“Per—?” echoed Pickett, puzzled by the Latin term.
“Forgive me; per day.”
“Per
day?
You want to give me two and a half shillings a
day?
That’s—that’s fifteen shillings a week!”
“It appears we must add mathematics to the list of your accomplishments,” the magistrate observed. “Yes, fifteen shillings a week, at least at the start. Do as well as I believe you may, and you can become a principal officer —a Runner, in other words—at twenty-five shillings a week, in addition to whatever private commissions may come your way.”
Such an opportunity was surely too good to be true, and it did not take Pickett long to find the fly in this particular ointment. “That Foote fellow won’t like it.”
“Mr. Foote’s opinions need not concern you. Now, as a member of the foot patrol, you will need to wear the blue coat and red waistcoat that comprise the uniform, but these may be supplied to you at once, and the cost deducted from your wages, if that is agreeable.”
“Agreeable,” Pickett echoed stupidly, still in a daze over the abrupt turn his life had taken.
“Excellent!” proclaimed the magistrate, apparently taking this for an affirmative. He rose to his feet, having successfully concluded his business. “I daresay you will need to make other living arrangements, as Mr. Granger cannot be expected to continue to house you. I suppose I had best put you up for the night, as it’s a bit late to go in search of accommodations, but the first thing tomorrow morning, I can put you in the way of a widow in Drury Lane who hires out the rooms above her shop. Not the most salubrious of locations, I’ll grant you, but the rent is cheap
,
and it has the advantage of being convenient to Bow Street. Now, if you’ll go downstairs and collect your things, we’ll be on our way.”
“Mr. Colquhoun,” said Pickett, determined against his own best interests to make the magistrate realize the enormity of his error, “are you sure? I mean, you know—you know what I am.”
The magistrate laid a hand on his shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. “I know what you were,” he corrected him gently. “There’s a difference.”
* * *
Five minutes later, Pickett left Mr. Granger’s house for the last time, accompanied by the magistrate. The pain of Sophy’s rejection was still there, a dull ache beneath his ribs, but at least now he was able to contemplate a future without her—something that had seemed impossible a mere half-hour earlier. He wondered what she would think of his unexpected rise in the world, and for one brief moment he was tempted to go back to the house and inform her of the change in his circumstances. But no, Sophy had made her choice; let her marry her lord, if that was what she wanted.
“And may she never know a day’s luck with him,” he muttered under his breath.
But he, John Pickett, was a Bow Street man now, and he would not demean himself by begging. Nor, for that matter, would he ever give his heart to another woman. If the faithless Sophy was representative of the breed, he was better off without them.
Having reached this satisfying conclusion, he would have stepped off the pavement and into the path of a crested carriage, had Mr. Colquhoun not grabbed him by the sleeve and hauled him back. The coachman sawed on the reins in an effort to control his spooked team, and inside the lurching carriage, Lord Fieldhurst’s lovely young bride was thrown against the window. Pickett looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of startled blue eyes before the vehicle disappeared up the Strand. His path would not cross that of Lady Fieldhurst again for five years.
But that, of course, is another story.
About the Author
At the age of sixteen, Sheri Cobb South discovered Georgette Heyer, and came to the startling realization that she had been born into the wrong century. Although she doubtless would have been a chambermaid had she actually lived in Regency England, that didn’t stop her from fantasizing about waltzing the night away in the arms of a handsome, wealthy, and titled gentleman.
Since Georgette Heyer was dead and could not write any more Regencies, Ms. South came to the conclusion she would simply have to do it herself. In addition to her popular series of Regency mysteries featuring idealistic young Bow Street Runner John Pickett, she is the award-winning author of several Regency romances, including the critically acclaimed
The Weaver Takes a Wife
.
A native and long-time resident of Alabama, Ms. South recently moved to Loveland, Colorado, where she has a stunning view of Long’s Peak from her office window.
Be sure to read these other John Pickett mysteries:
IN MILADY’S CHAMBER
Lady Fieldhurst chooses the wrong time to take a lover, as she and her would-be paramour discover when they find her husband stabbed to death in her boudoir. Neophyte Runner John Pickett, newly promoted from the Bow Street foot patrol, questions whether her ladyship is guilty of the murder, and his magistrate questions his impartiality, given his attraction to the beautiful primary suspect.
A DEAD BORE
Escaping scandal following her husband’s death, Lady Fieldhurst accepts an invitation to a Yorkshire house party. Tragedy follows her when the vicar, author of a dull local history, dies in a fire. She suspects murder, and sends to Bow Street for John Pickett. Posing as her footman, he investigates from belowstairs while she gathers information above. But Pickett finds her assistance both a help and an all-too-pleasant hindrance.
FAMILY PLOT
Banished to Scotland by her aristocratic in-laws, Lady Fieldhurst and her three young nephews discover an unconscious woman on the beach who bears a striking resemblance to the local laird’s daughter, missing and presumed dead for the last fifteen years. When old Angus Kirkbride dies only hours after changing his will in the woman’s favour, it’s up to John Pickett to uncover the truth about a family reunion suddenly turned deadly.
THE JOHN PICKETT MYSTERIES
(in chronological order)
PICKPOCKET’S APPRENTICE
A John Pickett Novella
IN MILADY’S CHAMBER
A DEAD BORE
FAMILY PLOT
DINNER MOST DEADLY
(coming in September 2015)
TOO HOT TO HANDEL
(coming in 2016)
PICKPOCKET’S APPRENTICE
Copyright 2015 by Sheri Cobb South. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover illustration
Taking Time
, by R. Dagley, ca. 1821.