by Sawyer North
“You found her,” said a man whose lined face resembled an overripe pumpkin both in shape and texture. “The bloke’s daughter?”
Lucy clenched Steadman’s coattail from behind. He glanced at her and chuckled with resignation. “Sadly, no. This is Miss Lucy Locket, a mere humble servant of the marquess.”
The newcomer stared blankly before, what must have seemed to the man, a brilliant idea slowly captured his beaten face. “Then we ransom her!”
Steadman shook his head. “Wixom. Did I not explain just now that the poor girl is merely a servant?”
The man cocked his head before nodding slowly with piggish eyes. “Yes.”
“Then to whom would we ransom her?”
Wixom considered the question for the space of several seconds. “No one, I guess.”
“Exactly right. Your impeccable logic triumphs once again, Wixom. Well done.”
The man grinned at the backhanded compliment. Steadman clapped a hand on Wixom’s shoulder while still smiling.
“Now, then. It grieves me to also bear horrendously bad tidings regarding our little troupe, my friends.”
The others crowded nearer, intent on Steadman’s ominous pronouncement. The dapper man gathered their attention with a moment of stretched silence.
“Our attempt at simple larceny has gone horribly awry. We have dunked the daughter of the heir to a dukedom in the Thames and endangered her life. And so, we find ourselves in a tenuous situation.”
The men mumbled agreement, while not quite knowing what the situation was. Steadman silenced them with a diffident hand.
“The Crown will surely take offense at this incident and rightly blame us for the unintended outcome. Our sole salvation, then, is to sunder our company and vacate these environs with the greatest of expeditiousness.”
The highwaymen continued to stare at Steadman with slack jaws. He rolled his eyes. “If we remain here together, we will swing from the gallows by nightfall. If you wish to remain safe, then flee immediately.”
Alarm dawned on the collective faces. One by one, the men splintered from the group and left hurriedly through the woods until only Wixom remained. Anxiety reorganized his pumpkin face into a different configuration of lumps.
“What about the girl? Won’t she peach?”
A tremor wracked Lucy’s thin frame as she considered the implied threat behind the question. Steadman placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and responded to the man with a grave tone. “Not to worry, Wixom. I will attend to this one, unpleasant though it might be.”
Wixom nodded with a conspiratorial smile and melted into the trees. Lucy’s fearful gaze found the wayward gentleman. She wrung her hands with stunned uncertainty while awaiting some indication of what he meant by “attending to her.” Steadman cocked his head side to side as he pondered his captive. Then, with his jaw set, he turned and began to stride away. She remained frozen by the riverbank.
“Come, Lucy Locket,” he called over one shoulder. “It seems that we are paired until such time as I determine how to dispose of you properly.”
She remained unmoving, bringing him to a halt. He glanced back to regard her with a quizzing arch of one eyebrow.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I do not know, as this is a most unexpected sequence of events. However, I cannot simply part with you now and pray that such action does not lead to my execution. That is the unvarnished truth of it.”
Lucy glared at him with uncertainty for the space of several breaths while the thief waited patiently. “Are you really a knight?”
He smiled warmly. “No. Sir Steadman is a moniker assigned to me by my admiring public. But I am a gentleman and you are a lady, both of us from noble houses. I promise to treat you according to your station and will start by insisting you call me simply Steadman.”
His smile reassured her, reminding Lucy of her father’s. Then, she recalled her father’s admonition of courage and decided to survive until she could reunite with him. She leaned forward and began tracing Steadman’s footsteps. When she reached him, he smiled and draped the locket around her neck.
“That’s a good lass. Let us leave this place before the hangman’s noose catches me at last.”
He began walking again with her in tow. She followed with her head low, feeling her life collapse further with each step. Thoughts of her frantic father, however, drove her resolutely forward.
Chapter Five
Henry approached Bow Street with Lucy in tow. She was apparently stewing over the prudence of telling him what had happened that day at the river eleven years earlier. He had simply nodded and asked no questions as her story had unfolded. They had exchanged few words since. With the goal nearly in sight, he turned to her.
“So, Sir Steadman never attempted to return you to your father?”
She shook her head. “He did, after little more than a week. However, thinking me perished, my father had sailed immediately for Italy in despair. His ship sank in a storm.”
Sadness dripped from her voice and she sniffled.
“I am sorry for that,” he said.
She waved a hand in dismissal, apparently swallowing old aches. “It is the past. It means nothing now. Meanwhile, I was deathly afraid of the duke. Afraid he might disown me for having a common mother. I begged Steadman not to send me away. He agreed, despite the personal danger of doing so, and I became his ward. Until yesterday.”
Henry nodded and offered the hint of a smile. He understood her fear of disownment far more than she could possibly know. “Thank you for telling me.”
“It is nothing.”
Within a minute, they turned left and made their way up Bow Street. When Henry halted outside the Covent Garden grounds, Lucy stared in awe at the grand theater while he retrieved the packhorse’s leader from her slack hand. She turned her eyes toward him.
“What now, Redbreast? Is this where we part?”
He paused, deep in thought over a tentative plan that had tortured him all morning. “See here, Miss Locket, I have an idea. What if I gave you some of the coins as a stake and then claim them lost in the struggle? Perhaps a few guineas to get you started?”
Her face fell. “Have I not informed you repeatedly that I am no thief? The coins do not belong to me.”
Regret nibbled at him for expressing the idea. “Wait here, then, while I see these to the office. I will return.”
“Return for what purpose? To arrest me?”
“No. I promised you freedom and my word remains ironclad.”
“Then why return?”
“To introduce you to the Duchess of Ramsbury.” He could feel his toehold on the slippery slope eroding even as he offered the suggestion. It was bad enough to let her go, but to aid her as well?
Lucy’s brow knotted. “How do I know your word is trustworthy?”
“Because I am a gentleman,” he replied with umbrage. “Not one of the thieves you know so well.”
Her eyes flashed. “A thief’s word is no less true than yours. The only differences between a gentleman and a thief are birth and opportunity. Integrity is a matter of choice. I have known cheats whose word was their bond and gentlefolk who would shake your hand and then stab your back the second you turned away.”
Henry frowned skeptically. However, he could not argue her point. His experience with men of all stations during the war lent credence to her claim. “As I said, my word is ironclad and you may trust it. I apologize that I have no written references handy. I did not expect an inquisition when packing my horse yesterday.”
Her brown eyes warmed hopefully. “Very well, then. But swear by your mother’s name not to break that trust.”
“You require an inordinate frequency of swearing by my mother’s name.”
She folded her arms, waiting. He relented. “I swear by my mother’s name t
o keep my word. Now, remain here and try to draw little attention.”
With instruction given, he led the packhorse along Bow Street a short distance before halting at the magistrate’s office. He motioned to three colleagues just entering the building.
“Sirs, would you kindly help me lug these bags inside?”
“What do you have there?” one asked with mild curiosity.
“Ten thousand guineas in gold coin liberated from highwaymen who stole it from a carriage yesterday at Shooter’s Hill.”
“Lord Colvin’s carriage?” they cried in near unison.
“Perhaps. I never heard the gentleman’s name.”
The patrolmen eagerly rushed to help him with the task. By the time he carried the last of the four heavy bags inside, everyone in the office had gathered around for a telling of the story, including the magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant, and a principal officer, Sir Hugh Chisholm. Henry recounted the events up to the point where he had caught sight of the packhorse. There he paused with thoughts of Lucy and how his identification of Sir Steadman might ultimately lead to her execution as an accomplice. In the throes of uncertainty, he did what only a tainted soul would do. He lied.
“The bandits fled in panic without the gold, perhaps thinking more of our ranks would soon arrive. I returned by a circuitous route to prevent them from tracking me.”
Sir Nathaniel frowned. “And the woman fled as well?”
“She did.”
“Do you have any notion of her identity, or that of the other men?”
“They are a mystery to me.”
“Strange,” the magistrate mumbled. “However, female road agents are a rarity. She should be the easiest of the lot to locate.”
Henry swallowed hard. “Perhaps.”
Seemingly satisfied, the magistrate left Henry to the accolades of his fellows, which he accepted with sheepish reservation. Guilt dogged him for his blatant mistruths. Creeping darkness nipped at his heels as he ducked away quickly, fearing that Lucy might leave if he dallied. As he exited Number Four Bow Street, however, a voice halted him.
“Mr. Beaumont. A moment.”
He turned to find Sir Hugh following him out the door. “Sir?”
The principal officer approached Henry and pulled him aside. He leaned close. “That was quite a tale, Henry. We are all very proud of your success.”
Henry tried not to avert his eyes. “Thank you.”
“Of course, your success comes as no surprise to me.” Sir Hugh’s praise was warm, delivered in a Highlander accent tempered by a decade in the British army. “Your exemplary service to the Crown in France was the reason I gave you the job. Still, I wonder…”
“Yes?”
“It seemed you held back some of your story. Is there more to say?”
Henry’s nerves erupted. He had known the man for only a few weeks—not long enough to trust him fully. He forced a smile. “No, sir. I relayed the pertinent details.”
Sir Hugh laid a hand on his shoulder. “Very well, Henry. But a word of advice.”
“Yes?”
“You are a good man. As there are few enough of those in this world, I don’t wish to lose another. I will advocate for you as best I can, but take care.”
Henry reached to shake Sir Hugh’s hand. “I will.”
“Good lad. Quick notice and sudden pursuit.”
“Quick notice and sudden pursuit,” he said, repeating Bow Street’s unofficial motto. He had certainly lived up to it in his running down of Lord Colvin’s gold, but now was saddled with a dilemma—what to do about the wild girl down the street. After Sir Hugh returned to the office, Henry retrieved his horse and led it along the crowded avenue to Covent Garden. To his relief, Lucy still waited. She settled hands on hips and frowned.
“I was beginning to consider the possibility that you would either not return or bring shackles when you did.”
“As you see, your suspicions remain unfounded. Besides, I swore an oath by my mother’s name. How could I betray my saintly mother?”
“And what about my prospects of continuing freedom and an unbroken neck?”
He noted the anxiety underlying her question. “They remain intact. I identified neither you nor Sir Steadman. Nor will I.”
She blinked with relieved surprise and mumbled, “Thank you.”
“My apologies. I did not quite hear what you said.”
“You heard well enough. I will not repeat the words simply for the sake of your enormous pride.”
“Very well, then,” he said with as much hauteur as he could muster. “We’ve a duchess to impress, and I learned her direction from the magistrate’s clerk. However, we cannot have you traipsing about the finer streets of London dressed as if you recently wrestled a pig. I know just the dressmakers to assist us not five minutes from here.”
“Dressmaker? I require no dressmaker, but simply a place to wash up.”
Henry frowned deeply. “No. You most definitely need both. Otherwise, you will not pass the threshold of the duchess’s house, even on my recommendation.”
“Can you not return the locket for me?” she asked plaintively.
“And miss what promises to be a most unusual reaction from Her Grace? Not a chance.”
Lucy steeled her spine. “What if I insist that you do so?”
“Then our agreement is null and void. I stand firm on that. The choice, then, is yours. I am simply an indifferent bystander.”
“But I have no money…”
“I will cover the cost of outfitting you as part of our venture. You may reimburse me after you receive the reward.”
“But what if the duchess learns of my involvement in the robbery at Shooter’s Hill?”
“She must never know and will not know unless you tell her. I plan to remain silent on the subject. Again, my word is ironclad.”
She sighed deeply and let her chin droop. “I surrender. Lead me to the gallows, then.”
“Not the gallows. Merely the dressmakers.”
“May as well be the gallows.”
…
Lucy stood before two strange Frenchmen as a prisoner stands before the executioner. Henry offered a concise introduction.
“Brothers Phillipe and Jacques Archambeau, dressmakers. Gentlemen, Miss Lucy Locket.”
“Lucy Locket? As in the vulgar street rhyme?” Phillipe asked.
Henry nodded. “Just so. Miss Locket requires a dress fit for calling on a duchess, but with an astonishing caveat.”
Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“She must have it by this afternoon.”
Both men laughed.
“Monsieur Beaumont!” said Phillipe. “Your humor remains intact, I see. Again, how might we be of service?”
“I mean exactly as I say, messieurs.”
“But sir, that is not possible given the shortness of…”
Henry interrupted the complaint with a dismissive hand wave. “Let us be frank. I know with certainty that your business has suffered immensely over the past several years, what with Britain locked in a death struggle with France, and you being, well, you know…French. Crown and country and all that. I offer you an opportunity for a quick sale should you have something suitable on hand. For example, something that a customer ordered but abandoned when her husband learned either the cost of the dress or the nationality of the dressmaker. What say you, good sirs?”
The two men huddled and exchanged rapid French, which Lucy followed perfectly well. When they again faced Henry, Jacques smiled.
“I believe we have something that will suit the girl. We have a fine silk dress near her size for a mere ten pounds.”
“Ten pounds?” spat Henry. Lucy touched his arm and shot him a conspiratorial glance, hoping he would trust her. He narrowed his eyes and nodded. She addressed the Fren
chmen.
“Messieurs, just now as you spoke, you said the dress was of inferior quality and worth no more than four pounds. Is that not so?”
The men gawked. “Mademoiselle! You speak French?”
“Fluently, sirs, and Italian as well. And I believe four pounds seems reasonable for an unclaimed dress of inferior silk. Does it not, Mr. Beaumont?”
Henry smiled. “Yes, I believe four pounds will do nicely, and an additional pound for the alterations. Do we have an accord?”
The brothers exchanged mutual shrugs. “Why not?” said Phillipe. “Shoppers are light today. But look, we must hurry if we are to meet your impossible schedule.”
Phillipe led Lucy to an alcove housing a small bureau on which sat a bowl of water, a washcloth, and soap.
“Mademoiselle, if you would please remove your garments and wash yourself…”
“In the presence of three men?”
Phillipe smiled and grasped the curtain she had not seen initially. “After I close the curtain, of course. We are dressmakers, not brothel keepers.”
Lucy glanced sheepishly at Henry and stepped inside the alcove, after which Phillipe drew the curtain. She did as he requested, stripping to her undergarments and scrubbing arms, legs, face, and neck. Then she called through the curtain.
“I am finished. What now?”
An arm protruding through the curtain startled her, and she nearly upset the basin. Phillipe spoke from behind the arm.
“Put this on.”
She stared in horror at the corset in the man’s hand. “But I cannot!”
Henry’s exasperated voice rose from outside the curtain. “Come, Miss Locket. You behave as if you have never worn a corset.”
“But I have never worn…” Her explanation died, leaving awkward silence. Henry cleared his throat.
“See here. It is merely an article of clothing and not so very dangerous. What is that compared to a duel with swords?”
She swayed a few times before reluctantly yanking the item from Phillipe’s hand. The arm withdrew. After first stepping into the torture device backward, she managed to draw it up in the proper orientation.