“True.” She stood, slipping her possessions back into her pocket—then, thinking better of it before onlookers, held fast to them. “What’s your name?”
He said a word that would have made a fishwife gasp.
Janey laughed. George murmured, “Odd choice on your parents’ part.”
Around them, the crowd began to break up. If the running lady had got her items back and was asking the boy’s name, there was probably not going to be a fight or a killing, or even a knocked-over booth of fish. How dull.
Pasting on her sternest expression, Cass replied, “I’m not calling you that. You deserve better. And a word of advice: you’re good, but not good enough. I felt the dip as soon as you made it. Either get better before you start stealing again, or go to Ardmore House in Cavendish Square and ask for a job.”
Now George laughed. “My father would love that.”
“I could teach ’im,” Janey said thoughtfully. “How to pick a pocket, like, so’s no one ’ud notice.”
“That is not why we arranged to meet this morning,” Cass reminded the younger woman. “You already have apprentices enough to fill half of London.”
“Could always use another,” Janey said cheerfully. “Hold now”—she referred to the boy by the filthy word—“I might have a jacket as’ll fit you better.” She began unwinding a rolled garment from around her head, where it had perched like a turban over a white maid’s cap. It proved to be a series of child’s jackets, knotted at the sleeves. She wrestled one free and held it out to the boy.
George released him. His eyes, pale and mistrustful, darted from George to Janey to Cass to Cass’s handful of items, then back again.
“Jemmy,” he said sullenly.
“Is that your real name, or are you under the impression that’s how you say ‘thank you’ to the lady?” George asked.
“A lady!” Janey sounded delighted. “Go on, then.”
Jemmy scuffed his bare foot on the cobbles. “Thank you,” he mumbled, then snatched the jacket from Janey’s hands. He dragged it on over his old one, then folded his arms tightly. “Can’t take it back now.”
“Of course not,” Cass said. He really was so thin, so dirty; he must be cold. Likely hungry, too. In a moment, she decided. “Here. These are your coins.” One by one, she dropped them back into his eager hands, keeping a wary grip on her own pistol and miniature. “Mind you don’t take anyone else’s, now.”
“I won’t!” This was almost certainly a lie, of course. He took a step to flee; Janey caught his shoulder, bent to whisper something in his ear, then nodded and set him free. He hared off, lost in an instant among the ceaseless movement of people.
Cass looked doubtfully at Grandmama. Her pistol. How to keep them safe?
Shrugging, she slipped the miniature into her bodice, where her spencer and stays would hold it tight. The cold metal went instantly warm against her skin. She hesitated over the pistol, not liking the idea of stuffing it into her garments.
“Do you want me to carry that for you?” George asked. “I could put it in the pocket inside my coat, where a pickpocket couldn’t get it.”
“Then we couldn’t reach it easily.” Cass tapped it against her palm, then handed it over. “But it’s not loaded at the moment, so I suppose it won’t be much help anyway. Thank you.”
He tucked away the little gun. “I told you I’d protect you, didn’t I? Yes, I’m pretty certain that’s how our conversation went.”
When he winked at her, she smiled. “That’s not how I recall it, but it’s what you did. At least—you protected my belongings, and that means a great deal to me.”
“I should love to see what you keep in that little gold case.” Holding her gaze, his blue eyes were warm. Did he mean the gold case protecting the miniature? Did he mean he’d like to undo her bodice, where she’d stowed the precious item?
Or was she being wishful, thinking he might be looking upon her with desire? Especially when all around them was tumult, and the odor of fish so strong it almost covered the stench of the river.
“I . . .” She fumbled for something to say that would not sound ridiculous.
George rescued her. “But never mind that now. Will you introduce me to your friend, if she will allow it?”
Naturally, Janey allowed it. The pretty young woman was all impish flirtation as she made the acquaintance of George, Lord Northbrook, who used far better manners with her than he had ever displayed with Cass.
“I need to speak with Janey for a bit,” Cass then said to George. “Bow Street business.”
“Right. I’ll make myself scarce, shall I? I’ll just . . .” He looked around. “Buy some fish? Yes. I’ll buy some fish.”
Off he went, and Cass eyed Janey curiously. “Did you tell that boy where he could find you?”
Janey shrugged. “No harm in that, was there? I’ll teach ’im to be good.”
“What sort of good? A good boy or a good pickpocket?”
“Why not both?”
Cass had to allow this. Janey was indeed a good woman and the finest pickpocket in London. So she asked, “Why did you want to meet at Billingsgate?”
“Got to meet somewhere.” She twisted the knotted row of jackets back into a coil, then wrapped it around her head like a turban. “And I wanted to be gettin’ a fish for me dinner. Charles would have it as a treat, and Missus Jellicoe said as she’d cook it for us.”
So her brother was Charles now. It was only fair, as they’d always called Janey by her first name—but again, Cass had the feeling of events passing her by. Charles was making connections without her, and those would make her old life new and unfamiliar when she returned to it. “Where is Charles getting the money for fresh fish?”
“Coins all over his washstand,” Janey said, as if this were perfectly normal. “Keeps one in a broken cake of soap, too.”
“He keeps a coin in his soap? Still?” How well did Cass remember jamming it in there on end, a fruitless gesture of annoyance. But it had fallen to the floor, and she’d replaced it on his washstand.
“He is washing,” Janey said. “See him every other day, I do, and the soap is smaller ev’ry time. Must be as he puts the coin in again each day.”
“Charles,” Cass muttered. Using her wages to buy fresh fish. Keeping a coin in a cake of soap. What was he about?
She had to grant that fish was not an extravagant purchase, though it was an unusual one for her brother. And if he drove the coin into the soap, just as Cass once had, then maybe he had taken her words to heart. Maybe he was trying to be a bit wiser with money, or more careful about work.
Or maybe he thought it looked smart. One never knew with Charles.
Cass shook this off and returned to the subject of work. “You’re helping with the Watch case? Is that what you speak to Charles about?”
“Whatever’s needed. But mostly that, aye.” Janey nodded, looking grave. “Some toff was asking about a girl who disappeared. Lord Randolph, ’is name was. She was some servant that had run off to London, and he said he wanted her back because he was worried for her, and me friend Mary Simpkins said as she’d heard he was cruel to young women, so the lass probably ran away—lass, that means girl, that’s just how Mary talks.”
“I know the word,” Cass said drily. “And I know Lord Randolph’s reputation.” It had been soured around the time of the famous theft from the Royal Mint. Lord Randolph had lost himself a mistress and, in retaliation, set up a bawdy art exhibition in the wilds of Derbyshire. He didn’t move often in society, but when he did, he was a discomfiting sort. “So Mary thinks Lord Randolph is responsible for the girl’s disappearance?”
“No, no. Mary thinks the Watch is being more careful, now, because there’s a toff nosing into the matter. So there hasn’t been any more girls gone as we know of.”
“That’s . . . good? Yes, that’s good,” Cass said. Better for London’s young women to be safe, even if the case stayed open longer. Just as it was better for George’s
father and his old compatriots to remain safe, even as the tontine case ground to a halt.
And Cass seemed never in the right place to help with either. Not even able to hold on to her own belongings.
But able to count on George to retrieve them, on Janey to follow the case. This was a strange sensation, not only to lay one’s trust upon another person but to have it repaid.
“Thank you,” Cass said for the second time in a short while. “You’re a great help to Bow Street, and I’ve no doubt to my brother.”
Janey made an unintelligible sound like faughhhhh. “It’s my attun-mint. You know that.”
“The reason doesn’t matter. It’s a great help.” She asked Janey about the other cases before Bow Street, those Charles had been working as well as those that had come up since both Bentons had absented themselves from the courtroom. Janey’s memory for names and faces was good, though she’d yet to master the legal jargon of the courtroom and stumbled over many of the words.
With a pang of envy, Cass said, “By the time Charles is well, you’ll have made yourself indispensable to Fox.” It was such a good feeling to be needed.
Janey flashed her charming grin. “And haven’t I been indis—like you said—all along? Best informant that Mr. Fox has, he says.”
“Then it’s true. Fox never exaggerates or lies.”
Janey looked doubtful at this description of such a paragon of honesty; then her grin returned. “Ah, that lord of yours is back! And what a big fish as he’s sportin’.”
“Uh,” Cass replied, now rosy herself. She wheeled in the direction of Janey’s gaze to see that yes, George was making his way back to them, and he was carrying a large flopping fish—thank the Lord, not in his arms, but in a straw basket he must have bought off one of the fishwives.
When he reached the two women, he thrust the basket at them. “Here. I bought a fish, just as I said I would. Its eye is staring at me and I don’t like it. Which of you wants to take responsibility for it?”
Cass tucked her arms behind her back. “Not I. You could give it to your cook.”
“Or you could give it to me,” said Janey hopefully. “I was goin’ to buy one, but now I won’t have to.”
“The lady wins.” George surrendered the basket to Janey, a look of relief on his face. “Happy birthday, for whenever your birthday is, and don’t say Lord Northbrook neglected that occasion.”
“It’s next week!” Janey beamed at him. “Thanks to ye, and I’ll be off.”
As quickly and subtly as the boy Jemmy had slipped away, Janey and the basket and the fish were gone.
“She’s going to give that fish to Charles,” Cass pointed out. “Basically, you bought my brother a fish.”
George lifted his brows. “That sounds like a euphemism, but I cannot imagine for what.”
Cass chuckled. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.” She dusted her hands against each other, not that this did her soiled gloves much good. “Well, what now? I should have kept a few of Jemmy’s coins to hire us a hackney back to Cavendish Square.”
“Not yet.” George looked down at her, bareheaded and rumpled, with a mischievous twinkle in his light eyes. “We look disreputable—at least I do—and I’m not ready to stop enjoying it. If you’ll permit me to ask a question that I do want the answer to, might I take you to breakfast? I know the perfect place.”
Chapter Nine
“Pie,” Cass said in the decided tone George was becoming very fond of. “I love pie. That’s what I want for breakfast.”
“An easy wish to fulfill. Will you have the meat sort, or the sort with fruit in it?”
“All sorts,” Cass said promptly. “Any sort. Put something in a crust and bake it, and I will eat it.”
“You make the matter simple,” George decided. “We’ll have an all-pie breakfast, if my friend is willing.”
He’d brought her to Antony’s, a restaurant slipped among the many inns and hotels and public houses of Piccadilly. The hackney that had brought them here from Billingsgate had been scarcely faster than a walk through London’s thickening traffic, but it was still not even nine o’clock in the morning. The tonnish wouldn’t be awake for hours, and the chef d’oeuvre at Antony’s would not offer a formal service until noon.
But George knew he’d be here with his assistants, preparing meats and vegetables for the luncheon dishes they’d serve.
A knock at the back door brought a grumpy-looking Frenchman to answer it—one whose expression changed from impatience to delight when he saw who stood there.
“Lord Northbrook, et sans chapeau! You have had an adventure this morning?”
“Only a small one,” George replied. “But I did lose my, er, chapeau. To be fair, it was all the lady’s fault.” With this, he introduced Cass to Antoine.
“Antoine Fournier.” The chef d’oeuvre bowed low over Cass’s hand. “Enchanted to make your knowledge.”
“Don’t listen to that jumbled talk of his,” George told Cass. “He only does it to be charming. Really, he speaks English better than either of us.”
With a sniff, Antoine straightened. “Certainly better than you.” He was about George’s age, with dark hair and mobile brows and the slight thickness about the middle that came from living amongst the glorious foods of his own creation. As he had every time George had seen him at the restaurant, he wore an impeccable white garment that was not quite a shirt and not quite a jacket, and around his waist was a broad apron of the sort butchers wore.
Around him, from within the kitchen, divine smells issued forth. George inhaled deeply, forgetting the stinks of the Thames and none-too-fresh fish and dubious hackneys. “Look here, I freely admit I’m an uneducated clod compared to you, and not nearly so charming.”
“He is being modest,” Antoine said to Cass. “This means he wants something.”
She grinned. “Of course he does. But I think it’s what I want, also. You see, he thought you might give us breakfast. Pies, especially.”
“Is that all? Bien sûr, come in! Have le petit déjeuner! I will make you the best pies you have ever experienced.” He opened the kitchen door more widely, ushering them through.
As George followed Cass, Antoine held him back, the teasing manner now sincere. “You are always welcome here. You know that. Whatever you want—no pay.”
A brisk nod from each: the masculine equivalent of words of friendship and gratitude. To speak the words themselves would have been intolerably sentimental.
Antoine directed them through the kitchen; George had a brief impression of giant stockpots bubbling, a large table on which several assistants were chopping vegetables and rolling out dough and performing other food-related tasks. His feet rang on the flagged floor; above him hung gleaming pots and pans and aromatic bunches of herbs.
And then they were through into the main dining space, currently empty save for themselves.
The ceiling was a light gray-blue, like the color of the London sky when sun won out over fog. The walls were paneled and plastered in the most fashionable of colors, with still-life paintings of succulent fruits adorning them. The white cloths covering the tables were crisp, complemented by shining flatware and glass drinking vessels. The space fairly invited diners: come in and sit—we have a space all ready for you.
Yet the diners did not come, at least not in the numbers needed for the restaurant to remain solvent. It was a mystery to George.
George scrutinized Cass’s features as she took her seat in one of the chairs at Antony’s. Did she like the place?
“This is nothing like the Boar’s Head,” observed Cass.
“Is that your favorite restaurant?” He sat across from her.
“Too grand a word for it. It’s a public house near the Bow Street court. I can’t tell you how many times Charles and I took a quick meal there.” Cass settled her skirts around her on the chair. “If his name is Antoine, why is the restaurant called Antony’s?”
“Because
every Frenchman who starts a restaurant seems to be named Antoine and call it Antoine’s. I encouraged him to think of something a little more English.”
“And he listened to you?”
“He ought to have. I gave him the money to start the restaurant.”
George hadn’t meant to admit this. As he’d feared, Cass now looked about with growing curiosity. “So this is really your restaurant.”
“No, no. I don’t do anything here.” He waved his hand. “Someone else cooks, someone else waits, someone else—”
“Arranged it all? Gave the capital to start it up?” She arched a brow.
“Shhh, you will shame me. And it wasn’t that much, really. It wasn’t even half of my quarterly allowance.” Though it remained an expense, quarter after quarter, as George made up the difference between Antoine’s costs and income. “Besides, isn’t it worth it to taste such foods? Oh—you haven’t tasted them yet. Well, once you get your pie breakfast, you’ll agree that it was money well spent.”
“How did you come to invest in a restaurant?”
He racked his brain to remember. “I think . . . it was because of the food at a ball a season or two ago. Two seasons now, it must have been. It was of such surpassing excellence that I found the cook and told him he had a marvelous gift. I forced him to become my friend and filled his head with all sorts of grandiose schemes for starting a restaurant. So you see, I had to pay for it after all that.”
“You didn’t. You could have eaten and enjoyed the food and left it at that.” She bit her lip, looking around the room. “You certainly spend your money differently from your father.”
George tugged off his gloves and tucked them away. “He’s the one who inspired me to do this, by counterexample. If a bit of money could make a difference, shouldn’t I use it well instead of throwing it away? I mean, I already have enough cravats. At least until next season.”
Cass eyed his cravat, which was surely a sartorial disaster after the morning’s exertions. “Wisely said.”
“I do keep a hand in the place, a little,” George admitted. “I wanted a place where the tonnish could dine without having to deal with a crushing ball or worry about meeting one’s mistress.”
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