Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  Casually, ever so casually, I turned, looking back the way I had come, trying to spot the culprit who’d been sizin’ me up. Not those bustling matrons with their baskets of produce. Not the red-faced gent with lopsided hat, tipsy smile and red cheeks. Not the Italian organ-grinder with his scrawny, outrageously attired monkey. There must ’uv been ’alf a ’undred people comin’ an’ goin’, movin’ purposefully, more comin’ out of th’ shops. Not a soul in sight who looked a bit suspicious. Maybe I’d been imaginin’ it. No, no, Randy uv St. Giles ’ad th’ instincts uv a cat. She wudn’t a prim, skittish lass with jumpy nerves. Someone had been watchin’ me, all right, followin’ me probably, maybe for some time. I continued to search the street, eyes sharp.

  There! That big bloke in the dark leather jerkin, loitering a bit too indolently in front of the butcher shop, right shoulder resting against the wall, his arms folded, head turned away from me. I couldn’t see his face, just the back of his head. His hair was thick and shaggy, the color of dark honey, and he was at least six feet four, shoulders broad, legs powerful in the tight brown breeches. As I watched, a stout gent in pale blue satin frock coat and powdered wig walked past the butcher shop. The blond brute stood up straight, stumbled, fell against the gent, almost knocking him down. The gent muttered a curse, straightened his wig and moved on in my direction. The blond slipped a glittery gold watch with a heavy chain into the pocket of his jerkin and sauntered off, his back still to me. I never did get a good look at his face, but it didn’t matter now. Bloke spotted me with all these packages and thought I’d be an easy mark, followed me for a bit and then decided the gent in pale blue would yield better pickin’s.

  Putting the incident out of my mind, I hurried on back to Holywell Street to find Cam Gordon still hard at work. I didn’t have time to launder my new clothes. I had to make him a cup of coffee, find him a certain book, build up the fire and get more coal, pop down to the butter and cheese shop for a hunk of cheddar, pick up a fat, juicy link of sausage with crackling skin and carry a dinner tray in to him, since he didn’t intend to go out. He stopped work around seven, had another cup of coffee and, while I copied what he’d done, moodily researched methods of torture in Renaissance Italy which Burke might be able to use.

  I washed the clothes early the next morning while he was still asleep, hung them up on a line in the busy, bustling courtyard. Children played noisily with a ball. Dogs yapped. Women gossiped cheerily at the pump. It was a sunny day, cold and clear, and the clothes were dry by noon. I heated the iron up over the fire and slowly, carefully pressed each garment. Imagine me owning four dresses, two pairs of shoes, my own cloak, lined with silk, and a silk shawl, too. It was heaven, that’s what it was. Almost made up for havin’ to deal with a churlish, temperamental Scot who spent his time scowlin’ and scribblin’ bloodthirsty tales of vengeance. As I put the clothes away in my tidy attic room, it suddenly occurred to me that I was happy, actually happy for the first time in memory.

  Gordon was still working furiously at four o’clock, and I had a pot of stew started. Onions and chunks of beef were bubbling in broth in a big pot over the kitchen fire while I busily peeled carrots and potatoes. I didn’t know anything about cooking, always popped out for victuals, but anyone, it seemed, should be able to make stew. I dumped the carrot and potato peelings into a large, round pan of water, plopped the cut-up vegetables into the bubbling pot and frowned as I smelled the aroma. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve put in both them big pieces of garlic, I thought. Maybe some more salt an’ pepper ’ud ’elp tone down the garlic. I merrily added more seasoning, feeling quite creative. ’Is ’Ighness was goin’ to ’ave a tasty meal cooked with my own two ’ands.

  I peeked into the front room. The Scot was writing industriously, gritting his teeth as he did so. Probably killin’ off one uv th’ cousins, I told myself. Someone knocked at the door. Gordon ignored it. The knocking continued. Gordon didn’t hear it. Hastily wiping my hands on a cloth, I scurried across the room and opened the door and stared in silent amazement at the tall, glamorous creature who stood before me. She was several inches taller than I, with a round, ripe figure that was a bit too fleshy but undeniably voluptuous. Her hair was thick and glossy and dark gold, elaborately arranged in waves on top with long ringlets dangling down in back. Her complexion reminded me of a bruised white rose petal, and her emerald eyes glittered darkly.

  “And who might you be?” she asked haughtily.

  “I might be Eleanor of Aquitaine,” I retorted, “only I ain’t. I ’appen to be Mr. Cam Gordon’s assistant.”

  The woman arched one dark, perfectly formed brow. Her mouth was large and plum red, greedy-lookin’, and she had a heart-shaped beauty patch affixed just below the right corner. Provocative. Definitely. She smelled of crushed violets, a heady perfume, and she was wearing a green and cream striped satin gown. The bodice clung to her like a second skin, exposing most of her bosom, leaving her shoulders bare, and the skirt belled out in scalloped flounces that separated to reveal the ruffled cream lace underskirt. She wore long emerald velvet gloves, a chunky diamond-and-emerald bracelet on one wrist, diamonds glittering at her earlobes as well. At least thirty-five, probably much nearer forty than that, she had long since lost the bloom of youth, yet she exuded a powerful allure. Those worldly, experienced eyes had seen a lot of ceilings. That lush, well padded body had seen a lot of service.

  “Who is it!” Gordon called irritably.

  “Don’t rightly know,” I said.

  I did, though. This couldn’t be anyone but the much-discussed Lady Evelyn Greenwood who, according to Bancroft, was as rich as Croesus and had an insatiable yen for my Scot. The lady pushed haughtily past me and strolled over to Gordon, lace and satin rustling, perfume filling the air, jewels flashing with shimmering green and silver fires. I closed the door noisily. Fancy wearin’ jewels in th’ middle of the afternoon. Couldn’t be good taste. Downright ostentatious if you asked me. Gordon looked up at her, scowling mightily, not at all delighted to see her.

  “What do you want, Evelyn?” he asked.

  “Cam, darling, you know what I want. It’s been so long.”

  “I’ve been busy,” he snapped.

  She ran her fingers through his hair, smiling a languorous smile, enchanted by his foul humor and the challenge it presented. I longed to stay and watch the action, but Gordon shot me a threatening look and I scurried back into the kitchen. I left the door open a crack, though. I might not be able to watch, but I fully intended to hear. Gordon muttered something I couldn’t quite make out, and Lady Evelyn laughed huskily, her skirts rustling again. I could smell her perfume all the way in here, even over the garlic.

  “I do wish you’d abandon these sordid lodgings, Cam,” she complained. “I know you’re a mad, eccentric writer—that’s why I adore you, darling—but living like this is absurd. That hideous courtyard—dogs barked at me, a wretched child made a face, I had to weave my way through lines of washing to get to the door. And those stairs!”

  “No one asked you to inconvenience yourself, Evelyn.”

  “Don’t be ugly to me, Cam, darling,” she said in a pouty voice. “Why must you be so difficult? I’ve told you over and over again that I’d be delighted to put you up in swank bachelor quarters.”

  “And I’ve told you over and over again that I’m not a male whore.”

  “You’re so unreasonable! You won’t let me buy you presents, you won’t let me find you a decent place to live—I would have to fall in love with a man of principle. It’s so boring! I’ve missed you dreadfully,” she continued, lowering her voice provocatively.

  “I really don’t have time for this, Evelyn,” he said wearily. “I’ve just started this book. It’s imperative I finish it within two months.”

  “Poo! You work much too hard, darling. You need a little distraction.”

  Gordon was silent. I tiptoed over to the door and peeked cautiously through the inch-wide crack I’d left open. Gordon was still sitting at the tabl
e, turned away from his work, glaring up at her with eyes that gleamed a dark, threatening blue. He was seething inside, growing angrier by the minute, and Lady Evelyn was absolutely enchanted, deliberately baiting him. She smiled, reaching a hand out to run her index finger lightly down his lean cheek, touching the sullen curve of his mouth. Gordon scowled, tense now, a panther ready to spring.

  “I want you, darling,” she purred.

  “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

  “You want me, too. You know you do.”

  He stood up so abruptly that the chair crashed to the floor. His eyes were flashing violently now. He seized her wrist. Lady Evelyn blanched, thrilled to the core. He stormed toward the bedroom door, dragging her along with him. Her high heels clattered noisily on the floor. Gordon kicked open the bedroom door and gave her arm a savage jerk, slinging her into the room. Lady Evelyn let out a cry, half in terror, half in ecstacy.

  “All right!” he thundered. “You’re going to get what you came for, and then you’re going to get out!”

  “Cam! You’re so masterful!”

  The bedroom door slammed so hard a framed print fell off the wall, glass shattering. Such carryings-on! It was scandalizin’! I opened the door wider in order to hear better, and the things I heard! Such thumping, such banging, such squeaking of springs! It was enough to make you blush all over, it was. The bed was actually scooting across the floor, legs bump-bump-bumping on the hard wood. Lady Evelyn made noises like a drowning cat, totally uninhibited, and then there was a scream and a clattering explosion as the slats gave way and springs and mattress thudded to the floor. The Scot was certainly vigorous, I reflected.

  Silence. Then a sigh I could hear all the way in the kitchen. Rustling noises. I closed the door again, again leaving a crack to peek through. Five minutes or so later the bedroom door opened and Lady Evelyn stepped out, smiling a gloriously contented smile. Her hair was mussed, her bodice awry, satin and lace skirts rumpled. She glanced back into the bedroom, blew her energetic lover a kiss and then pulled the door shut. She moved over to the mirror, adjusted her bodice, fastened a wave back up with a pin and smoothed down layers of satin and lace, smiling the whole while.

  She left then, gems flashing, skirts rustling, perfume wafting behind her. Oh, she was an elegant lady all right, elegant as could be with her fancy gown and velvet gloves and haughty voice, but there wudn’t a girl at Big Moll’s anywhere near so brazen. ’Ad th’ morals uv an alleycat, she did. Needed somethin’ to cool ’er off. I glanced at the large pan of water on the drain board, carrot and potato peelin’s floatin’ on top. You shouldn’t, Randy, I told myself. You shouldn’t even think it.

  I carried the pan of water out onto the landing and down to the end of the narrow hallway. Resting it carefully on the edge of the windowsill, supporting it with my stomach, I pushed open the window. It was directly above the doorway leading from courtyard to stairwell, and anyone entering or leaving this section of the building had to pass through it. Gripping the pan, hoisting it up a bit, I leaned out the window, waiting. Slut was sure takin’ ’er time. She was probably weak in th’ knees after all that exercise.

  A full minute passed before she sauntered out onto the cobbles. I turned the pan over, merrily dumping the contents out, wishing it was slops instead of just dirty water an’ vegetable peelin’s. Lady Evelyn let out a shriek that must’ve been ’eard in ’Ampstead as it drenched her. She flailed her arms in the air and continued to shriek as I ducked back in and carried the empty pan down the hall. That was wicked of you, Randy, I scolded myself. You oughta be ashamed of yourself.

  I wasn’t. I was grinning all over.

  It was at least an hour before Cam Gordon returned to his writing table. I heard him rumbling around, putting the bed back together, cursing volubly, and a bit later I heard water splashing as he washed. When he finally came out, white shirt tucked loosely into the waistband of his breeches, jet black hair hastily brushed but still unruly, he wore a savage scowl, blue eyes daring me to make a single comment. I assumed an air of the utmost innocence, sweetly inquiring if he was ready for his dinner now. He examined my words carefully to see if they might contain some impudent double meaning. Finding none, he gave me a curt nod and sat down.

  “Imagine you ’ave quite an appetite,” I observed, then scurried quickly on into the kitchen.

  My stew was a disaster. Cam Gordon took one taste and let out a roar that shook the walls. I took a spoonful and candidly admitted that it might be just a trifle salty. He made several rude comments at the top of his voice, hurt my feelings dreadfully, then ordered me to get my backside down to the chop-house and fetch a decent meal and be damn quick about it. I took money from the ginger jar and left, deliberately dawdling as I moved down the stairs. I felt extremely pleased with myself, hurtful comments or no.

  The sun was going down as I stepped outside, the courtyard brown and shadowy, streaked with fading dark-orange rays. The children had gone inside now. The pump stood empty, water dripping slowly over the rim of the wooden bucket someone had left beneath it. A large black and white dog gnawed a bone, looking up at me as I passed. I crossed over the cobbles and sauntered under the archway that led to the front of the building. It was dark here, purple gray, walls coated with layers of shadow. A large carriage stood on Holywell, directly in front of the archway. The horses stamped impatiently. The coachman wore a heavy cloak with the collar pulled up around his face, and he gripped the reins tightly, as though ready to take off at a second’s notice. Probably waiting for someone, I thought. A man loitered in the nest of shadows before the entrance, leaning against the wall with only his boots and sturdy, brown-clad legs visible, the rest hidden by shadow.

  I’d get a nice, tasty meat pie and a tankard of ale for ’Is ’Ighness, sausage and a twist of chips for me. I’d buy another loaf of bread, too, and some cheese and a pail of milk, just in case he decided to work late and needed something to nibble on in the wee hours. I stepped out from under the archway, so near the carriage I could have reached out and touched it. Footsteps shuffled behind me. I turned. The man who had been loitering in the shadows approached me. He was big and blond and wore a leather jerkin.

  My heart seemed to stop beating. I was paralyzed.

  “You—you were followin’ me—” I whispered.

  He grinned, nodding. “Knew you were on to me. Picked that bloke’s pocket to throw you off th’ scent. Worked right nicely, it did. Followed you on ’ome without a ’itch.”

  “You—you’re—”

  “Black Jack’s been waitin’ for you, Randy,” he said. “’E’s been waitin’ a long time.”

  Before I could run, before I could cry out, the carriage door flew open behind me and dark, smelly cloth smothered me and I was lifted and hurled into the carriage. They’d thrown a cloth bag over me. I kicked, struggling. Strong arms held me. There was deep, masculine laughter. The carriage springs creaked loudly as the second man climbed inside. The door slammed. A whip cracked. The carriage moved rapidly down the street.

  19

  I must have passed out. I was struggling up through layers of darkness, trying desperately to breathe. Something horrible and smelly was smothering me, covering me, stench filling my nostrils and mouth, thickening, making it difficult to inhale. I struggled, sank, the darkness claiming me again, vaguely aware of the jostling movement, rocking, bumping, of the pressure of arms holding me tightly. Where was I? What had happened? The questions flashed in my mind, melted away, and I could feel myself going limp as the darkness swallowed me up.

  “Better take th’ bag off ’er, Matlock,” a crude voice said. It seemed to come from a great distance, barely audible. “We don’t want ’er to smother. ’E wouldn’t be too ’appy if we ’anded ’im a corpse.”

  I was shoved upright. Dazed, barely conscious, I felt the cloth rubbing my cheeks as it was pulled up. A bag. A bag. They’d thrown a cloth bag over me. Two men. A carriage. I was being abducted. I coughed, reeling with dizziness,
gasping as the bag was removed and I was able to breathe again. I was completely disoriented for several moments, blinking, and then panic swept over me and I tried to jump up, tried to scream. A brutal hand was clamped over my mouth, my head jerked back against a shoulder. I struggled viciously. The man holding me chuckled, curling his free arm tightly around my waist, his hand crushing my lips and bruising my chin.

  “Regular wildcat, ain’t she?” he said.

  “She’s a wild ’un, all right. I ’eard all about ’er.”

  “I like ’em a bit wild. Makes it more interestin’. Ain’t no fun when they’re all weak an’ willin’.”

  I kicked. I slammed my heels into shins. I threw back my arm, fingers finding hair. I yanked with all my might. A sharp chin dug into my shoulder, a rough cheek pressing against my own. The arm around my waist grew tighter, tighter, cutting me in two, while the rough palm forced my head back until I felt sure my neck was going to snap. I had the sense to grow still. There’re times to fighting, sure, but there’re also times when you’ve gotta use your ’ead. Th’ brute could tear me into little pieces without even exertin’ ’imself, an’ ’e would, too. I let myself go limp, relaxing against him.

  “That’s better,” he said.

  He cautiously removed his hand from my mouth, ready to clamp it back over my lips if I started to scream. Both his arms were wound around my waist now, holding me close against him. I could smell sweat and skin, damp cloth and old leather. The carriage rocked and bounced, the wheels skimming noisily over the cobbles, horse hooves pounding. The blond brute was sitting on the opposite seat, his hands on his knees, his brows lowered, his mouth a wide, brutal slash of dark pink. The man who was holding me was almost as large as the blond. Tilting my head back, I could see that he had dark red-brown hair and mean brown eyes and a nose that had been broken at least twice.