The Gentleman's Walking Stick

by Ashley Gardner

  Years battling the Corsican Monster in Spain and Portugal, and before that, service in India, had honed my skills, but I lagged against three huge men, and my ruined leg hindered me. They hauled me down the stairs, me fighting all the way, and tossed me into the street.

  I landed, as luck would have it, on my bad leg. I lay groaning on the cobbles, cursing walking sticks in general and Summerville in particular.

  I'd kept hold of my own walking stick, a fine weapon, but after traveling the length of London, spending too many precious coins, and being pummeled for my pains, I was no closer to finding Summerville's.

  "Sir?" a gentle voice above me asked. "Can I help?"

  I peered up through the rain to see a familiar face hovering over me. I'd seen the same face this morning in the jewelers' shop, but this apparition wore a threadbare coat, shabby clothes, and the dog collar of a parson.

  "Summerville?"

  *** *** ***

  As the man helped me to my feet, I realized he wasn't Summerville. At least, not my Summerville.

  He walked me to the relative warmth of his rooms on the ground floor of a nearby boarding house and fed me coffee.

  "I am vicar here, of this parish," Franklin Summerville told me as we sipped the rather weak brew. "There was never much money in the family. Most of it went to buy George his commission. George took the sword; I took the cloth."

  I thought that the cloth had been rather thrust upon him, but I did not say so.

  Realization struck me. "You are Dobbin," I said.

  He stared at me, stricken. "Pardon?"

  "You are the father of Nellie's children." I sat back, stretching my game leg. My coat was ripped, and my valet, Bartholomew, would be greatly distressed. He'd give my bruises as much attention, but Bartholomew prided himself on keeping my few garments fine. "I thought your brother to be her paramour at first. But he is not, is he?"

  "What is your game, Captain? If you came here on George's behalf, do not waste your breath. I have nothing. And if he accosts Nellie again, I'll . . . Well, he will regret it."

  I regarded him in surprise. "I do not go in for blackmail, sir. Do I take it that your brother does?"

  Franklin's rage faded, and he shook his head. "I do not know why George expects that I'll give him money. He needs money, you know, to cover his gaming debts, of which there are always so many. Last night, when I refused to give him anything, he went to Nellie and tried to frighten her." Franklin shot me a smile. "My Nellie doesn't frighten so easily."

  "So I noticed," I said dryly. After a moment I said, "You love her."

  "God forgive me, but I do. Her husband is a brute, and I can't . . ." He sighed. "I can only do for her what I can."

  I rose. "Please give Nellie my best wishes."

  He got to his feet with me. "But why did George send you to her? Not for money?"

  "Your brother mislaid his walking stick. Did he leave it with you?"

  "Walking stick? No. But I remember him having it. He waved it in my face. It had a gold head. And he was trying to touch me for money."

  I nodded, believing him. "Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Summerville. It was much needed."

  I took leave of him and hobbled away to find another hackney, my limp more pronounced than when I'd arrived.

  I thought knew now where the walking stick was. I was half tempted to leave it there and fetch it tomorrow, after a bath and a long night's sleep, but I wanted to be finished with Summerville. I wanted to face Lady Breckenridge--the lady of blunt observations and bottomless blue eyes--without the distraction of him.

  *** *** ***

  The next name that graced my list was a gaming hell in St. James's Square called The Nines. The Nines was owned by a man called Bates and an aging courtesan by name of Mrs. Fuller. The house catered to the upper classes who strolled to it from White's and Brooks's, but in truth, it admitted anyone Bates thought might drop a sufficient amount of cash. Men played against the house, and the house mostly won.

  I'd been here before, with Grenville. I'd kept my bets modest and so had Grenville--modest for Grenville, that is--but we'd watched a young man lose seven thousand pounds on one throw of dice and be turned out of the house, ruined.

  The doorman let me in from the darkening street without question and ushered me upstairs to Mr. Bates's private office. I knew that Bates admitted me and greeted me courteously not only because of my connection with Grenville but because of my growing connection with Viscountess Breckenridge. Feet firmly under the table, was a phrase I'd heard used about me. Bates was marking me as a person to fleece in future.

  "I never saw Summerville with a walking stick," Bates said. Bates was such a tall, healthy-looking man that one would never imagine he spent most of his waking hours indoors, bent over gaming tables or counting money from said tables.

  "With a gold head, you say?" he asked. "I'd have taken it from him if he'd brought such a thing. Summerville slipped out last night without paying what he owed--close to three hundred pounds it was. If he does not return with the money, I'll have the bailiffs on him."

  The haze surrounding my memories of Summerville cleared still further, to remind me that Summerville had been good at losing money and equally skilled at touching others for more. He'd been ingenuous, warm, and laughing about it, but never once during those years had he paid the money back.

  "Mr. Summerville is about to be married," I said. "To a young lady heiress. Perhaps he will pay his debts after that."

  Bates gave me an aggrieved look. "Her father might not be foolish enough untangle the money for Mr. Summerville's use. Marriage settlements can be tricky. Please tell Mr. Summerville that if he continues to be careless, he'll spend his wedding night in the Fleet."

  I thanked Bates for his time and took my leave. Outside, what light had touched the evening had gone, the rain poured down, and wind gusts sent the cold straight through me. I pulled my greatcoat closed against the weather and climbed into yet another hackney.

  *** *** ***

  My list bore one more address, an equally notorious hell in Pall Mall, but I did not bother with it. I made my way back to number 20, Bishop's Lane, and presented my card to John when he opened the door. He took me upstairs right away, at least, and did not make me stand out in the rain.

  I waited a full half hour before Mrs. Chambers entered her sitting room. She was dressed for the evening in a gray silk gown that bared her shoulders and much of her plump bosom. Wherever she intended to go, I predicted that she would eclipse every woman in the room.

  "Captain?" She peered at my bruised face and torn coat in concern. "Are you well?"

  "No." I made a formal bow. "Mrs. Chambers, I will just take the walking stick and go."

  Her color rose. "Walking stick?"

  "You have it, do you not?"

  Mrs. Cambers gazed at me for a long moment, then she turned and rang the silver bell. In a few moments, a footman appeared--not John this time.

  "Henry," Mrs. Chambers said. "Have Annie fetch Mr. Summerville's walking stick from my armoire, please."

  Henry bowed and withdrew. I gathered that he truly hadn't gone to visit his family.

  "How did you find me out?" Mrs. Chambers asked in the ensuing silence. She did not invite me to sit down again, nor did she offer me a beverage.

  "You were not surprised when I told you what I'd come for," I said. "You had a glib explanation that Summerville always left the walking stick about, but I do not think he does. Summerville is careful even when he seems not to be, which is part of his charm, I think. And he was too worried when he found it missing to make me believe this a common occurrence. You questioned John, who would not have taken it at the door last night, instead of Henry who had. You did not want to make Henry lie."

  Mrs. Chambers listened to my tale, her lips parting. When I finished, she looked away. "I had not planned to keep it. But when you turned up, saying he'd sent you, I realized how anxious Mr. Summerville was for the walking stick's discreet return. And
I understood what that meant."

  That Summerville had realized the danger of having the walking stick found in the house of his mistress. The utterly respectable Wrights would never forgive the transgression. Summerville also believed Mrs. Chambers might try to blackmail him with it, which put plainly just how much trust he had in her. And so Mrs. Chambers had decided to act.

  I looked into Mrs. Chambers' clear eyes and suddenly wished myself a wealthy man, so I could press money to her palm and tell her to go somewhere, anywhere, to forget about Summerville and pursue her own happiness.

  "I am sorry," I said. I truly was sorry. Sorry I'd ever agreed to help Summerville.

  "The ton can gossip all they like that he is my protector," she said, "but such talk can be dismissed as gossip." Especially by Summerville, the charmer. "But the stick is proof, isn't it? Proof I can show to his beloved fiancee and her father."

  I studied her brittle face, her too-bright eyes. "You love him?"

  "Yes. I am afraid that I do."

  "He does not deserve you," I said savagely.

  She smiled, but the smile was strained. "You are kind, Captain. But it does not matter. I told you this morning that I understand why he must marry. And I do. Marriages should not be made lightly."

  "But you do mind."

  "Of course I mind! Do you think I have no heart? He must lie in a bed with her and get children on her, and for that I want to gouge her eyes out!" Her rage faded as abruptly as it had come, and she gave a little laugh. "You see, Captain? I am petty and jealous, as is any woman who wants a gentleman."

  I took a step forward. "You are brave. I wish . . ." I stopped. "I am friends with Mr. Grenville, who has a large acquaintance. Perhaps he could introduce you to a gentleman who proves more appreciative than Summerville."

  She was shaking her head before I finished. "No. I know you mean it as kindness, Captain, but no."

  "I wish you were not so in love with him," I said.

  She shook her head again. We watched each other, the words hanging.

  Henry entered at this interesting moment, carrying a black walking stick with a gold head. Mrs. Chambers took it from him, dismissed him, and put the walking stick into my hands.

  "There, Captain. Tell Mr. Summerville not to be so careless with it in future."

  I bowed again, but I had no more words to give her.

  My coming had hurt her. If Summerville had not sent me, certain Mrs. Chambers presented a threat, she might never have realized how much he mistrusted her, how much he viewed her as an embarrassment. I'd sown a seed of darkness.

  "Good-bye," I said, and left her.

  *** *** ***

  When I reached Summerville's rooms in Piccadilly, his valet was dressing him to go out. Summerville turned from the mirror, his expression hopeful. He did not even inquire about my bruises. "Did you find it?"

  I looked him over, from the elaborate cravat his valet had just tied to the pristine pumps he wore with pantaloons that buttoned at the ankle. I thought of his brother, the threadbare parson, and Nellie in her tiny rooms with her children and her drunken husband. I thought of lovely Mrs. Chambers and the misery in her eyes, misery Summerville had put there.

  "Yes," I said.

  Summerville's smile flashed. "Thank God. I knew you'd do it. Grenville said you were astonishing. Where is it?"

  "In a safe place." I had stopped at Grosvenor Street and given it to Grenville's very discreet valet to look after.

  His smile faded. "Have you not brought it with you?"

  I glanced meaningfully at the valet, and Summerville took the hint. "Leave us, Waters." The valet bowed and departed.

  "What are you playing at, Lacey? Where did you find it?"

  I ignored his questions, letting my temper rise. "I toyed with the idea of returning it to you--end-first with you bent over, but I decided that would not be practical."

  Summerville flushed. "I do not find that amusing, Lacey."

  "It was not meant to be. Instead, I decided to ask you to make out a draft for one hundred pounds."

  "One hundred--" Summerville gaped. "You are joking. Why the devil do you want a hundred pounds?"

  "Fifty of it I will give to Nellie, because she has need of it. The other fifty I will give to Mrs. Chambers for putting up with you. The three hundred you owe to The Nines is between you and Mr. Bates."

  A muscle moved in his jaw. "Very well. I suppose you've put yourself out for me today. I will give you your one hundred pounds. A fee, shall we say? For locating the walking stick."

  He insulted me. A gentleman did not fetch and carry for money. I did not react to his suggestion, and Summerville gave up and strode to his writing table. Candlelight shone on his immaculate white neckcloth as he sat down, sharpened a pen, and dipped it into his ink pot. He wrote hastily, the scratching of the pen loud in the stillness.

  "There." He snatched up the paper and nearly threw it at me.

  I took the bank draft, examined it, and tucked it into my pocket.

  "Thank you. Next month, I will return, and you will write another draft, for the same purpose. And the next month after that."

  "The devil I will. My income is not substantial, Lacey."

  "Better marry your Miss Wright quickly then."

  Summerville slammed himself up from the chair. "You go too far, Lacey. How dare you?"

  I eyed him coldly, our heights nearly the same. "If I do not receive the sum of one hundred pounds from you at the first of each month, to be dispersed as I've outlined, your walking stick will turn up somewhere far more embarrassing than in the houses of Mrs. Chambers or your brother's paramour. I know people in many places, Summerville. You would do well not to have your name associated with them."

  Summerville stared in disbelief, then he snarled and lunged at me.

  My sword flashed out of my cane. Summerville stopped, looking down at the point of my blade resting against his immaculate cravat.

  "Stand at ease, Lieutenant," I said quietly. "Or do you want to ruin your suit?"

  "Blast you, Lacey. You're nobody. You always were nobody. How dare you?"

  "I am a gentleman of the Thirty-Fifth Light," I said. "Who are you?"

  "I am a gentleman who will have the power to ruin you in a few years' time."

  I made a frosty bow. "Then for a few years at least, you will do some good by these ladies." I sheathed the sword. "Good night, Mr. Summerville."

  I left him cursing as I walked out of the room and hobbled back down the stairs and into the rain.

  *** *** ***

  The next afternoon, I found Lady Breckenridge at Lady Aline Carrington's garden party, as I had known I would. The rain had gone, and the sun shone at last, chased away from time to time by a breath of cloud.

  "There you are, Gabriel," Donata Breckenridge said as I walked to her. "Thank God. Sir Neville Percy has been following me about in attempt to engage me in conversation, and he is so very bad at it. Pretty to look at is Sir Neville, but a ghastly bore. He ought to stand under an arch for full effect and keep his mouth closed."

  "I am pleased to be of some use to you," I said, making a bow.

  "Do not be sardonic, Lacey; it doesn't suit you. Leave the mockery to me." She smiled as she spoke, a genuine smile, and warmth stole through the chill I'd carried since leaving Mrs. Chambers's house the evening before.

  "I have something for you," I said.

  "Truly?" Lady Breckenridge forgot all about Sir Neville and turned her full attention to me.

  I slipped a small parcel from my pocket and handed it to her. Lady Breckenridge peeled back the cloth in which I'd wrapped the gift, and gazed in some surprise at the gold chain with its tiny bell that lay on the piece of blue velvet.

  I leaned down and murmured into her ear. "For your ankle."

  The look Donata Breckenridge gave me said that she did not find me as old or weary as I felt. She turned and strolled away from me, giving me a little smile over her shoulder.

  I caught up to her und
er the shadows of the ivy, where she stopped and raised her lips to mine.

  End

  Please continue for the story

  The Disappearance of Miss Sarah Oswald

  * * * * *

  The Disappearance of Miss Sarah Oswald

  London, 1817

  London swallowed people whole. It had swallowed me. It had swallowed Thaddeus Oswald, MP. It had swallowed Thaddeus Oswald's daughter, and now he expected me to find her.

  Oswald told me about his daughter in a coffee house in Pall Mall late one afternoon, in a room that reeked of scalded coffee and cheroot smoke. His daughter, sent to London to live with her aunt, was now lost, gone, vanished into the city.

  There wasn't much hope, he said. Either she was dead or beyond redemption.

  "My sister searched and gave up," Oswald told me, looking tired and ashamed. "My son even posted a reward, but nothing came of it."

  "That was eight months ago," I said. "Why approach me now?"

  Oswald twisted his coffee cup on its saucer as he invented an explanation for why he'd waited so long. "I met Brandon over cards last night," he said. "Hadn't seen him in a donkey's age. Brandon said that if anyone could find out the truth, it would be you."

  Brandon had been my colonel during the Peninsular War. He was the man responsible for my career in the army, for saving my life, and for the destruction of my leg that had forced me to resign. Our current relations had become more cordial of late but remained stiff. Brandon did not much approve of my habit of running all over London hunting criminals, but he conceded that I'd had success in the past.

  Oswald had given up finding his daughter, I surmised, but Colonel Brandon, who could rally the most dejected of men, had persuaded him to try one final time. So he'd sent Oswald to me, but I could see that Oswald had already tired of hope.

  "How old is you daughter, Mr. Oswald?"

  "She would have been eighteen in April," Oswald said and started to cry.

  *** *** ***

  In my rooms above the pastry shop near Covent Garden, I stripped to my skin and stood before the fire, letting it bake the chill from my bones. I studied the drawing of Sarah Oswald her father had given me before we parted--one of the reward notices his son had posted. It showed a smiling girl with dark curls wearing a close-fitting white cap. She looked the same as many other girls of her age, rich or poor, gentry or working class.