In The House Of Secrets And Lies (Lady C. Investigates Book 3)

by Issy Brooke

  The yard in front of the house was now empty. She prowled around and looked up at the yellow spots of light in the otherwise black and blank windows. She could hardly re-enter the house, now. She would only embarrass the Duke by being the sole remaining guest. He would not be able to retire, or move on to other entertainments, until she had left.

  She paced, sticking to the shadows. She heard a bolt being shot home and the light in the window beside the main door was snuffed out.

  She turned and went to the wide entrance that let out onto the street, and looked up and down. There were no coaches or cabs nearby.

  There was something much further down the street, though. And the large bulk of a coach or carriage. She could only make out shadowy figures in the gloom; one person standing, and the cab on the street next to them. Even though they were standing under one of the new gas lights, it hardly illuminated anything more than the shape of their body to identify them as human. The person was talking to another who was sitting on the seat of a cab. She was not sure if it was Stanley or not; everything was dark. That far gas light was the nearest one to her, so sparsely spread out were they.

  Well, if Stanley is not here, then I must make my own way home, she resolved. She had money and other such things needful in an emergency all secreted in her bag. She wished now for another drink to give her courage and warmth. She set her shoulders and began to walk down the street towards the cab and the two figures.

  Her soft shoes made no sound but the figure on the ground looked up. They must have caught her movement. She saw that it was a man, tall, and muffled up against the spring night coldness. He lifted an arm as if he was pointing her way, and then turned away.

  He was gone, well out of sight, by the time she reached the cab. It was one of the newer Hansoms, all thin and spindly and light and fast, with one horse, dancing on its feet.

  “Are you for hire?” she asked, looking up. It was certainly not Stanley who sat atop.

  “I am indeed, mistress. That gentleman there said you might have more need of it than he.”

  “How thoughtful of him. I would have shared.”

  “Best not, begging your pardon, mistress, but these times are dangerous ones. Hop in. And where to, if you please?”

  “Furnival’s Inn.”

  “Right you are. We’ll not be long.” He had a pleasant, agreeable voice, gravelly, with a rough tone that reminded her of Geoffrey and that was a calming memory.

  He leaped down from his seat at the back and helped her into the cab. The door took two attempts to close, and he took to slamming it very hard. She had to scuttle her feet back out of the way. She settled back into the none-too-plush interior. She was open to the elements from the waist above, though there was a blanket provided for her comfort. It was greasy to the touch, and she resolved not to use it. She gritted her teeth, and hoped that the journey would be quick.

  But it was not.

  The driver whipped up the horse into a fast trot, it was true; in fact the steed was urged to a much swifter pace than was common. The carriage rocked alarmingly from side to side, the springs creaking and squealing. She hammered on the roof to make him slow down, but he either could not hear her, or did not care to. There was a trapdoor up there, through which she could have poked her head to shout at him, but when she tried it, she found it was stuck firmly closed.

  Perhaps he is in a fearful hurry to be home himself, she thought. She clung to the sides and craned her neck, shouting, but he paid her no heed. Thwarted, she nestled back into the centre of the seat, and that was when she realised they were nowhere near the Inns of Chancery.

  They were heading to the docks.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  She gripped the front edge of the wooden half-doors and peered forwards, as the cold air stung her face and uncurled her hair into medusa locks about her. The horse was so close to her that she could smell its sweat and that warm fogginess particular to the equine species. The noise of its hooves on the varying ground was loud, but the bustle of the night trade around her was equally noisy. They careered past a warehouse that opened on to a wharf, where a ship was being unloaded by the poor light of lanterns and lamps. Men shouted and hollered as they trotted past, and someone threw a soft rag and a warning their way, but the cab rolled on.

  Then they turned down a street that was entirely empty and still.

  Had the cab driver suffered an attack, and expired?

  No, she realised. The whip was lifted and cracked across the poor animal’s rump from time to time, and she heard a cry from above that must have come from the driver.

  Was this a robbery? Was she to be taken to a lonely spot, and relieved of her jewels? She fingered the diamond necklace she wore. She would not miss it. They could have her earrings and her brooch, too.

  Except that it was the principle of the thing, blast it! Now she had an estate and income from her stocks, she had other jewels. That wasn’t the point! That some common thief thought he might simply take what was not his — no, it could not be.

  There were cases of footpads lingering outside the residences of the rich, and targeting those who left, knowing that there were many fine people with much wealth about their persons, especially when there were parties. Was she one such unlucky person?

  Or, she thought, is this targeted? Are they after me? If so, why?

  Oh — the investigation, she then thought. Could it be that? If they had wanted to simply rob me, they would have done so by now.

  Therefore, they must have another destiny in mind for me. She shivered. I have to get away, right now.

  She began to fumble and kick at the half-door by her legs, but it was now wedged shut, and quite immobile. No matter, she thought. I can jump over it.

  The horse’s hind legs pumped up and down, in a smart trotting action. The ground seemed to rush beneath her. She leaned out but she could not imagine how she’d be able to fling herself free of the cab, and avoid being crushed by the wheels. She was encumbered by her skirts, her crin-au-lin and her corset, and her soft-soled shoes would be no protection from the landing.

  Instead, she would have to wait. She opened her bag and began to feel around inside. Something would be able to help her. She had taken Ruby’s advice.

  You must be clever, the maid had said.

  I am, Cordelia thought. But am I clever enough?

  ***

  The cab swung sharply to the left and she slammed into the side, but she didn’t let go of the small cloth bag in her hands. It was a pudding cloth. She had dragged it from the depths of her ordinary bag. Now she pulled at the drawstring top, and readied herself; the driver hauled hard on the reins and the horse was brought to a stop.

  She did not wait. She scrambled up and over the half-door, holding her skirts up high in her left hand, not caring what might get dirty or torn as she dragged the layers over the side of the cab. She nearly lost her balance, and her feet slipped, but she jumped to the ground and kept hold of her bags — the large one held by the handle in her left hand, the same that was gripping her skirts, and the small drawstring one in her right, ready.

  And it was as well that she did.

  The cab driver was behind her in an instant, and made to grab her. She felt one hand grip her left arm and she spun around anti-clockwise, to face him, and as she did so, she let the opened drawstring bag fly up and disgorge its contents into his open eyes.

  He shouted out some rich and fruity expletives as he fell back, clawing at his face, sneezing and coughing. She did not linger to see what lasting effect the pepper and spices might have on the man. She ran. She dropped the drawstring bag, now empty, shoved her own bag onto her wrist, gathered up her skirts in both hands and ran as hard as she could. She ignored the pain in her feet from the rough ground.

  All she could do was run.

  Her life depended on it.

  She was not going to be the victim of a robbery, a kidnapping or worse. She ran and ran, heading for the noise and bustle of the ships
on the wharves that were unloading in the night. Their schedules ran on tides and trades, not light and daytime and sun.

  Men shouted at her again, some laughing, some with concern, but she ignored them all. Her lungs hurt and spots danced before her eyes; she was laced up more tightly than usual, and she knew she could not sustain the pace for much longer. She was secretly amazed that she had got further than a few yards.

  Her hair was an uncurled, sweaty mess and her bonnet was left far behind. She stumbled, and slowed, and bounced into a wall, her vision clouding as she rasped for breath. She tried to fumble in her bag for another weapon, something else she had pilfered from the kitchens, but her fingers were trembling and did not seem to be able to grasp anything properly. Her skirts were hanging loose again, and only her crin-au-lin prevented them from tangling around her ankles.

  “Hold hard, missis, you’ll fall into the river,” said a young woman’s voice close to her ear. “And likely you’ll bounce, not drown, such is the filth in it, but it’s not such a pretty way to die, even so.”

  Cordelia stopped. She could not run another step. She sank against the wall, her knees buckling as she fought for air. Her vision was black. Her hearing was clouded by a roaring in her ears.

  “Whoa, now! Steady, steady! You had best sit before you fall,” the voice said. Warm hands lowered her gently to the ground. She ended up sitting most inelegantly, her legs straight out in front of her, her skirts bowed and billowed up in a heap, and her back ramrod-straight against the wall.

  The young woman crouched beside her. She was far less encumbered by any decent clothing. As Cordelia’s sight returned to her, she quickly became aware that the woman was mostly dressed for ease of access rather than modesty.

  She knew, then, the woman’s occupation, and did not need to ask why she was at the dockyards in the dead of night.

  “Thank you so much,” Cordelia said. “A man was chasing me.”

  The woman stood up and walked a few yards away, looking and listening. “No one pursues you now. You are quite safe. Well, relatively so.”

  Was she? Cordelia held her bag tightly and wished she’d had the foresight to take her jewellery off while she was still in the cab. She couldn’t do it now, without drawing attention to herself. Her shawl was somewhere in the streets, and her diamonds were on show for anyone to see.

  She had to get up, and get home. When she started to her feet, the young woman came to her side instantly, and helped her with an arm around Cordelia’s waist.

  “My, those are pretty things indeed,” she said as the glitter around Cordelia’s neck was now obvious. “No wonder you were being chased. Do you take some advice from me, missus, and cover them up with something. Do not put them in your bag,” she warned, as Cordelia raised her hand to the clasp at the bag. “For then someone will take your bag, I am sure of it. No, here, take this.” She pulled away the loose fringed shawl that she had tied around her waist, and drew it around Cordelia’s shoulders. “That will do it.”

  “Oh. Thank you, again! And might I trouble you for one more favour? Could you tell me where I am? The cab driver brought me here quite against my wishes, you see. It is he that I am running from.”

  The young woman’s face clouded. “It ain’t right, not at all, men behaving like that,” she said. “I will take you home, missus, because together with me, you will be safer than alone, even if I saw you into a cab. Only…”

  Cordelia understood the issue immediately. “I would be very grateful if you were to accompany me home,” she said, “and I will pay you for your trouble. You shall not be out of pocket on my account.”

  The woman smiled. “Thank you, missus. Now, come along with me, and we shall find a cab together.”

  ***

  The ride back to Furnival’s Inn became a merry one with the young woman, who revealed her name to be Millie, on board. Millie screeched with laughter when Cordelia introduced herself.

  “A real lady?”

  “By marriage,” Cordelia said.

  “As if that do mean anything. You are a lady! Oh my.”

  “I am not as high born as you might suppose.”

  “Nah, missus, I can tell you from the way that you just said that very sentence, you are ranks and ranks above me. And here we are, me helping you!”

  Cordelia gave her a very shiny guinea, and Millie beamed with delight. “I shall take the rest of the night off,” she said as Cordelia alighted from the cab.

  Cordelia paid the driver, and slipped him some extra too. “Take the girl wherever she wants,” she said, and Millie waved merrily as she departed.

  She had no idea what time it was, but she fancied that she could see a lightening in the sky betokening the coming of the morning. It was particularly cold now, especially without a shawl, or the welcome proximity of the happy Millie. She went into her rented rooms as quietly as she could, although a part of her wanted to storm into the men’s room and box Stanley’s ears for the trouble he had caused her.

  She did not dare to think about what had happened to her, not yet. She knew she had to get inside, lock the door, and feel safe, before she could analyse the events.

  The locks were well-maintained and she made little sound as she slipped into the sitting room, and closed the door firmly behind her. It was almost pitch black in the room, but there was a light showing from the kitchen door which was partly open.

  In the kitchen she found a candle burning down very low, and Mrs Unsworth slumped in an easy chair that had been put by the range. She was comatose and smelled strongly of alcohol. A gin bottle rolled at her feet and Cordelia knocked it accidentally, causing it to clink and rattle on the stone floor.

  It didn’t rouse Mrs Unsworth but it was enough to alert Neville Fry, who was in the adjoining room. He had clearly not been sleeping. He flung the door open and stopped and stared when he saw Cordelia.

  “My lady!”

  “Mr Fry. What is going on here? Why are you awake?” Though she could not be angry with him. She was flooded with relief to see a familiar face. Suddenly, her limbs began to shake and tremble violently.

  “I cannot sleep. Is she still…?”

  “Yes, she is quite out of her senses,” Cordelia said, shaking her head sadly at Mrs Unsworth’s slumbering bulk. “Is Stanley within?” Her knees began to wobble and she tried to sink gracefully onto the bench.

  “No, my lady,” Mr Fry said, and her blood chilled. “I thought he was with you. And Ruby?”

  “No, she is here. Is she not?”

  He looked down. “She is not.”

  “And Geoffrey?” she asked, pleading internally, let him be here, let him be here.

  “I heard him say he was off to an alehouse, my lady. And he has not returned, but that is not unusual. Ruby and Stanley, however…”

  “Oh my goodness. I thank the heavens that you are here, Mr Fry. Please, will you fetch me a drink? The strongest spirits we have in the place, if you will.”

  “At once, my lady. I shall serve in the sitting room.”

  “Of course.”

  He set about his business. She dragged in a breath and forced herself to her feet. She felt she still had to appear strong to her staff. She took a fresh candle and lit it from the spluttering one in the kitchen, and took it through to sit at the table in the sitting room. Neville brought her a glass of brandy with an apology that it was not suitable for ladies, but it was very strong, and that seemed to be the more important matter.

  She dismissed him, urging him to go to bed and sleep. “There is nothing we can do at this hour,” she said, trying to sound confident. And it was true. Was she about to suggest they both go careering about the dark London streets? Never. “We must wait until dawn at least.”

  But once she was alone, she realised that she did not want the drink that Neville had brought for her at all. She watched it for a long while, the candle’s dancing light reflecting on the amber liquid. Too much drink had made a fool of her, she knew. It had happened before, too.r />
  Maybe Stanley had a point about abstinence.

  She left the glass on the table, paced about the room for a good long while, and eventually took herself to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  She had a fitful night’s sleep and did not linger in bed once she woke up fully. She estimated that she had slept for only a few hours.

  There was still no sign of Ruby.

  Cordelia tried not to panic, but fear was flooding her body now. Someone had tried to take her away in a cab, and now two of her staff members were missing. She hastily dressed in a simple day outfit that didn’t need much help from a maid, and with hair undone and only loosely laced in, she ran into the kitchen, holding her breath as if that could conjure up her missing staff.

  Neville was there, and he shot to attention as she entered.

  “No sign of either of them, my lady.”

  “Then as soon as you have breakfasted, please go out into the streets and do what you can. You must speak to any policemen that you see, and ask at the church, and trace the steps between the Duke’s house and here. Spread the word and pay whoever you need to pay.”

  “At once, my lady.” He grabbed a bread roll, and left.

  Mrs Unsworth was clearly hungover. She was in a worse state than Cordelia had ever seen before, and Cordelia guessed that she was actually still half-drunk. “I expect you will be wanting a proper breakfast,” she said in a surly tone.

  Cordelia’s stomach clenched. “Something light, please.” She sat at the kitchen table.

  Mrs Unsworth glowered. It was not often that they were alone together, just the two of them. “It isn’t right nor proper that you sit there like that, begging pardon, my lady,” she said as she began to saw at a loaf of bread. “I’ve not even put a white cloth down.”

  “Well, I shall tell no one, if you shan’t,” Cordelia said. Ruby and Stanley were missing; who cared about ceremony and standards?

  I was nearly kidnapped and taken and … who knows what else, she thought. I am cross and scared and everything else as well. What do I care for a white table cloth?