Frost Fair

by Edith Layton

  “Lord, no!” Lucian said. But privately, he was shocked. He rallied quickly. James wasn’t his heir, after all. James’ estate was in the wilds of Derbyshire, where doubtless his new father-in-law would want him to settle down, and where he’d seldom run into him. And his debts would be his father-in-law’s problem in future. “Is that why you’re in hiding?”

  “Not exactly. There’s another small matter…” James looked down at his hands and mumbled, “Promised the old cit I wouldn’t gamble no more. Aye, it came to that. But see, thing of it is, don’t know how not to if I go to my old haunts. And don’t know where else to go.”

  “A problem, certainly,” Lucian agreed.

  “So you weren’t upset by your uncle’s bequests?” Will persisted.

  “Of course I was,” James said in astonishment. “Wouldn’t be getting married had he left the lot to me, would I? Didn’t think he was ready to stick his spoon in the wall, though. Would have been nicer to him, had I,” he said, brooding. “He was getting married himself, though. No way a man could have known.”

  “And where were you that night he died?” Will asked softly.

  “Gaming,” James said, “in the usual places, ’til dawn. Trying to get my own back, you know. Much good that did me.”

  Lucian looked at Will. Will shook his head. “So I heard. I’ve no more questions, Sir James. At the moment.”

  Lucian rose. “Then I wish you happy, James. I hope to see you on the town again soon. By the way, if you’re looking for places to go, you might try the menagerie at the Strand. Nothing to bet on there, but plenty of interesting animals. Oh. And Miss Williamson? When shall I meet her?”

  “You’ll be invited. Her father will hold some sort of ‘do,’” James said absently.

  Lucian paused at the door. “Tell me, James,” he asked curiously, “do you like her at all?”

  “Like her?” James asked, surprised. “Aye, why not? Nice little thing. Pretty too, if you’re in the petticoat line. Thing is, I’m not. Well, needs must, when the devil drives. The menagerie, you say? There may be something in that.”

  “Don’t say it,” Lucian said as he and Will got back into the carriage. “My sympathies are with Miss Williamson too.”

  “Mine aren’t,” Will said with a grunt. “Selling yourself is selling yourself, whether for bread, diamonds or a wedding ring. I don’t give my sympathies to whores.”

  “But my cousin is selling himself as well.”

  “Aye, just so.”

  Lucian was silent a moment. “I see your point,” he finally said. “But at least you’ve no more reason to suspect him.”

  “Don’t I? He needed money. So much so he sold his birthright. Murder’s easier than that, I think. Any rate,” Will said, taking out his pocket watch, “the morning’s almost gone. We’d best move smartly, do we wish to interview some bawds. They lay about mornings but get ready for the working day as afternoon comes on. We can see one or two if we go now. Or I can go alone. It’s up to you.”

  “I’m at your disposal,” Lucian said, “only let me stop at my house and leave my coach. I’m naturally fascinated at the prospect of visiting low houses of ill-repute in broad daylight, you understand. But just squeamish enough to not wish to advertise my presence there to the immediate world. You don’t have to say it, Mr. Corby. Were they expensive ones in the heart of town, I might not be so reluctant. Grant me my idiosyncrasies. I have standards to uphold, even in dissipation. Since you’re willing to laze about in carriages with dissipated gentlemen like me, we’ll take a hired hack, I think.”

  “I never argue with a man who likes to spend his money on his comfort, my lord.”

  “Especially if it means his own?”

  “Just so,” Will said pleasantly.

  Lucian went into his house to see if there were any messages for him before he left again. Will followed, idly, but his eyes missed nothing. It didn’t seem to occur to the nobleman that the runner had never been in his house before. It occurred to Will.

  “Well, that’s it,” Lucian said, after skimming a few notes and pocketing a few others. “We may as well go now.”

  But the door knocker sounded before they could leave the hall. And so when a footman opened the door, Lucian’s visitor was startled to see him standing there as though he’d been expecting her.

  Lucian recovered first, though he was equally surprised. “Louisa,” he said, bowing, “to what do I owe this singular honor?”

  The misty morning light became her. She wore a black cloak, but the voluminous hood had a lavender lining and it softened her face, emphasizing her best feature, her fine eyes. They looked past Lucian at Spanish Will.

  “Good morning, my lady,” Will said, bowing slightly.

  “We’ve just returned from an errand,” Lucian said. “Would you care to come in?”

  She held herself stiffly and stood tall. “Thank you, but I can’t. I too was on my morning rounds.” She indicated her maidservant, standing on the step behind her. “I was only about to drop off a note for you. This makes it simpler.” She looked down at her gloves before she went on, and then raised her eyes to his face. “I’d like to ask a favor. I realized that as your late uncle’s heir, you have recourse to his correspondence. My…your uncle evidently had a lively correspondence with a Mr. Bernard Preston. His widow came to call on me the other week. I should like to see her again. But in my pleasure at making her acquaintance I never asked for her direction. So, if you’d be so kind as to find her late husband’s address for me? When you’ve a chance, of course.”

  “Of course,” Lucian said. “I’ll see to it this very afternoon. Are you sure I can’t offer you some tea, at least? It’s a bitter day.”

  “So it is, and tea would be delicious, thank you. But I’d rather complete my errands and get home to my own hearth before this brief bit of sunshine is gone.”

  He bowed, she dropped a brief curtsey, and left.

  “Well,” Lucian said as soon as the door closed. “Here’s a complication. And now what?”

  “Here’s a gift from the gods, you mean,” Will said, thinking furiously.

  “I think we’d better step into the library,” Lucian said, acutely aware of the footman standing by the door. “What do you mean ‘gift’?” Lucian asked as he closed the library door behind them.

  But Will was looking at the walls of bookshelves. There was a sort of naked hunger on his dark face that Lucian had never seen before. In fact, Lucian thought, before this moment, he’d never seen any expression the runner didn’t mean him to see. This must honestly be beyond concealment.

  Will heard the silence. He shrugged his broad shoulders. He was nothing if not self-aware. “Aye,” he said, “the house, the title—I envy you none of it, because such things are beyond my ken. But this…” He swept an arm to indicate the rows of volumes. “This, I can envy. And the money, of course.”

  “Of course,” Lucian said lightly, because it was too intimate a confession to treat otherwise. “My life’s ambition is to read them all. I don’t think I’ll live that long. They’ve accumulated, like dust on the shelves. They’re legacy as much as the title, the house and the money. You’re welcome to try to do what I haven’t. I’d be delighted to give them an airing.” He paused, wondering if he had misspoken. The runner’s look of naked longing might have simply been his wish that he could read. Or be able to read more easily. “But as for our winsome fishwife,” Lucian said quickly, “what are we to do?”

  “Invent an address for her and take the wench to meet the lady again, of course,” Will said promptly, the thought of business chasing everything else from his mind. Which was as well. He’d been tempted. Fine thing, he thought, to borrow books from a man who you might have to see swing, albeit from a silken rope.

  Lucian smiled. The fishwife would like that. “But if Louisa wishes to call on her there?”

  “She’ll send a note round first. Ladies do, don’t they? We’ll be sure to get it. As for after that? Mrs. Pres
ton is moveable. She lives in Maidstone and is only staying with a friend in London.”

  “Excellent. Where?”

  “I don’t know. A good address. But not too good. Far enough away to make a visit to her inconvenient. Something just this side of respectable, as befits a scholar’s widow. What do you think?”

  They mulled it over and talked it out. In the end, they settled on Hampstead. “I’ve someone there,” Will said vaguely, “who owes me a favor or two. I’ll let you know when you can send to the lady. What say we broach the matter to Mrs. P. tomorrow? After our inquiries.”

  “Right,” Lucian said, “now—to the knocking shops?”

  “So eager?” Will laughed, “but no. Now it’s too late, and getting later. I’ve got to see to my acquaintance in Hampstead and set things straight. I’ll see you in the morning?”

  “Fine. I’ll come by and fetch you again, as it’s on the way,” Lucian said. “Oh, and give your lads a rest. I don’t want to find them frozen stiff in my alley in the morning. I’m off to the theater tonight with friends.”

  “You’ve been hanging about with Mrs. P. too long, my lads are tough as boot leather. But—the theater? For a fellow in mourning? Or are the rules different for noblemen?”

  Lucian winced, chagrined. “I’d forgot.” He scowled. “A few weeks more and I’d go without hesitation,” he muttered, thinking aloud. “We weren’t close and so all know, and people’s memories are short. But his murder isn’t even solved yet. No sense setting people’s backs up. I made my plans weeks ago. I’ll send a note to my friends…no. Better tell them myself.”

  “Tomorrow then, earlier than today,” Will said, clapped on his hat, and left.

  *

  Lucian left his house as evening fell. The temperature had plummeted again. He decided to have his footman call a hackney. No sense pulling his own horses out on such a night.

  The streets leading to the theater were clogged with traffic. Day workers were heading home for the night, those seeking entertainment were heading out. The pavements were crammed with hurrying people too. This was a district for playhouses, supper rooms, gaming houses, brothels, taverns and other places for an evening’s pleasure. Lucian paid the driver and left the coach a street away to avoid the crush of private carriages and hackneys delivering people to the playhouse. He hurried onward; it was getting late.

  Here the night was bright with more than moon and starlight. Lanterns in front of the theater vied with the new gaslights, bright bonfires in ashcans blazed on each corner to keep the peddlers and beggars from freezing fast. They were beacons of warmth in defiance of the shatteringly cold night. Pennants in front of the theater blew in the brittle breeze. They spoke of putting up a fair on the Thames if it froze solid. But tonight this street had become an impromptu, unlikely Frost Fair.

  The war was grinding on, and Londoners wanted diversion even on a frigid night. Clerks and gentlemen, ladies and shopgirls thronged the walkway. Grand gentlemen swept by in greatcoats and cloaks, their ladies wrapped to their elegant noses, their hoods or dashing hats in place. There were soldiers and sailors on leave, reminders the war still was grinding on. Too many walked with a halt, some were missing limbs, many had arms or legs bound. Criers standing in their midst waved programs, shouting the attractions of the play, the farce and the afterpiece shown tonight.

  Barrow women stood fast in the crowd like rocks in a flowing river, crying the virtues of their oranges and apples, nuts and gingerbread, flowers for my lady’s hair. Prostitutes lurked at the head of every alley, shifting from foot to foot, grabbing passing men by their sleeves, hoping to delay one long enough to make a few pence. It was too early for them to be out in such numbers, and they were too bold at such a respectable hour. But they were practical. It would be too cold for even the most desperate of sellers or customers by the time the theater let out.

  They’d better work fast, Lucian thought. People were starting to stream into the playhouse as he approached. He kept his hand on his wallet as he paused, looking for his friends. He finally spied a tall gangling gentleman and his lady standing under a gaslight, also obviously looking around. The gentleman saw him and waved frantically. “There he is! Hey, Maldon! Here!”

  Lucian shouldered his way to them. The gentleman had a long, homely, friendly face. His companion was almost too lovely to be seen with such an ill-favored fellow, Lucian thought, as he always did. But then, she knew her escort well, and like everyone who did, had long since forgotten his lack of looks.

  Lucian took her gloved hand, “My lady Elizabeth. How comes it that you grow lovelier each time I see you, and yet you’re still wed to this wretch?”

  “And how comes it that you’re still such a flatterer, my lord?” she asked, smiling.

  “He never gives up,” her husband laughed, “but the other thing he’s not changed since school days is his tardiness. Come along, Maldon. You’re late, and if you don’t stir yourself we soon will be.”

  “That’s what I’ve come to tell you,” Lucian said, “I can’t go at all, Ian. My uncle, you see…”

  His friend’s merriment fled. “I’d heard. I’m so sorry. My sincerest condolences. I’d forgot. No, damme, but I didn’t. Who could? The thing is on everyone’s lips. I simply thought you and he weren’t close, but what a fool I am…”

  “No, you’re not,” Lucian said quickly. “You’re right. I don’t grieve. But you see, dare I go to the theater before his murder is solved, at the very least, I think my Mama will murder me. So you go ahead and we’ll meet after, perhaps for a late supper? Mourners are allowed to eat, you see.” He said it with a self-mocking smile that explained why those few he called friend remained so for so many years.

  “Nonsense,” the lady said. “It’s a tiresome play and a worse farce, and so say all I’ve heard talking about it tonight. You’ve saved us from a boring evening. We wanted to talk with you anyway. Let’s go to dinner now, I vow I perish from starvation.”

  Her husband beamed at her. “It’s your condition keeps you ravenous, but you’re exactly right, my dear.”

  “No!” Lucian said with pleasure. “Is it so?” The lady ducked her head and blushed. “Now here’s good news!” he said. He took her hand. “You’re sure you’d rather dine?”

  “I am sure I shall perish if I do not,” she declared.

  “Well then, it’s freezing, and I doubt you’d want another carriage ride…” Lucian mused. “I know a place not a street away makes the most divine coq au vin. You must try their duckling as well. Come along. What a beast he is not to feed you. But didn’t I warn you what would happen if you chose him instead of me?”

  He took her arm and walked, his head bent to hers, talking low, pretending to rail at her husband for such mistreatment. The streets were emptying quickly as the last theater goers filed inside. Barrow mongers began to roll their merchandise away. The pavements were almost clear by the time Lucian led the lady across the road. There were no sweepers to clear a path for them. It had been too busy for them to ply their brooms before, and was too empty to be profitable now. Some stragglers stood on the sidewalks before going into the playhouse, a last few coaches rumbled by. A few frozen snowflakes drifted down.

  Lucian waited until the way was clear and then led the lady carefully across the cobbles. Her husband ambled a few paces behind them, making fond, amusing comments about female fidelity.

  Lucian heard the rumbling before he heard the horrified shouts. He saw it all in a split-second and acted in the next one. He lifted his head and saw the foaming horse running amuck. It appeared in an instant, and bore down on them inexorably, its cart swaying wildly side to side like a cobra’s head behind it.

  There was no time to run back. Lucian opened both arms and grabbed the surprised lady. Holding her tight, he flung himself as far as he could, setting them both spinning out into the street. His only thought was to keep her close, and to land—if he could—safely away with her atop him so he could absorb the impact. The noise was
terrifying, the sound of drumming hooves and the wild clatter of the cart suddenly the only sounds in the world.

  He felt the rush of air as the horse came crashing by. The cart thumped against his leg as he threw himself away from it. He felt himself going aloft, he felt himself begin to fall. He turned, tumbling over and over, clutching her tight, never letting her go—even as his shoulder hit the ground, even as shocking pain sliced across his face as his head slid along the cobbles. Then there was a sudden clap of profound pain. And then he felt no more.

  Chapter Twelve

  He didn’t want to open his eyes. Because he wasn’t sure he could. And he was worried about what he’d see if he could see anything. He might not even have an eye anymore, Lucian thought groggily, as he tried to pry one open. But he still had his ears.

  “Stand away,” a voice demanded. “Stand back and let the doctor do his work.”

  Well, at least they hadn’t said “let the coroner” have a look, Lucian thought. That was something. He cracked open an eye, saw nothing, and raised a hand to rub at it. His hand was dragged back.

  “Here!” an unfamiliar voice said. “Don’t touch it. Ah. Good. There’s ice right here. It will work as well as water. Hand me your handkerchiefs, gentlemen. Now, let’s clean this up. No, don’t touch it, I said! Let me see. Good…good.”

  Lucian didn’t know how such pain could be good. The snow pressed to his face felt like hot coals, the drag of cloth was like flames licking his cheek. But now he could at least see what had blocked his vision was only blood. His blood. The rest of his body was returning to him too, and it all hurt. His face, his leg, his…“Elizabeth!” he croaked as he struggled to sit up. “Elizabeth!”

  “She’s fine, old man,” his friend’s voice said from nearby. “Shocked, of course. But unhurt. Thanks to you.”