As he guided her around broken cobbles, he did not need to remind her to watch what she said and how she said it. This was not the first time she had dressed in such clothes and come with him into the bowels of the city. The last time, her abigail had insisted on washing Priscilla’s hair over and over until the odors had been battered away by the soap.
“Watch where yer goin’, twit,” snarled Neville with a low accent that seemed natural. He pushed aside a drunken man who had almost walked into them.
The man lumbered into the broken railing on a set of steps. When his feet went out beneath him and he landed hard on a riser, he grinned and held out his hand in fingerless gloves. “A tonic, old chap?”
Neville shook his head. “If I ’ad a ’alfpenny, I’d be spendin’ it on m’self and m’lady.”
“Lady?” The drunkard laughed, blowing fumes of cheap gin in their direction. “Yer doxy be a fair one, but a lady she is not.” He crooked a finger. “Come ’ere, m’pretty one, and lift yer skirts fer me. I can pay ye far better than that clutch-fisted chap.”
“Ye don’t ’ave as much as a tonic,” she retorted, tilting her chin with feigned pride as she hoped her fake accent would not make anyone question that she belonged on these streets. She linked her arm with Neville’s. “Come along, dearie. I ’aven’t got all day, ye know.”
“Come back later when yer done with ’im,” called the foxed man. “Mayhap I will be ’fore the wind then, and I will show ye wot a real man be like.”
Priscilla swallowed a chuckle when she heard
Neville’s curse as they hurried along the street. “Really, Neville,” she said as soon as they were out of earshot of the man who had begun singing a bawdy tune loudly. “You cannot be distressed by such a comment about you.”
“I am not upset about anything he said about me.” He put his arm around her waist and leaned her toward him again. “I do not like hearing my future wife being mistaken for a cyprian.”
“Better to be mistaken for that than to be seen for what I truly am. Isn’t that the advice you just gave me before we encountered yon gentleman?”
“Blast it, Pris. Do you always have to be so reasonable? Can’t you allow me the chance to play your dashing hero once in a while?”
She rested her ragged bonnet against his shoulder and heard the stiff straw crack. “You are always my dashing hero. I thought you knew that.”
A church bell ringing silenced his reply. His face closed up, and she wondered what he was thinking. Was it the passing of the hour or something else that was making him withdraw behind that mask?
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice grim once again. Priscilla had dozens of questions, but did not ask a single one when she saw a band of men and young boys gathered near an alley. She noted Neville glancing at them and away several times as he hurried her around the corner of the next street.
“Resurrectionists,” he murmured, not slowing. “But we are not in a churchyard, so we need not fear bodysnatchers.”
“Those louts do not haunt just churchyards in search of their prey.” He looked back over his shoulder. “We look too healthy for them to cudgel in the daylight, most likely, but they may be bold enough to attack anyone whose path crosses theirs.”
‘The drunk man!” she gasped.
“He knows enough, even as soused as he is, to look out for Jamie and his boys.”
“You know them?”
“I recognize some of them from when we went to talk to Ben Crouch last year.”
She was astonished. When she had gone with Neville to visit the leader of the bodysnatchers, she had paid no mind to the other men crowding the low tavern. She had wanted only to complete their errand and leave.
“Are we near that tavern?” she asked, rushing with him around another corner. She had no idea how he was finding his way through the maze of streets. All the houses and piles of garbage looked alike to her.
“No, we are going toward the river, where the theater- folk often take their treasures to sell or to pawn.”
“And stolen goods?”
“Some of the people in the theater deserve the wicked reputation given to all. They would take stolen items to a pawnbroker or to a fence they knew.”
“I should not be surprised you know where to find such men.”
He laughed and eased the pace to a comfortable stroll along the crowded street. The houses crowded together around courtyards, so he had to weave a path in and out of the fetid yards. No sign of whitewash or paint remained on the rotting boards along the front of the buildings. Some were made of stone, as had been required after the Great Fire, but even those were filthy.
“Before I was allowed to walk on the stage,” he said, “I had a variety of jobs.”
“I have heard of a few.” She wondered where all the people they passed were bound. Some carried ragged packs on their backs; others were followed by children
of various ages, many scantily clad. More people sat on the steps and leaned on open windows to watch the parade passing.
“So you have, but my first job in the theater was to make sure out-of-work actors had a steady income.”
“From selling articles stolen from theater patrons?” She sighed with relief when they emerged from the throng to where the street was a bit more open. Hearing a door slam, she saw several of the nearby steps were abandoned.
“Now you understand,” Neville said, drawing her attention back to him.
“I understand you are a man of many skills.”
He gave her a rakish smile. “You have no idea how many skills I have to share with you.”
“Dearie,” she said, adopting the low-class accent again, “ye’ll ’ave to show me some of them soon. Might show ye a few of mine, too.”
With a laugh, he tapped her on the nose. “Just the idea I had hoped you would have.” Suddenly he cursed. Taking her arm, he said, “Hurry! ”
“What is it?”
‘The street is empty.”
She was astonished to see he was right. The bustle had vanished. As he pulled her along at a near run, she asked again what was wrong. He did not answer as he led her through the decrepit streets. Her breath was sharp under her ribs, and she paid no attention to the horrible odors filling each one. She was too busy trying to keep pace with him.
Neville went through a low arch and to a wall taller than the top of his head. It was constructed of planks with very little space between them for finger- or toeholds.
“Is this where we find the pawnbrokers and the— whatever the other one is called?” she asked.
He chuckled, even though his face remained rigid. “A fence, Pris. You need to remember the low cant I taught you.”
“I fear I do not recall it with the same ease Isaac does.”
“Can you climb as well as he does?”
“He does not climb well, if you recall. He often goes up on his own, but needs help coming down.” Her eyes widened. ‘You want us to go over that wall?”
“Going over this may save our lives.”
She grasped his arm. “What is it, Neville?”
“Jamie and his boys are following us.” He swore again and did not apologize. “He must have recognized us, too. He may believe we are rival resurrectionists. ”
“If we tell him—”
“He is not a man who likes to talk. Action is more his way of life.” He grabbed one of the boards and shook it. “Can you climb over?”
“I think so.”
He cupped his hands and said, “Let me give you a leg up.”
She raised her skirt high enough so she could put one foot on the lowest plank. It creaked beneath her. “Be careful,” he urged.
“I will be,” Priscilla said, watching where she put her other foot. As fast as she could, she climbed to the
top. She swung her leg over it. “Climb up, Neville!”
“I doubt the wall will hold both of us! Go! Hurry!” She groped with her toes for a lower board. Shouts came from beyond the courtya
rd. Male voices slurred with drink. She could discern only a single word, but it was surgeon-anatomist. She knew that term for the doctors who bought from the bodysnatchers and did dissections in their hidden laboratories.
She jumped the last few feet to the ground. Her ankle twinged, but she tried to shake out the pain as she called lowly, “Neville, I am down. Come over the wall!”
A board bowed as he put his foot on it. She saw his fingers through the cracks. He climbed only a single board before she heard more shouts. Then Neville yelled as his fingers vanished from between the boards.
When she heard someone land a fist against bare flesh, she cried, “Neville!” She reached for the boards to climb back over. She yanked her fingers back. He doubted the wall would hold both of them, so she must give him a chance to scale it.
She tried to peer through the cracks between the boards. She jumped back as the wall was hit. A man grunted with pain, and the wall shivered again as something—or someone—struck it. Wood cracked, but not on the wall. Splinters rained down on her as a crate struck the house near the top of the wall. She cowered, holding her arms over her head.
At a thud on her side of the wall, she looked up. “Neville!”
He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”
She did not need him to say it twice. She ran as fast as she could past more houses ready to tumble down. She did not dare to look back to see if the body snatchers were following.
When they entered a courtyard, she groaned at the sight of another wall. This one was only as high as Neville’s waist.
He gauged it, then started to turn. Pounding footsteps echoed toward them. He cursed, then said, “Follow me.” He scaled the wooden planks in one easy movement, then held out his hands over the wall. “Now you.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Just put your foot on the lowest board and hold out your arms.”
She did as he ordered. He grabbed her at the waist and swung her up and over the wall. She gasped when he set her down only long enough to tighten his hold on her. Then he swung her past a muddy puddle close to the wall.
He jumped over the puddle, falling to his knees on the stones beyond it. She rushed to him. He waved her aside as he stood, the knees of his breeches ripped. Seizing her hand, he drew her behind a stack of barrels that smelled of ale. She squatted down beside him.
“Not ’ere!” she heard someone call from the other side of the wall.
“They could ’ave gone over the wall.”
Footsteps came toward them. “Nay, fer there be no sign of them over there. They must’ve gone toward the alley.”
Priscilla breathed out a sigh of relief when the footfalls vanished into the distance. She gasped when Neville’s hand slid down her leg; then she realized he was brushing her skirt back over her ankles. She looked up to thank him. When she saw the glow of appreciation in his eyes as they slowly moved along her, she did not lower her gaze. He held out his hand, and the gentle pressure of his fingers closing over hers sent renewed heat trilling through her in a luscious melody that beckoned her closer. Her fingers rose to brush his bewhiskered cheek.
Tilting his chin so she could see his cheek better, she said, “He hit you hard.”
“Just a glancing blow, because I ducked. Unfortunately, I did not duck quickly enough.” He drew her to her feet. “Thank heavens, you are always up to any challenge, Pris.”
“Not any one. That first wall was more than enough, but I must own my feet were spurred by the thought of resurrectionists having designs upon us while our hearts still beat.” She walked with him across another cluttered courtyard. “Can we get to where the pawnshops are without meeting up with them again?”
“I hope so.” Neville motioned for Priscilla to follow him along the narrow passage between two buildings. They seemed to grow closer on every step, and he was relieved when the walls did not touch before they reached the street.
He was glad to see this street was as crowded as the other had been before the body snatchers appeared in search of prey. He ignored the people who watched them pass, but he was aware of each, gauging whether any of them presented a danger to Priscilla. He would have rather left her in the comfort of Bedford Square. Making such a suggestion would have been futile, because she would have insisted on coming with him. She was not squeamish, although she was unsettled by the sights around them.
He sneezed as some hideous odor tickled his nose. Even in his darkest days, he had not lived in a wretched neighborhood like this. In addition, he had grown accustomed to the finer areas of Mayfair.
The first three pawnshops they went into had nothing for sale similar to Lady Lummis’s brooch. Two other shops were filled with broken furniture and torn linens. Neither of them pawned jewelry.
“Pawnshops are a waste of time,” Neville announced after leaving the fifth shop. “I think it is time to pay a call on a fence who is well-known among those who work in Covent Garden and Drury Lane.”
“Who is that?” Priscilla asked.
“He goes by the name of Carter. I am not sure if
that is his given name or his surname or not related to his real name at all.”
She dampened her lips, and he found himself watching the tip of her tongue, wishing his was brushing her lips. He shook the thought from his head. Keeping his wits about him was necessary, because Carter was not easily fooled. The man did know how to keep secrets, which was why people used him to dispose of valuables that had come into their possession illegally.
“What is he like?” she asked.
He paused as he waited for a wagon to pass. Whatever it was carrying was even more putrid than the street. With a smile, he said, “A very ordinary man. If you saw him amid a crowd, you would take no notice of him. Then you visit his shop, and it is an experience like walking down a familiar street and discovering something you have never seen before, even though it has been there all along.”
“Are you suggesting I might have walked many times near the man we are about to call upon?”
“I am saying it is possible.”
Neville kept the teasing banter going as they continued toward the river. He doubted he betwattled Priscilla, because he saw her scan the streets as he did. There was no sign of pursuit, but the resurrectionists were not the only ones they needed to worry about.
The sight of Carter’s tiny shop, tucked between two pawnshops, lifted a weight from his shoulders. Once they were done here, he would hire a vehicle and have them driven back to Bedford Square. It might be a vegetable wagon or some other sort of dray, but he did not want to chance meeting Jamie and his boys again.
“Is this the street?” she asked.
“Yes. Why don’t you give me a kiss for good luck?”
he whispered. Giving her no time to answer, he brought her mouth to his to taste her warm lips. She sent his desires soaring. Curling his fingers around her nape, where golden tendrils brushed his skin, he longed to discover every inch of her.
Pain erupted through his head as he bent to trail kisses along her neck. Releasing her quickly, he kept his arm around her waist as she wobbled. He touched his aching cheek.
“Does it hurt badly?” asked Priscilla.
“Not bad,” he lied. “It is my fault for not ducking more quickly. My reflexes are getting too rusty. The soft life of the Polite World is ruining me.” Without a pause, he asked, “Are you ready?”
“I think so ... if you think that was enough good luck.”
“I will need more later, no doubt”
Her smile sent lightning through him. “No doubt”
Pulling his hat even lower, Neville opened the heavy wooden door that looked as if someone had tried to break it down with a battering ram. He ushered Priscilla in, keeping his hand on her back.
A dark-haired man was sitting behind the counter in front of a black curtain flanked on both sides by- rows of drawers. His clothes were remarkably clean and well-made for the riverside neighborhood. His fingers sparkled with rings
he was not afraid to wear because he was certain to have weapons beneath the counter.
The man, whom Neville knew was Carter, looked up, revealing a well-formed face except for a nose that appeared to have been pummeled as hard as his door. A pair of spectacles were balanced on his nose, and his light blue eyes were lost in the reflection from a lamp set next to him. He had a pocket watch in front of him.
Carter frowned and bent back over his work. “You are in the wrong place.”
Neville winked at Priscilla before walking to the counter, keeping his head down. “We need ’elp.”
“You are in the wrong place.” He continued to tinker with the pocket watch.
“We be interested in doin’ some business with ye, sir.”
“You are in the wrong place,” he repeated again, but his hands paused. He did not look up, but he was obviously listening.
“Ye may sell only to quality, but ye buy from anyone. So we ’ave ’eard at the Prince of Wales Theater.”
Carter lifted his head and scanned the shop. Neville doubted he had ever seen anyone—even young Isaac when deep into some mischief—look so guilty. ‘The Prince of Wales Theater?” he asked.
“Man there said ye’d buy without askin’ questions.”
“What do you have to sell?” He folded his arms on the counter, one hand out of sight. To reach for a weapon? “Bring it here so I might see it.”
Neville did not want to do anything to arouse Carter’s suspicions, so he complied. Reaching under his coat, he drew out a pair of gold and sapphire earrings. He glanced quickly at Priscilla to warn her not to show her surprise. He need not have worried. Her face displayed only her eagerness to sell the pieces and get out of the shop.
Carter picked up one earring and examined it. “This is a fine piece. Where did you get it?”
Neville leaned one elbow on the counter and scratched his side with his other hand. “D’ye truly wish to know?”
The Wedding Caper Page 12