by Anna Castle
“A touch of powder, but only a touch. I do not wish to look like a clown.” She dusted her face lightly with a fluffy brush. Then she cast a critical eye at her mistress in the mirror and picked up a thinner one, opening a second small box holding a darker powder. “Here, my lady. Let me give you a smudge or two.”
They were preparing to go down to the Strand again, but this time they’d be dressed as boys — the sort of ordinary, ubiquitous boys who performed small services for a penny or two. The note that had come with the pendant had suggested they meet him at an alehouse near the Temple Bar after dinner.
Trumpet could scarcely sit still while Catalina tugged her short wig into place. Seeing Tom at supper the other night had acutely whetted her appetite for him. She missed him with a palpable ache and knew in her bones he felt the same way.
The note said Ben and Mr. Bacon were keeping Tom on a short leash and that Ben had commanded him to stay away from Chadwick House. Trumpet giggled. Much good Ben’s commands would do him. He’d treated her to a tart little lecture as well after supper. It wasn’t that his arguments were flawed, exactly; he simply underestimated her ability to get around obstacles like prying matrons and gossiping courtiers. No one gossiped about street urchins, did they?
Ben meant well, but if he thought she was going sit around on her lily-white arse embroidering cuffs while everyone else got to rove the city tracking crafty villains, he had not been paying attention during the past two years of their friendship. Besides, these crimes concerned her more than anyone else. She had a right to help solve them.
She and Catalina donned wide-brimmed hats to guard their complexions. It wouldn’t do to turn up in the bishop’s court next Friday with sunburnt faces. Trumpet left word for her aunt that they might be late to supper, then they slipped out past the stable and blended into the crowds.
As they wove through the thronging streets, Trumpet took covert notice of the people they passed. There was a woman with heavy brows and a dark furze above her lips. That beardless man in the over-puffed hose had very slender shoulders. How many of these seemingly ordinary citizens had disguised their sex? What reasons might they have other than the pure fun of it?
Trumpet blinked as they entered the dark alehouse on Fetter Lane, east of the Temple Bar. She and the other lads used to come here sometimes when they wanted a drink but preferred not to bump into any senior barristers. The smoky den served cheap home-brewed ale and day-old pottage to laborers. Most men of the law preferred more fashionable venues.
Tom sat on a bench, a mug on his knee, watching them with that half smile that sent tingles dancing up and down her spine. Trumpet made straight for him, pulling up a low stool, while Catalina turned aside to get two mugs from the alewife.
“Well met, me boyos.” Tom gave her a friendly clap on the shoulder. He shot a wink at Catalina to acknowledge her skill as a costumer. “Nice work.”
Catalina accepted the praise with a flick of her eyebrows. They had learned a great deal watching out Trumpet’s chamber window. Since Catalina was several inches the taller of the two, they made her the older boy. She had a spruce moustache and wore a reasonably well-fitted hose and doublet of a sturdy dark blue wool, with a soft cap of a somewhat lighter shade — the garb of a lesser servant in a large household. Trumpet wore the mismatched pieces of an urchin: blue hose that hung almost to her knees, tan stockings with a hole or two, a mustard-colored jerkin patched across the shoulders, and a small green cap.
Tom had dressed in a nondescript costume of beige and brown. From a distance, he could be any sort of tradesman; close up, the quality of the fit and fabric bespoke a higher status. They made a somewhat ill-assorted trio, but the odds of anyone in the bustling city bothering to stop and consider their oddity were miniscule.
“What’s the game?” Trumpet asked. “You didn’t give me much of a hint.”
“I think I know who the upright man is,” Tom said. He gave her a tentative grin. “I think it’s your uncle.”
“Uncle Nat? I don’t believe it.”
Tom shrugged. “At this moment, it’s only a hunch.” He told them about his cellmate in Newgate and the hints he’d dropped about a barrister of Gray’s Inn. Then he told them about the pawnshop in Southwark and the tip he’d gotten about a man called the “Savoy Solicitor.”
Trumpet drank a long draught of ale while she digested the new intelligences. “The Savoy Palace is the sort of place Uncle Nat would choose. Between London and Westminster, close enough to keep up with all the goings-on, but far enough from Gray’s to go about without unwanted attention there. And I’ve known he wouldn’t be content to molder away in Exeter forever.”
Catalina’s dark eyes widened. “Is Mr. Welbeck now so rich he may live in a palace?”
“It’s not a palace anymore,” Trumpet said. “It’s more of a jumble of tenements with a hospital in the middle.”
“That does not sound comfortable,” Catalina said.
“I’ve never been inside,” Trumpet said, “but the Earl of Oxford lives there, so it can’t be too bad. It looks very grand from the river.”
“The location isn’t the main advantage,” Tom added. “It’s a liberty, the Liberty of Lancaster. Legally, it’s in the jurisdiction of the Duchy of Lancaster, not the City of London or even the Crown. You can’t be arrested for debt, for example, or served a royal writ summoning you to court.”
“Ah,” Catalina said. “That makes more of the sense. Your uncle is a clever man.”
“Are you sure he’s there?” Trumpet asked Tom.
“No. Or rather, I’m not sure the Savoy Solicitor is your uncle. But whoever he is, he’s involved in trading Catholic goods abroad.” He held her gaze, not smiling now. “Every new thing we learn about the burglaries points to your uncle.”
“No, it doesn’t. All you can do is connect this Savoy Solicitor to a pawnshop in Southwark that might be willing to buy ill-gotten goods to sell abroad. They probably buy well-gotten ones too. Even if this solicitor is my uncle, it only proves he gives them advice now and then.”
“We know your uncle has smuggling connections in France.”
“We know your father does too,” Trumpet said. “His old friend What-d’ye-call-um, Jacques Le Bon. The one who can sell anything.”
“He’s no friend.” Tom sounded nettled, unjustly. Her relative was the one whose character was being maligned.
“Regardless,” Trumpet said, “you don’t know anything. You picked up some gossip in gaol and leapt to the first available conclusion. You’re just keen to come up with something Mr. Bacon hasn’t thought of.”
“That would be raisins in the bun, I’ll grant you. But it’s not the only reason. My gut tells me Nathaniel Welbeck is the upright man and you know I respect my gut.”
So did Trumpet. But she remembered how their discussion at the Antelope had ended, with the grim suspicion that the chapel burglars had murdered elderly householders for the sole purpose of putting the authorities onto a false trail. Tom could never convince her that her uncle could ever have any part in such ruthless acts.
Tom was watching her with sympathy warming his blue eyes. He smiled now and said, “We go one step at a time, the way Mr. Bacon says. The first thing is to find out if there even is such a person as the Savoy Solicitor. The second is to see who the whoreson is. If he’s your uncle, then let’s see if we can find out where he’s been the past few weeks. For all we know, he’s been in Exeter, courting sixteen luscious widows who will gladly swear in unison to his attentions.”
“Fair enough,” Trumpet said. Her gut told her Tom’s gut had it right: the pawnshop’s solicitor would be her beloved Uncle Nat. What she wanted to know was how he could have sent his thieves to her new home on her wedding night. And what, if anything, did he know about the murder of her husband?
They finished their ale and went back out to walk down the Strand to the Savoy. The guard — or the man idling inside the gate — looked them up and down but offered them no challen
ge. A passage between two tall houses led them into a churchyard, where paths led forward, left, and right.
“Which way do we go?” Catalina asked.
Tom and Trumpet shrugged. “Let’s watch for a while,” Tom suggested.
They stood beside the flint-walled chapel as people came and went across the cobbled yard. Two boys lugged buckets down the narrow street on the left. A lady in a black veil and pattens clopped out of an alley leading south and crossed to the gate. Half a dozen men ranging from gentry to laborers strode or strolled from one place to another. The Savoy was a beehive inside a maze.
“We’ll have to ask someone.” Trumpet watched two men emerging from the same alley the woman had come from. Both men wore Dutch slops — longer and looser than usual — and short-waisted doublets. One man wore a tall red Phrygian cap. A gold circle glinted in one of the other one’s ears. They both walked with a rolling gait.
“Sailors,” Tom said. “I’ll give them a try.” He walked toward them, adopting the same gait. “Hoi, there! Might I ask ye lads for a wee favor?” His voice roughened into his native West Country burr.
Trumpet bit her lip to keep from laughing. He played the role to perfection except he was far handsomer than the average sailor. A sigh escaped her lips.
Catalina bent her head to whisper, “You know, my lady, I am not a virgin . . .”
Trumpet jabbed her with a stiff finger. “If you so much as offer to comb his hair, I’ll send you back to Orford with a Calvinist gentlewoman to teach you proper comportment.”
“No, my lady!” Catalina shuddered. “I will comport myself. But it does seem a waste.”
The sailors stopped to listen to Tom’s question. Then one of them sketched a path in the air while the other pointed with an arched arm toward the far corner of the palace complex. They shook hands all around and the men went on their way.
Tom showed off his rolling gait again as he returned to Trumpet’s side. “They know the Savoy Solicitor, all right. And he’s home — they’d just been up to see him. I let them think I was looking for work.”
“Did they mention the solicitor’s name?”
“No,” Tom said. “We’ll have to go see for ourselves.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“How not?”
They found their way to a crenellated stone tower on the western edge of the palace and climbed the stairs to the first floor. The door stood open, so they walked right in. The large room was lit by windows on two sides and furnished like legal chambers, with a big desk for the lawyer, a small one for his clerk, a few plain chairs for clients, and shelves of books leaning against the walls. An inner door undoubtedly led to a bedchamber overlooking the Thames.
A pair of weathered leather satchels lay on the floor in one corner beside a glossy green ball and a sack with something yellow peeking out of the top. Shuffling sounds came from the inner chamber. Tom reached over her shoulder to rap on the outer door.
“God’s teeth! I haven’t even had time —” Uncle Nat strode through the door and stopped short. His eyes went first to Tom and narrowed. Then his gaze shifted to Trumpet and he smiled, shaking his head at her costume. “My darling niece. What a surprise!”
She and Catalina doffed their hats and bowed. He laughed and gathered her into a hug. Trumpet wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against the fine worsted of his doublet. She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. He smelled of travel: sweat, dust, and horses. She released him and stood back to study his face. He was tanner than when she’d seen him last, but he still wore the same curved moustache and short, rounded beard. His dark hair was still cropped just above his ruff. The Welbeck features — soft brown eyes, a little too close together, and a longish, broad-tipped nose — always reminded her of her mother with a bittersweet pang.
She sniffed at his doublet again. “You smell like horse, Uncle. Where have you been?”
“Exeter. I came in not an hour ago.”
Tom grinned, or rather, raised his upper lip. “That’s a long ride, and dusty at this time of year. What did it take you — about a week?”
“More or less,” Uncle Nat said, eyes narrowing. “And I’d rather have dust than mud.”
Something Trumpet couldn’t detect underlay their travel talk. She hadn’t ridden west since her mother died; perhaps there was something unusual about the road.
Uncle Nat peered past them out the door. “Where’s the other one? That lanky hound, Benjamin Whitt. Isn’t he part of your merry band anymore?”
“He’s helping Mr. Bacon with something else today,” Tom said.
Uncle Nat smiled through his teeth. “Leaving you free to play with the girls, eh? Tell me, did Bacon ever catch on to my niece’s little game?”
“I told him,” Trumpet said. “Recently. Things have happened, Uncle. How long have you been away?”
“Long enough.” His expression turned sad. “The Earl of Leicester died on Sunday. Have you heard?”
“I suppose the war took its toll.” Trumpet shrugged. “He was very old, after all.”
“He was only fifty-six!” Uncle Nat ran both hands through his thick hair, perhaps to reassure himself he still had it. “I’ll be forty in two years.” He gave Catalina a lecherous grin. “I’ve never seen you in slops, Mrs. Luna. They flatter you, or rather you them.”
She made a small bow, her answering smile equally warm. When the actor she’d been living with died, Catalina had turned to his friend, Nathaniel Welbeck, for help. He had sent her on to Orford, recognizing her as the ideal maidservant for an adventurous lady. Trumpet hadn’t asked how well Catalina had known her uncle; it appeared they had known each other rather well and still had fond memories of one another. That could be useful if they decided to keep a closer eye on him.
Uncle Nat returned his scrutiny to Trumpet. “What happened to your sad little moustache? I always thought that was a clever trick.” The scrawny appendage had been his idea.
“Smudges work just as well and they don’t itch,” Trumpet said. “But we’re not here to show off our disguises.”
“Aren’t you? Then let’s sit, shall we? I’ve had a long day already.” Uncle Nat took the seat behind his desk. Tom and Trumpet drew chairs up to face him. Catalina chose a bench near the door.
A small silence followed. Trumpet looked at Tom, asking him with her eyes, Where should we start? He raised his eyebrows to say, I don’t know.
Uncle Nat shook his head with amusement. “How did you find me?”
Trumpet glanced at Tom. They’d forgotten to prepare this part. He launched into an answer before she had time to think. “Lady Chadwick took pity on your niece, who has been longing to reassure herself of your continuing good —”
He broke off as Trumpet cleared her throat and glared at him, willing the word no through her eyes.
Too late. Uncle Nat sneered. “A waste of breath, Clarady. I know my sister would never violate my confidence, certainly not without warning me.”
Tom tossed that off with a shrug. “I don’t mind telling you the real reason. We’ve heard some intriguing rumors and came to see for ourselves if you were the one they call the Savoy Solicitor.” He threw the words down like a gauntlet.
Uncle Nat only chuckled. “That absurd nickname! It isn’t even accurate. It should be the Savoy Barrister, but that doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it?” He smiled at Trumpet. “I do small favors for my neighbors, a bit of advice here and there. We’ve all sorts in the Savoy. It’s one of the things I like about it.”
Tom subsided, a disgruntled look souring his handsome features. Trumpet had expected something along those lines. They’d confirmed his hunch the minute they walked in the door. Her uncle could be the principal counselor for every back-alley pawnshop in London and it wouldn’t prove he’d had anything to do with the chapel burglaries.
Uncle Nat said, “I’ve been keeping my eye on you, Alice dearest, from a distance. Your letters are always read with great i
nterest, and my sister fills in some of the blanks. In fact, I found a letter from Blanche waiting for me when I came in today, about your overly hasty and all-too-brief marriage.”
“Then she must have told you how it ended.” Had he really only just learned about it? A wave of relief washed the tension from Trumpet’s shoulders. He hadn’t known; therefore he had not deliberately taken advantage of her wedding night to send in his burglars, if he even had any such. She was beginning to doubt Tom’s whole construction.
“I’m appalled,” Uncle Nat said, “and deeply grieved.” What looked like genuine sadness darkened his eyes. “That poor old man! You know, Alice, I would have advised against that marriage if you’d consulted me. I thought you were using Surdeval as a counterweight in your negotiations. I never thought you’d actually marry him.”
“I liked him,” Trumpet said. “He was kind to me.” She studied his face, which he allowed. That seemed a little odd. Was he deliberately showing her his grief? Toward what end? She shot a glance at Tom. He looked puzzled. He’d seen the sadness too, recognized its sincerity, and was being forced to rearrange his suspicions.
Her uncle had not been party to Lord Surdeval’s death, she’d wager half her jointure on it.
“Why didn’t Aunt Blanche tell me you’d come back to London? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I prefer not to attract attention yet. And I couldn’t be sure where your loyalties lay after you took up with Francis Bacon and his boy here.”
“Man,” Tom said. “But no offense taken. He is my tutor, though I’m now a full member of Gray’s on my own account. In good standing, I might add, unlike some.”
“So I’ve heard. Service to the Lord Treasurer, how enterprising of you.” Uncle Nat turned back to Trumpet. “Blanche also told me this man spent your wedding night in your bedchamber.”
Tom spread his hands wide. “I would never touch a lady against her will.”
“Her will is the one that worries me.”
Trumpet repressed a smile at the memory of that brief but rapturous interlude. “Tom stayed to keep me company, Uncle, that’s all. I didn’t want to be alone in that big house, waiting for my husband to wake up and come to me.” Never mind that she’d grown up in an ancient castle four times the size of Surdeval House.