by Kate Moore
“Adam.” She turned to him. “You must help me. I know it hurts to remember. I will ask only this one time.” She laid the child’s clothes in his lap.
His hands closed around the folds of the tiny garments. His body began to tremble.
“Tell me, Adam,” she said.
His throat worked. His nose ran. He lifted the clothes to his chest and held them there. “Mr. Tom say Adam not talk. Not tell.”
Lucy stood and put her hands on his shoulders. “It’s time now, Adam. Talk to me. Talk to Lucy.”
With a violent shudder he began to speak. “Adam take Lucy to the bulrushes. Adam stay. Geoffrey ran away. Adam saw. No, no, no, no, no! Adam go.”
His head fell forward on his chest. She wiped his running nose with her pinny and rocked him gently. The story was still incomplete. There was nothing about the child. And the bulrushes made no sense. She closed Adam’s fist around the baby gown in his arms. “Did you bring the baby to the inn?” she asked him.
“Adam bring Lucy to the inn,” he said, nodding emphatically.
The words stunned her. She could not have heard him right, but he repeated them, as was his way. “Adam bring Lucy to the inn. Mr. Tom promise keep her safe. Adam stay. Not talk. Not tell.”
The remnants of her childhood lying on the rug told the story in their own way. She was not Tom Holbrook’s daughter. Adam had brought her to the inn in bloodied garments, and Tom Holbrook had hidden them both, protected them. It was Adam’s blood on the baby clothes. She shuddered, understanding why Mountjoy feared for them, because Adam had not been blind. Whatever he had seen was locked in his mind, tormenting him.
Lucy took the bloodied clothes from his hands and returned the items to the drawer. She wet a cloth and washed his face. There was one more question she had to ask him. “Adam, what did you see?”
In a perilous Season there is one painful difficulty the husband hunter may face, which a thorough sense of duty compels this writer to reveal. From time to time it happens that—from reckless inattention to circumstances, indifference to the world’s opinion, or precipitate intimacy without true knowledge of one another’s character—two people who appear headed with all possible dispatch for the altar must sever their connection. For the husband hunter it appears that her Season has ended in failure. Nothing could be further from the truth. As painful as is the discovery that she and one particular gentleman do not suit, it marks the beginning of her path to true happiness. The necessity of continuing her engagements, appearing in society, and of meeting from time to time her lost love with some semblance of composure demands the greatest exertions of spirit and courage, but leads inevitably to a healed heart.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
Chapter 21
Harry stood outside of Richard’s London house, looking across the square, his friend Blackstone beside him. The air of a London street, for all the effluvia of dirt and smoke wafted into the mix, smelled sweeter and fresher than the stale interior of his dead brother’s house.
Harry’s other friend Hazelwood had gone round to the mews to summon Harry’s carriage and Blackstone’s horse. His friends had not left him alone since they’d brought him the news of Richard’s death. Together they’d faced Richard’s wasted body and sent it on its way to Mountjoy for burial. Together they’d routed the duns gathered at Richard’s door and listened to the solicitor’s bleak appraisal of Richard’s affairs. With Blackstone and Hazelwood at his side, Harry appeared to be up in his count of brothers, having gained two for the one he’d lost.
It was a dry, cold day with a stiff breeze that bent the daffodils in the park low to the ground, bright as the brief dream of Lucy Holbrook as his wife. He had escaped Mountjoy as a boy; now, ironically, Mountjoy had taken hold of him, got him by the throat and wouldn’t let go.
“You know,” said Blackstone at his side, “you can’t let Richard’s folly rule your life.”
Hazelwood returned and glanced at the two of them. “You know what we need to do,” he said.
“Break a few heads?” Blackstone referred to Hazelwood’s usual style of dealing with troubles.
Hazelwood grinned. “Always a pleasure. However, I was thinking that we need to get the club reopened. Clare—pardon me, Mountjoy—cannot stay in this cesspit while he settles Richard’s affairs. He needs good coffee, and he needs to be paid. What was that case you were working on, the blind man? Let’s solve it.”
“When?” Blackstone asked.
“Now, of course,” said Hazelwood. “Where’s the blind man, Mountjoy? Some inn, right?”
“The Tooth and Nail,” Harry said, “but...”
A pair of grooms brought round Hazelwood’s curricle and Blackstone’s horse. Hazelwood was instantly in motion. “Should we be armed?”
Harry had no time to answer before another carriage drew up, a high perch phaethon driven by their leader, Goldsworthy. The big man on top of such a vehicle was a sight to see. Next to him, clinging to the side of the carriage, was Kirby, waving an express.
“There you are, Cap—my lord. They’re alive. I’ve had an express. They return today to the Tooth and Nail.”
Goldsworthy looked down at Harry. “You’ve been holding out on me, lad. You had your blind man under my nose for a fortnight. Now we’ll see what he has to say.” He set his horses in motion, and the curricle rattled off.
For a moment none of the three friends moved. The sight of the big man perched atop the elegant vehicle instead of behind his enormous desk stunned Harry.
Hazelwood voiced the thought in Harry’s mind. “Rather cares about this case, doesn’t he?”
Blackstone raised one dark brow. “I think that’s our cue, gentlemen.”
* * * *
Hannah’s knock on the door roused Lucy from her thoughts. Adam lay asleep on his bed under the stairs, exhausted from telling the story. Lucy now knew something of the horror he had seen, though she was far from understanding the why of it.
“Miss, miss,” Hannah called through the door. “The gray doctor is here. He’s in the private dining room, like ’e likes. I asked ’is name, but he told me not to be ’pertinent. He’s asking for you, miss.”
“I’ll be with him directly,” she told Hannah. “You’re to stay with Adam.”
Hannah’s eyes grew wide. She did not like to be around him when he had one of his episodes. “He’s asleep, Hannah. He just needs to hear your voice if he wakes, to know that he’s safe.”
Hannah bobbed a curtsy.
Lucy removed her pinny and crossed the inn. It was the quiet time of day between the breakfast sitting and the afternoon stage. Mrs. Vell was off to feed her own family. Frank must be in the brew house or the cellars, checking his lines or his supplies. The bench sitters were at work.
Lucy knocked on the door of the private dining room, and a curiously flat voice bid her enter.
Lucy could see why Hannah had struggled to describe the gentleman she saw. His suit of superfine gray wool was smooth, his colorless face, wrinkled like the flesh of a softening apple. He must have been fair in youth, but the gold of his hair and brows had faded to ash. Pale waves of that hair swept back from a high brow. The burgundy silk of his waistcoat and gold of his watch fob spoke of prosperity. She judged him to be fifty or more. He stood at the table, his hands resting on a black medical bag.
His pale blue eyes widened when she greeted him.
“Good afternoon, Miss Holbrook,” he said. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Doctor Waller. I’ve come for Adam Pickersgill.”
“Come for Adam?”
“Perhaps you’ve been expecting me. Your father made provision in his will for Adam to be cared for at Normand House. You’ve heard of it, of course, a private asylum, a superior establishment for the care of persons suffering from imbalances of every sort.”
“I beg your pardon but I kn
ow of no plans my father made for Adam to leave the Tooth and Nail.”
“Ah,” said the doctor, “you had a careful father.” He looked at Lucy as if she were a puzzle. “Knowing that your circumstances would change and that as a woman of property you would look to marry, your father wished to relieve you of the burden of Adam’s care.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But whatever provisions my father made for Adam can wait. At present I have no plans to marry, or to leave the inn. You may leave your card should you wish me to seek your assistance at any time later.”
“I beg your pardon, perhaps the confidences of little Hannah, so eager to please, have misled me. I have my bag here, however.” He snapped open the leather physician’s case. “Would it be possible for me to examine Adam today for future reference? Then we will know what regimen of care would best suit him at Normand House.”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m afraid another day will have to do. Adam is asleep at present.”
The doctor looked disappointed. He stared into his case. “Well,” he said, “perhaps you’d be willing to answer a few questions. He’s quite blind, is he? How frequent are his episodes of rage?”
“Rage? Doctor, I’m sorry, but I cannot help you. As Adam is not your patient, it is inappropriate for us to have any conversation about his condition. I must ask you to leave now.”
“That, I cannot do, Miss Holbrook, not without Adam.” The doctor drew a pistol from his bag and leveled it at her.
However agreeable or disagreeable the nature of her family home, the husband hunter has ties of long standing to the friends and relations of her childhood. Sometimes her greatest loyalty and strongest love is reserved for those persons most difficult to love and most demanding of her care and attention. Seeking her own happiness in the face of such ties can seem the worst sort of disloyalty. To free herself from those constraining ties without a wrenching break injurious to all is the business of her Season in London. Her happiness depends upon it.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
Chapter 22
With a pistol at her back Lucy led Waller out of the private dining room, down the stairs, past Harry Clare’s Waterloo case, and across the empty common room. Frank had not returned to the tap, and no sounds came from the kitchen. Lucy moved carefully and as slowly as she could.
Waller continued to talk. “You will bring the old fool to my carriage. We will go out through the kitchen.”
“Who are you?” she asked. He wasn’t a doctor.
A sharper poke in the back was her answer.
As they entered the passageway to her father’s room, Waller said, “You should thank me, girl. If you do nothing stupid, you’ll be free of your troublesome madman.”
Lucy stopped at her father’s door and called Hannah to open it.
“You know what to do,” Waller told Lucy.
Hannah opened the door, and Waller shoved Lucy forward, grabbing Hannah by the arm and putting the pistol to her head. Hannah froze in his hold, her eyes wide, her mouth opening and closing in a soundless cry.
Lucy turned to Adam sleeping on his bed. She let her gaze sweep over the room. She could see no weapon, nothing to use against the doctor, who was no doctor.
For a few minutes she concentrated on Adam, waking him with familiar words and gestures. It took a while to get him fully awake and upright. She ventured a glance at Hannah silently shaking, tears running down her face, her hands clutching her pinny.
At last she got Adam to his feet, and he began to shuffle toward the door holding her arm. She glanced at the clock steadily marking the time, when she wanted it to hurry, wanted the hands to spin forward so that Frank and Mrs. Vell and the bench sitters would return.
At the door Adam paused and cocked his head, the way he did when he became aware of other persons near him.
“Hannah’s waiting for us,” Lucy told him. “We’re going to go for a walk.”
Still Adam didn’t move. He was listening, cautiously testing the darkness. She expected an angry outburst from their enemy. His face was full of contempt and impatience. But he only kept the pistol to Hannah’s head and the cruel grip on her arm.
“Come on, Adam,” Lucy said. “Hannah can’t stand idle all day.”
Adam moved through the door, and Lucy led him down the passageway with Waller and Hannah behind them. Adam paused to listen intently every few steps. When they reached the empty common room, Lucy ventured a glance back at Hannah.
With a jerk of his head Waller indicated that Lucy was to turn toward the kitchen. It struck her that he didn’t speak. He’d had so much to say to her in the private dining room, smooth lies about her father’s will and being a doctor. But he had not spoken again since the door of her father’s room opened. She understood. Adam might be blind, but he could hear. Adam knew the man’s voice. This was the enemy Mountjoy had warned her of. If Lucy could get the man to speak, Adam would not move another step. But if Lucy provoked the false doctor, he might shoot Hannah. Adam’s bench was just ahead of them. Once they rounded the bench, they would be out of the sight of anyone entering the inn. All hope of help would be lost. She had to decide.
Behind her the inn door banged open. A deep male voice with a gentlemanly accent called out, “Hallo, innkeeper!”
Adam froze at Lucy’s side. Waller slipped behind Lucy into the passageway.
“You there, a little help,” called the voice. Boots coming their way sounded against the slate.
“Miss Holbrook?” called another man’s voice, younger and less deep.
Lucy turned to face the newcomers, trying to keep her expression calm. A very tall gentleman in a greatcoat, accompanied by Harry Clare’s young friend with a bandaged shoulder and a very pretty girl, stood watching her.
At her back Waller hissed, “Put them off. Send them to the private dining room.”
At the sound of his voice Adam began to shake all over with the signs of a coming episode. “Geoffrey ran away,” he cried. His fists clenched. His arm slipped from Lucy’s hold, flying upward with a sudden jerk, unbalancing her.
She staggered against the wall as he began to flail. Waller stepped back, and Hannah slipped from his grasp. She ran straight for the tall gentleman, barreling into him, and clung sobbing to his coat. His arms came around the frightened girl.
Waller recovered, grabbed Lucy, and jammed his pistol against her side.
Behind them, blocking the passageway, Adam flailed and cried out.
Waller yelled at him. “You fool, move.”
Adam swung his fist in a wide arc, and Waller inched Lucy farther into the room.
“Nobody takes what’s mine. Least of all you. Fool, you should have run, instead of standing like a blinking idiot, staring at your betters. You deserved to have your damned eyes poked.”
* * * *
Harry looked across the common room at the raging man holding a pistol to Lucy’s side and ruled out reasoning with him. Geoffrey Radcliffe had the eyes of a cornered rat. Keeping his gaze on Lucy, willing her to understand him, Harry wrapped his coat around his elbow, smashed the glass of the Waterloo case at his side, and pulled his sword from the display. He drew the blade from the scabbard with a satisfying scrape of metal on metal. The grip felt right in his hand, the sword an extension of his arm and his will.
He stepped down into the common room, moving purposefully. Ajax Lynley cast him a rueful glance, his arms full of a sobbing girl. Nate Wilde nodded, standing at Lynley’s side, shielding Miranda behind him, his shoulder bandaged. Harry saw no sign that Radcliffe had accomplices, a troubling lack since it meant the man’s desperation would be greater.
“Geoffrey Radcliffe,” he said. He saw Lucy’s eyes widen as she realized who her captor was. “Look around you at this piece of England that men fought for, and bled for, and died for.”
Radcliffe’s gray face conto
rted in contempt.
“Men you betrayed when you sold England’s secrets to her enemies.”
“England’s still here. His royal fatness is still on the throne.”
On Harry’s orders Hazelwood had gone to the back of the inn, while Blackstone watched the front door. Harry just needed a little time. Adam was moaning now, still waving his fists. Time to call Adam back to the present.
“Adam,” he called. “It’s Captain Clare. Lucy needs your help.”
Harry waited for the words to reach Adam to snap him out of the past. “Can you drop to your knees when I say so?”
Radcliffe laughed. “You think the fool can help you? What’s he good for? What has he ever been good for? Stroking the cat and polishing boots? Let me tell you what a fine help he was, blubbering and crying and letting the Frog have his mistress until the Frenchie poked his eyes out.”
Harry’s hand tightened on his sword, but he kept his concentration on Adam. He had the old man’s attention now. Tremors shook him, but he cocked his head, listening. Lucy stood still and proud in Radcliffe’s hold, her golden head held high. Harry’s gaze narrowed briefly to her, nothing else. She was his England.
“Sweet on the girl, are you, Captain?” Radcliffe taunted. “I’m taking her. If anyone tries to stop me, she dies.”
Harry shook his head. Behind him the inn door opened again. A cold stir of March air passed through the room. Radcliffe glanced up, startled by whatever he saw behind Harry.
Heavy footsteps crunched the broken glass of the Waterloo case. A deep rumbling voice called out, “Radcliffe, you dog. You’ll hang for treason.”
The pistol in Radcliffe’s hand wobbled, and he steadied it, shoving the muzzle deeper against Lucy’s side.
Harry’s fist clenched the sword grip. He moved forward at an unhurried pace, drawing Radcliffe’s gaze back to him. “You have one shot, Radcliffe. You’d best hit me, or you die here.”