at the organ. “And Maman found me.”

Pritchett didn’t want to know. He truly didn’t. But he couldn’t help himself. “Corset?”

“It’s not as if I was wearing it! But I might as well have been, for the fit Maman threw.” Tony fiddled with the stop knobs, pumped the organ pedals, and placed his hands on the keys.

Pritchett blinked. It was difficult to startle a Bow Street Runner, but Tony had managed to do just that. Before he could ask for further enlightenment, which at any rate he wasn’t certain that he wanted, the mellow tones of the organ rolled through the room.

Tony picked his way through a Bach fugue. The organ might not resonate with him as did the harp, but on the other hand it was loud.

He paused. “Julie says her bruises are result of her walking into a door when it’s plain as the nose on her face that she did nothing of the sort. Tell you what, I don’t think much of this Cap’n of yours if he goes around bruising females.”

Pritchett didn’t think much of Tony’s chances of survival, the way he was going on. “Bruises?” he asked.

“Bruises.” Tony tapped his chin. “And then she tumbled out in front of that carriage. I thought it was all over with her. It was an accident. Had to be. A lucky thing Saxe was passing by.”

Unlikely that Jules had tripped, thought Pritchett; no matter how much the viscount might wish to think it so. A lass nimble enough to traverse a city by way of its rooftops wasn’t likely to stumble into the path of an oncoming carriage. Someone had given her a push.

This, he hadn’t known about. Pritchett didn’t like it one bit. “It’s about Miss Wynne that I’m here,” he said.

Tony executed a complicated passage. “What about Miss Wynne?”

That was an excellent question. Julie’s disappearance had put the Cap’n in a towering rage. As if he’d misplaced more than a quick-fingered street urchin who could pass as what she was not.

The library door swung open. A woman walked into the room.
That this was Tony’s mama, Pritchett had no doubt. The family resemblance could not be denied.

Her sharp eyes fixed on her son. “Willets informs me that Julie is nowhere in the house. Her bed looks scarce slept in.”

Tony took offense. “Well, she didn’t sleep in mine.”

“Perhaps,” said Georgiana, awfully, “it would better if she had. Better a scheming little nobody than—”

Pritchett cleared his throat. “It’s about Miss Wynne that I’m here.”

Recalled to the presence of a stranger, Georgiana fixed him with a haughty eye. “I
am Lady Georgiana Ashcroft. And you are—”

“Pritchett,” Tony offered gloomily. “He’s a Bow Street Runner, Maman.”

“Bow Street? In your study?” Lady Georgiana wavered between a faint and a frown.

The frown won out. “What about Miss Wynne, pray?”

“There are those who wish to speak with her, my lady.” Pritchett had already made a polite bow. “As to why, that must remain private, I’m afraid.”

Georgiana elevated her vinaigrette to the vicinity of her nose. “I knew that baggage was up to nothing good.”

“You think everyone’s up to no good, Maman. It would serve
you right if you was to encounter someone who truly is.” Tony surveyed Pritchett, his forehead puckered in thought. “If we didn’t know Julie was missing, how did
you
?”

Lady Georgiana contemplated the Runner over the top of her vinaigrette. “That is an excellent question, son.”

“Let us simply say that a certain party considers it a matter of grave urgency that Miss Wynne should be found.” Pritchett didn’t know how he could make things more clear to Tony unless he spelled it out. “He will be
extremely
disappointed if she is not.”

“Um.” The viscount had taken Pritchett’s meaning, judging from the stricken expression on his face.

His mama looked suspicious. “I demand to know what is going on. Since I will get it out of you eventually, Tony, you might as well confess.”

He might as well go drown himself in the Serpentine. “There must be some good reason Julie ran off,” Tony said. “If run off she did, which I for one find too smoky by half, because her new dresses ain’t come yet. If she meant to take French leave, she would have waited until after they arrived.”

Pritchett wondered if he would ever become accustomed to the
viscount’s logic, or his lack thereof. “Maybe dresses aren’t that important to Miss Wynne.”

“That shows all you know! Dresses are important to every female. Just ask Maman.” Since it was obvious the maternal
suspicions hadn’t been allayed, Tony went on the attack. “Mildred went to Oxford Street to match a length of ribbon and never came back. Now Julie’s disappeared. I wouldn’t be surprised if Maman didn’t drive both of them off with her crotchets and megrims. She didn’t used to be so nasty-tempered. I think it’s her dotage coming on.”

“My—” Georgiana clapped a hand to her chest. “It’s
you
who are acting like a loony. If you had a grain of proper feeling—”

Tony slammed down his hands on the organ keys. “Well, I don’t!”

“Heartless boy! You’ll regret this mistreatment when I am no longer here.” Georgiana drooped gracefully into a chair.

Tony eyed her blankly. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Gudgeon!” said his mama, in failing tones.

Pritchett edged toward the door. “You have my card.”

Tony waved his hand. Despite his mama’s theatrics, the viscount was the one who looked ill.

Pritchett sympathized.

At least Julie had escaped the brothel, and for that Dorset’s batman must be thanked.