by Tracy Grant
"No sense denying it. Got a tip this morning."
"From who?"
"Doesn't matter." The man flicked a glance at his companion who was holding Mélanie. "Come with us quiet, Lucan, unless you want your mort's brains all over the floor."
Sancho's gaze went to Nan, and then to Mélanie, with the pistol to her temple. "She's not—"
"Sam," Mélanie yelled, in North London accents, "do what he says or I'm dead for certain."
Sancho stared at her. Nan was sensibly holding her tongue. So was Gisèle. Mélanie locked her gaze on Sancho's. Two possible exits: the windows that overlooked the court and a door behind the table. Four of them, four of the others. Two guns. One knife visible, possibly more concealed. She curved her thumb and forefinger in. A count of three. Sancho inclined his head a fraction of an inch.
Three second later Mélanie sank back, twisted her head, and bit her captor's shoulder. The pistol went flying. At the same moment, Sancho sprang at the man in the snuff-colored coat and knocked him to the ground. The second pistol whistled through the air and lodged in the floorboards.
Mélanie kneed her captor in the groin and lunged for the fallen pistol. Nan yanked against her own captor's hold. Gisèle twisted away from the knife. Sancho tore off his coat and flung it over Snuff-Coat. Mélanie seized the lamp from the table and hurled it into the center of the room.
The chimney shattered. The smell of coal oil filled the air. The room was plunged into shadows, lit only by the fitful light from the windows. A second pistol shot cut the air, but it must have gone wide because Sancho and Snuff-Coat were both still on their feet. Nan tore away from her captor and jerked open a door, nodding at Mélanie. Across the room Sancho seized Gisèle's hand and pulled her to the windows. They hurled themselves at the glass, broke the ancient wood casements, and sprang into the street below.
Nan pulled the door to behind her and Mélanie. They were in pitch darkness, though judging by the close air the space was small, probably a closet or passageway. Nan tugged open another door and stepped into a small room, lit only by the light from a single window. It was furnished with a cot, a table, and three chairs. The window was framed differently from those in the Dolphin and the ceiling was lower. Mélanie realized they were in the next house over.
"Escape route," Nan said. "Always have one." She wedged one of the chairs beneath the door handle.
A crash sounded from outside. They ran to the windows to see Sancho racing across the street, holding Gisèle by the hand.
"Eckert's people are all over this part of town," Nan said. "We'll have to go carefully. Sam will know where to find me. Up, I think."
For the first time, Mélanie noticed a ladder leaning against the wall in the far corner of the room. Nan led the way up the ladder and pushed open a trapdoor. A cloud of dispersed dust greeted them. An attic, with a low, sloping ceiling and dormer windows black with mildew. Nan twisted her hair into a knot and tucked her skirt into her sash. "Can you go across the roofs in those clothes?"
"It's not the first time I've gone over the roofs," Mélanie said, with a vivid memory of a certain night in Vienna. She reached inside her gown, pulled loose the ribbon that gathered her chemise at the neck, and used it to kirtle up her gown and pelisse. Nan pushed open one of the windows and pulled herself up onto the slate roof. Mélanie followed.
A blast of rain-laced wind nearly knocked them into the street. They half crawled, half slid over the rain-slick slates, dropped four feet to the next roof over, and then pulled themselves up five feet onto the one beyond that. The court appeared to be empty now, but it was difficult to see as they were clinging close to the roof slates. Mélanie pulled off her gloves, which gave her better purchase, but the cracked slates scratched her palms.
Then, instead of following the line of the roofs, Nan moved to two wooden planks that created a makeshift bridge across an alley. "They're safe," she mouthed, above the whistle of the wind. "Leastways, they were the last time I came this way."
Mélanie eyed the four-story drop into the alley and reminded herself that she had survived worse. She got a sliver in her palm and a gash in her silk stockings, but the planks held. They followed another line of roofs, turned a corner, and crossed another gap on more planks. At last, Nan stretched out flat and reached over the edge of the roof.
"Hold my ankles," she told Mélanie over her shoulder. She leaned halfway off the roof. Wood scraped against stone. "Good. The sash wasn't locked."
She crawled down through an attic window. Mélanie followed, more relieved than she cared to admit to have a roof over her head and a solid, dry floor beneath her feet.
They were in a small bedchamber, empty, though it had an inhabitant, judging by the frayed lace dressing gown tossed over the calico coverlet and the broken-toothed comb and chipped ewer and basin on the three-legged stool beside the bed. Mélanie also noted a bottle of vinegar and a washleather bag that she suspected contained sponges.
"Thank goodness," Nan muttered. "Sal's out on the street, despite the weather. She'd ask a damn sight too many questions if she was here. Help me shift the chest of drawers, will you?"
Behind the chest of drawers was another door, so low they had to bend double to go through it. It gave onto another dark passage, also cut between two houses. Nan opened a door at the far end onto a room that smelled of rice powder and cheap violet scent and was filled with moans and giggles and the rustle of bedclothes.
A blonde girl and a dark-haired young man were engaged in congress in the bed. The girl, who was on top at the moment, sat up, straw-colored hair spilling over her naked breasts.
"Bloody hell, Nannie, can't you at least knock?"
"Sorry, Bet, we're a bit pressed for time."
"Is Sam with you? Sam, you rotter, what have got my sister into now? You—Who the devil are you?" Bet asked, seeing it was not Sam but Mélanie who stood behind her sister.
Nan drew a breath. "That's part of the—"
She broke off, because the dark-haired young man, who had pushed himself up against the headboard, was staring at Mélanie with round, bewildered eyes.
Mélanie decided that this was one of those times when the truth was simpler than lies. "Mr. Trenor," she said. "It’s some time since we've met. Lady Cowper's rout, I believe."
The Hon. Alexander Trenor, whom Mélanie had last seen in Emily Cowper's drawing room the previous June, turned paler than the linen of the sheet he was clutching to his chest. "Mrs.—Rannoch?" he said, as though even now he could not quite believe it.
"The same," Mélanie said, "though distinctly the worse for wear." She turned to Bet. "My name is Mélanie Suzanne Rannoch. Pray accept our apologies for bursting in so unceremoniously."
"Lord, it's not your fault. Nan does it all time." Bet grabbed a faded blue silk dressing gown from the foot of the bed and shrugged it on. "Here now, are you hurt?"
"Scratches," Nan said. "The roofs haven't got any smoother."
"You're both soaked." Bet picked up a shirt and breeches from the floor and tossed them to Mr. Trenor. "Put those on, Sandy—yes, the ladies will turn their backs—then go in the next room and start brewing some tea, there's a love."
Mr. Trenor gaped at her for a moment, but when the women turned their backs he scrambled into the clothes and beat a hasty retreat into the next room.
"Nicest customer I have." Bet twitched the rumpled bedclothes smooth, brushed two unused French letters from the night table into a drawer, and crossed to a wardrobe of rough deal planks in the corner of the room. "Do you really know him, Mrs. Rannoch?"
"His elder brother is a colleague of my husband's."
Bet turned from the wardrobe with raised brows. Then she stared at Mélanie. "I know who you are. I've seen your face in print shop windows. What's a society beauty doing in St. Giles with my sister? No, don't try to answer that yet, it's bound to take hours." She held out two gowns. "Put these on. Then you can have some tea and explain things."
"Thanks, Betty." Nan fingered th
e green poplin her sister had given her. "One more thing. Sam's on his way here, along with Mrs. Rannoch's husband's sister."
Bet rolled her eyes. "I might have known it. Do they have constables on their trail? Or someone worse?"
"Not if they've managed to give them the slip."
Bet banged the wardrobe doors shut. "That story had better be very good. Where's Sarah?"
"Safe. Mary Cornwell has her for the day."
"Sarah?" Mélanie asked.
"My little girl," Nan said. "I know better than to get her into trouble, truly, Bet. Not that I could have seen this trouble coming."
"Trouble's part and parcel of your life," Bet said. "Here, let me do the strings. Your fingers must be frozen."
She asked no further questions as she helped them out of their wet gowns and into the dry garments. "Best take off your boots too," she added, rummaging in the chest of drawers. Mélanie removed her boots, tugged off her ruined silk stockings, and pulled on the black cotton stockings Bet gave her. She smoothed her hands over the skirt of her borrowed cherry-striped sarcenet gown, a couple of inches too short for her. It seemed to be in its third incarnation, with a blond lace flounce added to the skirt, the neckline cut down, and cerise ribbon trimming the sleeves to cover where the fabric had been turned. Bet or whoever had remade the gown was a skilled seamstress.
Bet had discarded her dressing gown and was scrambling into a gown herself. Nan did up her sister's strings but stared at Mélanie over Bet's shoulder. "Why did you pretend you were Sam's mort instead of saying it was really me they should have held the pistol on?"
Mélanie tucked a wet lock of hair back into its pins. "Because I knew I could get away from the pistol."
Nan gave a slow nod. "For what it’s worth, you have my thanks."
"And you have mine for the escape route. And your sister's hospitality."
Bet moved to the door. "If you helped Nan, you have my thanks too, for all she's often more trouble than she's worth."
She opened the door onto a small room with peeling flowered wallpaper, where Mr. Trenor had got a coal fire going in the smoke-blackened grate and was brewing a pot of tea over the spirit lamp. Bet set their wet boots before the fire and draped their gowns over the faded fire screen. Mr. Trenor, still not quite able to meet Mélanie's gaze, was pouring tea from a chipped cream lustre pot when a door banged open in the bedroom. A moment later, Sam appeared in the doorway. Mélanie released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, then looked behind him with a start of alarm. "Where's Gisèle?"
Sam pushed the door to. He had a cut on his cheek, a split lip, and the beginnings of a black eye. "I lost her. That is, I think she gave me the slip. Let go my hand and darted into the crowd." He met Mélanie's gaze. "I know it probably sounds like a story—"
"No." Mélanie returned his gaze. "I wish to God I thought it was, but it fits all too well with Gisèle's behavior. And what I saw of her before Eckert's men broke in."
His gaze swept the company. "Glad to see everyone's still alive. Kind of you to have us all, Bet."
"Didn't have much choice about it, did I?"
Nan stared at Mélanie. "What the devil is your husband's sister running from—"
She broke off as the door once again burst open. Mélanie spun round, poised for attack, and found herself staring at her husband.
Malcolm had a red mark on his jaw that was going to turn into a bruise, his hair was dripping rain onto his forehead, the shoulder seam of his coat was torn, his once biscuit-colored pantaloons were gray with rainwater and filth. His gaze took in the scratch on her cheek, the scrapes on her hands, the set of her arms that betrayed no broken bones. "You're hard to find, sweetheart."
"Malcolm, what on earth—"
"Laura and Cordy told me where to look. But then I had a bit of a dance catching you. I ran into some men working for someone named Eckert who seemed to take me for an enemy."
"Sorry about that," Sancho said.
"Sam Lucan," Mélanie said. "Nan Simcox and her sister, Bet. And you know Alexander Trenor, darling."
"Of course." Malcolm nodded at Mr. Trenor, who was standing by in breeches and untucked shirt, teapot in hand. Malcolm's gaze was easy, though Mélanie caught the quickest narrowing of his eyes. "Bit of luck running into you like this, Trenor."
Mr. Trenor inclined his head. His pale face was now tinged slightly green, but he met Malcolm's gaze. "Er—quite, sir. Tea?"
"Tea?" Sam said. "Good God, woman, surely you've got some brandy hidden about here somewhere?"
Bet regarded him, arms folded across her chest. "You haven't brought the constables down on me, have you?"
"The constables? No."
"Or anyone else?"
"Shouldn't think so. We managed to give them the slip. And then your sister gave me the slip, Rannoch."
Malcolm's mouth tightened, but he didn't appear over surprised.
Bet went to a dresser in the corner, a water-stained but once handsome piece, and took a bottle from inside. "Good stuff from France, fresh off a smuggler's boat. You can thank Sandy for it. He brought it me on his last visit."
The oddly assorted company sat down on an odd assortment of furnishings—a frayed damask settee with stuffing poking through the arms, two straight-backed chairs with cracked slats, a settle draped with a flowered silk shawl. Mr. Trenor finished pouring out the tea into a mismatched set of cups, chipped but clean and carefully dusted with his pocket-handkerchief. Bet passed round the brandy bottle. She cast a glance at Malcolm, the only one still standing. "Oh, bloody hell, you are a gentleman." She dropped down on the settle beside Mr. Trenor.
Malcolm sat beside Mélanie and squeezed her hand.
Bet looked from Nan to Sam. "Well?"
Sam took a long swallow of brandy-laced tea. "Had a bit of a run-in with Eckert's men."
"Eckert's?" Bet shivered. "Why?"
"Thinks I peached on him."
"Jesus bloody Christ. Did you?"
"Do I look the suicidal type? Bloody well would have been the end of me, if it wasn't for—" Sam looked at Mélanie. "I wonder if you're enough of a madman for your wife, Rannoch."
"One can only hope," Malcolm said.
"You saved Sam and Nan?" Bet looked at Mélanie. "Not that on the whole I'm not glad they're still alive, but why? And what were you doing in St. Giles in the first place?"
Mélanie took a sip of tea, to which she'd added a modest splash of brandy. "Looking for Sancho—Sam."
"Why?"
"I thought he might have useful information."
Mr. Trenor had returned the teapot to the spirit lamp. Now he got to his feet and tugged at Bet's hand. "Let's go to the Pig & Whistle and bring back some food."
"Why?"
"Because this'll be private business. They won't talk if we're about."
"But—Oh, very well. I don't know why Nannie always gets all the luck."
"We'll find some of those pies you like," Mr. Trenor promised, grabbing a blue velvet cloak from a hook on the wall and wrapping it round her shoulders.
"Before we speak further," Malcolm said, when the door had closed, "there's something we have to sort out. You appear to have exchanged a lot of information in the past hour."
Nan looked up at him. She had unpinned her hair and was leaning forwards to let it dry before the fire. "You mean because I know your wife worked with Sam?"
"I don't think," Malcolm said, in a gentle, inexorable voice, "that you know anything at all."
"I don't peach on my friends, Mr. Rannoch. Or do you think a St. Giles mort takes her word less seriously than a gentleman?"
"On the contrary. But I've learned anyone's word can at times give way to circumstance and exigency."
Nan tossed back her hair. "I doubt anyone who'd matter would believe me if I did try to peach. But anyways, you could ruin Sam, and even if I didn't care what became of Sam, Sam could ruin me, so I'd say we've all got jolly self-interested reasons to hold our tongues."
Malcolm nod
ded. "Now why don't you tell me what you were doing with my sister?"
"Tommy Belmont brought her here," Mélanie said.
Sam took a swig of tea and brandy. "We didn't know she was your sister. That is, we didn't know you at all. Didn't know she was Mélanie's husband's sister. Belmont turned up with her, said she needed a place to stay where her family wouldn't find her. Introduced her as Mrs. Fraser."
"Our great-grandmother's name." Malcolm's fingers whitened round his cup, but his gaze remained steady. "Did he say why? Or did she?"
"I wouldn't be much of a success in my business if I asked questions, Rannoch. And Belmont isn't the sort to volunteer answers. Nor is your sister, from what we saw of her."
"Seemed like such a fragile thing at first," Nan said. "But then I saw her fight." She sat back, pushing her hair over her shoulder. "She has children, doesn't she?"
"What makes you think that?" Mélanie asked.
"She was good with Sarah—my little girl. I thought she looked a bit wistful at times."
Mélanie swallowed and saw Malcolm's mouth tighten.
"What did Charlotte send you word about today?" Mélanie asked.
"She didn't," Sam said. "That is, she sent a message, but it was for your husband's sister."
Probably a warning that they might be on to them. It had been a risk for Charlotte to send it, but she must have thought her messenger could outwit Raoul's watchers. "Do you still—"
Nan shook her head. "I saw her burn it after she read it."
"And Mr. Belmont?" Malcolm asked. "Where is he?"
"I don't know." Sam met Malcolm's gaze squarely. "That's the truth. He hasn't been staying here. Brought Mrs. Fra—your sister, and then took himself off. He's been back to see her twice, but the last time was two days ago."
"Did he leave you a way to contact him?" Malcolm asked.
Sam took a swallow of brandy. "Ah—"
"Through Charlotte," Mélanie guessed.
"That's the right of it. Rannoch's sister may have had a more direct way to reach him, but neither of them shared it with us."
"I could see Mr. Belmont drawing a woman away from her family," Nan said. "If anyone was going to."
Malcolm drew a hard breath.