Reckless Rules (Brambridge Novel 4) (8 page)

Five heads nodded, whilst George picked genteelly at his fingernails.

“That’s right, see,” said Percy, gaining voice again. “You might have changed but we ain’t. We’re still the boys from the forge dressed up like monkeys.”

This time six heads nodded.

“But I haven’t changed!” Bill protested. “I’m still Bill, and you are still my apprentices from the forge.”

“You ’ave changed,” Percy said in a more uncertain voice.

“How?” Bill demanded. He was the same man and he treated them in the same way, apart from calling them gentlemen.

“You own an estate,” George pointed out helpfully.

“Not my fault.” Bill spread his hands out in supplication.

“You ’ob-nob with wellborn folk more than us.” Percy half rose to his feet.

“Ob-nob?”

“Hob-nob, sir, a word you used to be familiar with, with or without the aitch.” Really, George was a jackass sometimes.

“You know how to tie a cravat.”

“You used to chase after village girls, now your ladies have peacocks in the back garden.”

“You go off to London all the time.”

“All your talk is of Lord this and Lord that.”

“You used to be interesting and now you are not.”

Bill looked around the table. He couldn’t work out who had come out with the most hurtful last statement.

“I thought you wanted to work on the estate? I could hardly dissuade you. As it is, I’m the only one that goes back to the forge and the only apprentice there is Jim.” Bill looked at the sullen faces. He was rejected by the peerage, and now rejected by his own true peers. It seemed that Victoria wasn’t the only one rejecting him for who he was—or at least who they perceived him to be.

Bill looked more carefully into their faces; he shouldn’t be harsh on them. They had only demonstrated all the things that he had felt, yearning for an easier life, and when it came along, finding that you were like a fish out of water and in some ways perhaps not suited to the life that you thought you wanted to lead. That was why he had attacked Victoria so strongly about her giving to the poor. He really wanted to know. Would it make
himself
feel better too, about his lot?

“Look lads.” Bill stopped and all six men visibly relaxed. “I know you have had a hard time adjusting to being here at the estate. I’ll make a bargain with you. I will let any of you who wishes, go back to their old job in the forge. Jim is getting quite lonely, and as the youngest apprentice he needs more direction.”

There was a murmur as some of the men looked doubtful while others seemed more hopeful. “There are also other jobs on the estate that need doing that we haven’t yet recruited for. We need a cooper, someone to repair the machinery, and other jobs besides.” Bill forced a doubtful look onto his face. “I think it might be hard, but you are welcome to do those jobs if you don’t want to be footmen any longer.”

“What about pay?” Percy demanded.

“Same as now.”

“What’s the catch?” George said, the most intelligent of the men, particularly with numbers, although not necessarily the best smith.

“Trust George,” Bill said as the others smiled. “You might have heard that I had a spot of bother with a man called Pedro Moreno.”

The smiles became sounds of mirth. “We heard that he back flipped out of the room faster than peeling a banana.”

“I heard that he slipped his chains without even cutting them.”

The men roared with laughter again.

“I can tell you that is all true,” Bill said soberly. “What you haven’t been told is that this man also has information that was stolen from the British government, and that I am the one to get him and it back.”

The men held their sides, seemingly unable to stop their snorts of merriment.

“You?” George choked.

“Pull the other one,” Percy exclaimed.

So it was not just Bill who doubted his abilities.

“No. Not just me. You too.” Bill sat back as his team of burly men saw that he was not joking. “All of you. You will find and get him for me. Lord Anglethorpe, the spymaster has told me how to do it. This should be no harder than the runs we do to France in the
Rocket
to pick up the brandy and émigrés, or even sourcing war information from the continent.”

“Oh, come on, Bill. Us? Find a man who can slip chains like butter and ooze out of a room faster than lightning? What has that bloody well to do with sailing across the channel, sitting in a pub, drinking some wine and then coming back again?”

Bill sighed. “According to Henry, in order to locate a man, you take your most trusted individuals and set them the task of finding who or what you are seeking. All you need to give is a little guidance.”

“You say we’re your most trusted individuals?” Percy said quietly. It was not what Bill had expected them to pick up on.

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

“Alright,” chorused the five other men after Percy.

Bill waited for other protests, but the men looked at him expectantly. It had been enough, it seemed, to demonstrate to them what they meant to him.

“Where do we start?”

“I understand that Pedro Moreno may have gone back to his roots and joined a travelling group of entertainers. I want you to travel to the nearest six counties, Devon, Cornwall, Somerset, Dorset, Hampshire, and Wiltshire, and make enquiries. They’re all west country or near enough. Visit every fair you can. Then move on to the next six counties and so on.”

“What’s our timescale?”

“Come back in two weeks. We don’t have much time.”

“Can we ditch the uniforms?”

“Of course. Look, he is a dangerous man. We do not want him to know we are looking for him. You should use each of your talents to find out where he is and report back. Think of it like being in the forge and working the metal. Softly does it. Then I’ll come in with the hammer and separate him off.”

Percy fiddled at the tight buttons around his neck and threw his cravat on the table. “Thank God for that. I thought you were going to expect us to hang around this house forever.”

“Me too!”

Only George looked unhappy. But it did not matter. Lord Granwich hadn’t spared his feelings either when he had informed him that he had to go and find Pedro.

Bill watched as the men filed out of the door. Not once had they asked how Bill was coping with the change. Nobody did and especially not Victoria. She had probably not even spared a thought to Bill’s problems. She had been too long at that, what did she call it? Establishment in Hoxton? Bill had sat in that silly white barouche with just his thoughts and the mute Oswald to keep him company. Perched in the confines of the barouche, he had needed to run his finger around his collar to loosen it as anger surged through him.

But waiting for her in the East End had been the only way to get Victoria alone, to persuade her that she wanted him. And that in due course she
would
marry him. Bill sighed. Unfortunately his own discomfort and angst had won through. Everything he had levelled at her could have referred to himself.

Bill shook his head and stared at the wallpaper that was peeling away in innumerable places around the room. There would be time for self-pity later. He needed to get back to London to update Lord Granwich with his progress.

He found Lord Granwich three days later, sitting in his favorite restaurant ‘Rules’ in Covent Garden, eating game pie. As Bill attempted to slide in unobtrusively on the opposite side of the table, he was hampered by his elbow that sent the salt bowl flying.

Lord Granwich looked up in annoyance. “How is it that this time when you come and see me, you still manage to interrupt my enjoyment?”

“I have an update for you.” Upending the upset bowl and its tiny spoon, Bill struggled to find the correct words. What were spies meant to say to their handlers when passing on information? Was there some sort of code that one should use?

“Operation… Banana Skin has been set in motion.” With a huff of satisfaction, he pushed the spoon into the righted bowl.

“Operation Banana Skin?” Lord Granwich repeated looking bewildered. “Whose banana?”

“I have sent out six monkeys to find the banana,” Bill continued.

Lord Granwich laid down his knife and fork reluctantly and stared hard into Bill’s face. “Standish, old chap. Are you feeling quite the thing?”

Bill blinked. “Yes, of course. Why?”

“Because you just came out with some nonsensical rubbish about fruit and primates. I have no idea what you are talking about, and you are still interrupting my favorite dish of rabbit pie. Please could you get to the point or leave?”

“Err. I have the Pedro business in hand.”

“Good. Anything else?”

Bill had come all the way to London for that? He shrugged. “No I don’t think so.”

“Fine. Then you can go. I won’t keep you from your business.”

Reluctantly, Bill got to his feet, pushing back his chair with an audible squeak across the floor. He derived a small amount of satisfaction as Lord Granwich winced. “There was one thing,” he said as an afterthought. “Edward Fiske is considering your proposal and seems favorably inclined.”

Lord Granwich looked up from the rabbit pie that he had resumed eating. Gravy dripped from his chin. “I beg your pardon?” he said in obvious disbelief.

“Edward Fiske is—”

“No, I heard that. But you shouldn’t know anything about that. I told Fiske not to speak to anyone about it. How did you find out?”

This was Bill’s moment to walk away. He wasn’t going to tell Granwich that Celine had told him in an unguarded moment. Staring in fascination as a drop of gravy dripped off Lord Granwich’s chin, he couldn’t help himself. Picking up the gravy boat and handing it to Lord Granwich, he grinned. “I never reveal my sauces… I beg your pardon… sources to anyone."

Lord Granwich groaned. “Go away and leave me in peace.”

CHAPTER 7

Victoria slowly pulled on the gloves that Carruthers handed to her. The soft fur of their insides brushed against her cold fingers. She looked up at the portrait of herself and Lord Colchester hanging above the hall table and shuddered once again at the memory of the sitting for it, Colchester leaning over her, staring at the table upon which the painter had hurriedly placed a skull, two candlesticks, an open bible and a piece of lace. The portrait artist had explained that such a grouping was all the rage, showing the position of a wife in the household, and the learnedness of her husband. She tore her gaze away from the cold, dark colors and with relief fixed on the light colors of the hall.

“I have reflected on each of the six cases,” she said without preamble. “And I will take none of them.”

Carruthers gave her a blank stare as a footman descended the stairs and disappeared into the depths of the kitchens below. “Very good, my lady,” he said, gently taking Victoria’s hat from the hall table and waiting for her to finish fiddling with her gloves.

Victoria glanced around the hall; seeing no one, she continued. “Frankly three of them were simply missing cat cases. They would have lowered my reputation if I had taken them on. One is a gentlemen looking to investigate his wife’s activities, something which I do not condone; another is of housebreaking at Lord Colthaven’s house. I do not want to deal with the man and he should have called the Bow Street Runners immediately if he has indeed lost a valuable amethyst inlaid diamond necklace and antique Indian dagger. Goodness knows why he didn’t.” Victoria paused for breath and continued, “And the sixth is a man I have never heard of until recently, Mr. —”

“Durnish,” Carruthers supplied.

Victoria nodded. “Exactly. I need to know more about him before I look into his case. Can you remind me again of the details?”

“Mr. Durnish is looking for his brother. He will only reveal more details if you agree to meet with him personally.”

“And he doesn’t know who I am?”

“No, he made his enquiry through the usual channels, applying to the Colangle Investigation Agency via Chantelle’s sister in Regent’s Street.”

“Good.” Chantelle was Victoria’s long suffering French lady’s maid. Her sister had set up shop as a seamstress in Regent Street, and for a small retainer fielded all enquiries that came in for investigative work. These were then passed on to Carruthers.

“How is Isabelle, might I ask?”

Carruthers reddened slightly. “She is well, my lady,” he said stiffly, crushing the light straw on Victoria’s hat with tense fingers.

With a small smile and gentle hands, Victoria removed the hat from Carruthers and pinned it to her head. Whilst it was a good thing to be friends with her butler, it didn’t do to let Carruthers think that he had the upper hand all the time. It hadn’t been hard to divine poor Carruthers’ feelings for Isabelle. Every time he came back from Regent Street, his eyes took on an unfocused quality and he spoke in reverential tones of the seamstress there. He also took every opportunity to visit her shop.

“I am going out to meet with Mr. Edward Deacon at Mile End Pauper House.”

Carruthers wrung his empty hands slightly and thrust them behind his back. “Very good, my lady.”

“Is there anything I should know before I go?”

“Much will have changed since I was there. I would not be able to tell you anything insightful.”

Victoria nodded. If Carruthers wanted to act like a clam about his upbringing then she was not going to pry. She had told no one about her life with Colchester and heaven forbid would anybody find out. Each to his own; everyone had the right to keep some part of their life private.

The meeting with Mr. Deacon in Mile End was similar to that with Mr. Robertson. She was given an exact account of where the money had been spent, and the tangible items that had been given to the paupers who were living at Mile End. But Victoria could not get out of her mind the fact that in Hoxton she had been told that new shoes had been distributed, and yet she had seen none as she left.

There was no equivalent of Mrs. Prident this time to ask. At the end of the meeting Victoria stood and managed to say goodbye before Mr. Deacon escorted her to the front hall in rather a hurry.