by Cheryl Bolen
His dark eyes flashed with mirth. “Very well, my lady. Keeping the coach does seem to make sense.”
As their coach came to their narrow, three-storey house, he asked, “Should you like me to carry you over the threshold?”
“Not at all. You must get to Whitehall while there is still someone there who can assist you! It will be dark soon.” She kissed him on the cheek as she exited the carriage.
While Jack was telling Andy they would require the carriage one more day, Daphne noticed the lad's boots had a hole in the sole. “It has occurred to me that your mother may be worried about you if you don't return by tomorrow,” she said to the lad. “Should you like me to dispatch a letter to her, informing her we shall need your services a bit longer?”
“I should be ever so grateful.” He gave Daphne his mother's name and direction.
Beholding their modest house filled Daphne with pride. The brick house had been painted white long before Daphne had been born. Despite its small size, she thought the house's white paint rather set it apart from its nearby neighbors. And though she did not possess the keen eye for such things as her sisters possessed, she thought their home exuded good taste.
She immediately dubbed it Dryden House. It had belonged to her great grandmother in the years of her widowhood. If Daphne and Jack had a daughter, it would one day go to her.
The very notion of having a daughter, having Jack's child, caused something vibrant to unfurl within her. She felt as if she had drunk an entire bottle of champagne as she strolled across the pavement to ascend the steps to the shiny black door and let herself into the house. There was but a single servant, owing to the uncertainty over the Drydens' return.
Without being aware of what she was doing, she climbed the stairs to the top floor where the bedchambers were located, and she came to stand before Jack's big bed. With Cornelia's help, Daphne had selected a manly red for the velvet curtains which surrounded the bed and which draped the chamber's two tall windows.
She ran her hand over the scarlet velvet covering the bed, the bed where she would finally sleep beside her husband. In just a few hours, she would belong to him in every way. Her heartbeat drummed, and her breath grew short.
She knew she must leave the room. Taking a quick look at Warrior's portrait which hung over the chimneypiece, she went to the next room: her bedchamber. Their lone chambermaid had hung most of her clothing or folded it into the linen press.
Since it was much cooler in London than it had been in Spain, she decided to fetch a velvet pelisse. She wanted to be ready to join Jack as soon as he returned. The sooner they got to the batman, the better.
* * *
Jack was actually pleased that his wife had suggested they keep the carriage another day. He didn't want her traipsing around London at night on a horse, which he knew she would have insisted upon. It was too damned cold. She needed the shelter the carriage would provide.
He was entirely too worried about her, though he had tried to keep his worries to himself. The two wretched sea voyages had racked her body so ruthlessly, she had lost a great deal of weight—something she could ill afford to do.
Secretary of War Lord Palmerston had been enormously helpful at the War Office. In mere minutes the efficient man had located the address for Major Styles' batman, Eli Prufoy. “I believe that's not very far from here,” Palmerston had said, “just off the Strand.”
“Thank you, my lord. You've been most helpful.” As Jack left the building he thought of the letter of introduction Lord Castlereagh had provided for him. Between Lord Castlereagh and the Prince Regent, Jack was assured of being treated as if he were a royal duke.
* * *
The moment the carriage drew up in front of the house, his exuberant wife threw open the front door and came racing toward the carriage.
First, she addressed the coachman. “You will be pleased to know I sent off the letter to your mother and was told it would reach her in the morning.”
Andy thanked her as he assisted her into the carriage.
By now, night had fallen, and the streets were filled with conveyances clopping along the Strand, snarling the pace. He would have made far better progress were he on horseback, but he knew Daphne wanted to be active in these inquiries.
“What is the name of the street?” she asked as she squinted out the window as lanterns were being lit outside the shops they passed.
“How do you know I got the batman's address?”
“Because I just know.”
“Cotton Lane. Lord Palmerston said it's just off the Strand.”
“How in the world would Cupid know that?”
“Cupid?”
“That's what Lady Cowper calls Lord Palmerston. He's her lover, you know.”
Jack just rolled his eyes. But secretly he was proud of the woman he had married. She knew everyone in the ton and was uncommonly popular.
Soon the coach came to a stop at the entrance to a lane not wide enough for the carriage to pass. “I believe we've reached Cotton Lane. Should you like to join me, my lady?”
One glance at the dark, narrow lane, though, and he was sorry that he had brought Daphne. A cutthroat could be right around the corner, and they'd never see him. Foolishly, Jack had come off without a weapon—something he vowed not to do again. At least, not at night when Daphne was with him. After they walked along eighty yards or so, the lane terminated at a large courtyard ringed with narrow wooden houses. These crooked, ancient houses threatened to topple into the courtyard.
“What number did you say?” she asked.
“Twelve.”
“It's so dark, I can't read the numbers.”
“If someone should enter this god-forsaken place, we could ask.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than two boys came running into the square. “Pardon me,” Jack said to them, “could you tell me which one is Number 12?”
They halted. “Yer standing in front of it,” the taller of the two said.
Jack and Daphne both turned to stare at the quiet house which was completely dark. “We're trying to find the gentleman who lives here. A Mr. Prufoy,” Daphne explained.
“You won't find 'im here no more.” Again, it was the taller of the two who spoke.
“Then he's moved?” Jack asked.
“No. He died.”
Chapter 7
“Oh, dear,” Daphne said.
“It was in the Morning Chronicle.” Had the lad been racing through his memorization of Hamlet's soliloquy, he could not have spoken with more pride.
“The announcement of his death?” Jack asked.
The boys looked at one another, and they shrugged in unison. “More like the story of a tavern brawl,” the taller one said.
Daphne's mouth gaped open. “He was killed in a tavern brawl?”
Both lads nodded. “Just around the corner at the Cock & Stalk public house.”
“Then no one else lived here? Had the man no family?” Daphne asked.
“None what I know of.”
Jack took coins from his pocket and gave one to each of the lads. “Thank you. You've been most helpful.”
“Thank you, guvnah!”
How in the bloody hell did a soldier get through all those battles in the Peninsula only to come home and die in a tavern brawl just steps from his home? As he and Daphne went back over the same cobbled lane they had arrived on, Jack cautioned his wife. “This is not a good place for a lady after dark. You're to stay inside the carriage while I make inquiries at the public house.”
His exasperating wife stiffened, and her voice turned brittle. “I most certainly will not stay safe in the carriage while you interview those at the tavern! As highly intelligent as you are—and do not argue with me about that—you are a man, and men don't always think of the right questions to ask. They lack the proper curiosity for thorough inquiries.”
“Ladies are not supposed to be in public houses.”
She practically snorted. “As if someo
ne would dare to question it when I enter with an officer of the Regent's own hussars!”
She was likely right. And he did possess the letter of introduction from Lord Castlereagh which was better than guineas in hand. He sighed. “I will feel better if I have you with me.”
“You're afraid of those men in the tavern?”
“Certainly not! What I meant is that I will worry less about you if you are with me.”
She squeezed his hand. “I do appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, dearest. I haven't properly thanked you for your wonderful care of me when we were on the ship.”
He was relieved that light from some new gas lamps on the Strand spilled into Cotton Lane now. Soon after turning onto the Strand, he saw the sign for the Cock & Stalk swinging from chains. It featured a bright red rooster sitting on pile of celery stalks. Still holding hands, with Daphne lifting her skirts to avoid contact with errant plops of horse dung, they crossed the busy street.
“You're to stay at my side. Understood?”
She executed a mock salute. “Yes, captain.”
It was still too early for public houses to have drawn much of a crowd. The disadvantage to that was the inability to interview eyewitnesses; the advantage, they would have better access to the establishment's proprietor.
When he and Daphne entered, several men turned to gawk at Daphne. As much as he loved his wife, Jack knew she was no beauty. Her gender and the fact she was obviously Quality had roused the men's interest. With her fingers digging into his forearm, the pair of them strolled to the long bar. While more than twenty men could easily have lined the long, wooden structure, no more than eight did so at this early hour. Twice that number, with bumpers in hand, stood in clusters around the dimly lit room, which had hushed as soon as Daphne walked in.
A shaggy-haired, redheaded man of middle age addressed them from the other side of the long bar. “What can I get for ye?” His eye roved to Daphne.
“I wish to know about the last minutes of Eli Prufoy,” Jack said.
“Ah! Ye must 'av served in the army with the gent!”
“Indeed, I did.”
“It's sorry I am that one of our brave soldiers met his end at the Cock & Stalk.” The redhead shook his head ruefully. “You can read all about it in the Morning Chronicle. I've got the newspaper account right 'ere.” He whipped out a yellowing, much-read newspaper and handed it to Jack. “Ye and the missus can read it over by the lamp.” He indicated an oil lamp behind the bar.
They took the newspaper to the end of the bar and stepped just behind its curved end to get closer to the lamp, which was stowed out of reach from possible overly active patrons. The story of Eli Prufoy's death was on the front page. A pity a man had to die to be accorded such notice.
Returning Soldier
Meets His End in
Tavern Brawl Just
Steps from His Home
An occurrence most vile took place on the night of April 11 when one Eli Prufoy, of the Life Guards. who just recently returned from many years of service in Spain, lost his life as the result of brawl in a public house near his home.
Angus MacKenzie, the proprietor of the Cock & Stalk located on London's Strand, said Mr. Prufoy had been a regular patron of his establishment since he returned from Spain last month, and the former soldier had never caused any problems before.
“He was always pleasant and a bit quiet,” Mr. MacKenzie said. “I was surprised to find him wrestling with a pair of men right out of the blue.”
The public house's proprietor said he'd never before seen the two men who fought with Mr. Prufoy. They left the valiant soldier dying on the floor of the Cock & Stalk.
Mr. MacKenzie expressed shock when he found Mr. Prufoy unresponsive. “I have seen my share of brawls before, but the men have always been able to walk away.”
A surgeon, Mr. Billingsley, was called. He was attempting to administer aid during Mr. Prufoy's final minutes.
As soon as Jack finished reading the account, he knew that it had been no tavern brawl.
It had been murder.
Daphne strolled behind the bar to the proprietor. “Mr. MacKenzie?”
He handed a bumper of ale to a scruffy patron in well-soiled clothing. “Aye, me lady?”
Jack had come to stand behind his bride. How in the hell did the redheaded man know Daphne was a lady?
“Can you describe the two men who fought with Mr. Prufoy?” she asked sweetly.
MacKenzie shrugged. “Everything 'appened so fast. And me establishment was excessively crowded that night—which meant I was excessively busy. When I heard the commotion, I turned to look, to try to recognize which of me patrons were involved. I mostly only saw Prufoy. Didn't take much notice of the other men.”
“Hair color? Clothing? Were they dressed as Quality, for example?” she asked.
MacKenzie shook his head. “No, not Quality like yerselves. They wore dark clothes, and their hair was dark, sort of. Leastways, it was brown.”
“Age?” Daphne asked.
He shrugged again. “Average age. Maybe thirty. Average height. Everything about them was average.”
Including their brown hair, Jack thought. Exactly as he would have expected. “Did you perchance hear them speak?” Jack particularly wondered if they might have spoken with a French accent.
“I don't remember 'earing 'em speak.”
Jack stepped forward. “Can you direct us to the surgeon?”
“He's right here on the Strand. Ye can find him above the dentist down on the right.”
Jack gave the man a shilling. “Thank you.”
As they went to walk away, MacKenzie said, “Captain?”
Jack spun around to face him.
“I want you to know the Cock 'n Stalk's a safe place.”
“I believe you.”
* * *
The surgeon's rather large family lived in the cramped quarters above the dentist's shop, which was still open even though it was nine o'clock at night. Daphne's heart went out to these people who had to toil twelve and more hours a day, six days a week.
In almost total darkness, she and Jack climbed up the steep and narrow wooden stairway and rapped at the only door on the landing. A young woman who could not have been much older than Daphne, but who had one babe hitched to her side and a toddler clutching at her skirts, opened the door.
“Is Mr. Billingsley in?” Jack asked.
She shook her head.
“Is this where we can locate the surgeon, Mr. Billingsley?” Daphne inquired.
Upon hearing their cultured voices, the woman smoothed back the loose tendrils of golden hair that had fallen about her face and offered them a smile. “Indeed it is. I'm Mrs. Billingsley.” Her voice was genteel but lacked the casual languidness that characterized the aristocracy. The woman reminded Daphne of her governess, Miss Queensbury, which reminded Daphne that when she was nine or ten she had thought a woman of four and twenty frightfully ancient.
“Do you know where we can reach your husband?” Daphne asked.
Mrs. Billingsley's blue eyes danced. “That is a very good question. I've been keeping his dinner warm these three hours past.”
“I daresay a surgeon's life is a busy one,” Jack said. “Would it be agreeable if we checked back in, say, an hour?”
“You're welcome to wait in here. It's not very tidy, what with five little ones running around, but you're more than welcome to come in.”
Before Jack could refuse, Daphne accepted. “That is very kind of you.”
Their hostess swung open her door.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Lady Daphne, and this is my husband, Captain Dryden.” How natural it sounded to call Jack her husband! How vastly exciting! Even though they had been married for six days, she had not had the opportunity to introduce herself as Jack's wife before. She would have to find more opportunities of doing so.
As she sauntered into the Billingsley family rooms, careful not to step on toy soldiers and rag do
lls that littered the otherwise clean wooden floors, Daphne was enumerating incidents in which she could practice saying she was Jack's wife. She would interview for a new housekeeper. May I introduce my husband, Captain Dryden. . .
They walked past a wooden table where a lad of eight or nine sat, furiously writing. She slowed down to peer at what he wrote, and saw that he had filled a page with mathematical problems. “A most industrious lad.”
“I fear my husband's too severe upon him.”
Daphne turned to regard the woman. “He must be the firstborn.”
“Indeed he is.”
“I, too, am a firstborn,” Daphne said, shrugging, “and I was a great deal more studious than the siblings who came after me. Each child was less studious than the one in front of her. 'Tis a wonder the youngest isn't a complete moron.”
Mrs. Billingsley and Jack laughed.
Mrs. Billingsley set her babe on a woolen rug while she went to remove a stack of folded laundry from the sofa so Jack and Daphne could sit there.
The outer door swung open, and a tall, gaunt man with a black leather medical bag strode into the room.
“It's my husband,” Mrs. Billingsley said. She was unable to conceal her pride.
The man, who appeared to be a decade older than his wife, flicked his gaze to the visitors.
Jack stood. “Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Captain Jack Dryden, and this is my wife, Lady Daphne.” The two men shook hands.
Though Daphne most certainly liked to hear Jack introduce her as his wife, she regretted that she'd not had the opportunity to once more introduce Jack as my husband.
“How can I be of service to you?” The surgeon asked Jack.
“I wished to inquire about the death of Eli Prufoy.”
The man nodded. “Ah, yes. At the Cock & Stalk.” He ran his eye over Jack's regimentals. “You must have served with the man. I understand he'd been under Lord Wellesley's command.”