by Jo Beverley
Hermione had become fond of Nolly on the journey. She was a cheerful soul with excellent good sense. She’d coped with every necessity and clearly relished new experiences. She was rather plain, with a sallow complexion, a snub nose, and mousy hair, but a good companion.
Hermione remembered Peter and went into Edgar’s room to tell him to order whatever he wanted; then she returned to sit on one side of the table and waved Nolly to the other. The inn servant returned to set the second place, his face rather pinched. Of course, Nolly’s clothing marked her as a lowly servant, but it was no business of his how Hermione chose to eat. Once he’d left, Hermione served herself from a dish of pork cutlets and another of cabbage and potatoes. She urged Nolly to do the same.
Pouring tea for them both, she asked, “What do you think of London so far, Nolly?”
“It’s very big, isn’t it, milady? A person could get lost here right easily.”
“They could, so please don’t wander.”
“But you’ll be wanting me to run errands and such.” Clearly this was already a worry for the maid.
“No, I won’t,” Hermione assured her. “I’ll use an inn servant. I will want you to accompany me, but then we can get lost together.” Seeing that her joke had alarmed, she added, “My first purchase will be a guidebook, and we’ll take hackney carriages if we go any distance.”
“If you say so, milady,” Nolly said, but she was picking at her food.
“Eat up. We’ll need our strength.”
Nolly did settle to eating, with increasing relish, and then drank two cups of tea.
“My, that’s a grand brew, milady.” She drank some more and then asked, “Begging your pardon, milady, but you seem out of sorts. Has something gone amiss?”
When Hermione thought of her recent life, she could laugh, but she said, “Nothing in particular, Nolly, but I worry that even if we find Dr. Grammaticus, his cure won’t work. Then I’ll put Mr. Peake through more suffering for no purpose.”
“Doctors do like to dose a person, don’t they?” Nolly said. “’Cause that’s how they get their fee.”
“How true. My father suffered that way. I doubt any of the potions did him any good.”
“’Appen things’d be better if doctors were only paid for stuff what worked.”
Hermione stared. “That’s very true. We’d never achieve it, though.”
“It’d be a right revolution, wouldn’t it?” Nolly said with a chuckle. “Never you mind, milady. You’ll find this doctor, and he’ll have a true cure.”
“I do hope so. And in the meantime we’ll explore London. Have some of this pear tart.”
Nolly took a big slice and then poured cream from the jug onto it. “This cream’s a bit thin.”
“City cows rarely see grass.”
“Well, I never!” Nolly tucked in all the same.
Hermione ate some, but her own words unsettled her. Wealthy Londoners ate wholesome food brought in from the countryside, but the poor must often make do with paltry stuff, or even no food at all. The London rich spent thousands on gewgaws while the poor scraped for pennies. Bread was their staple food, but the Corn Laws were keeping the price of wheat high in order to support the living of people in the countryside.
No wonder London smoldered with resentments and the poor en masse so easily formed a violent mob. When she remembered how a minor event had caused such chaos in Ardwick, she shuddered at what might happen here. The Ardwick event had been called the Spencean Crusade. The man in the inn had been stirring trouble with talk of Magna Carta and crusades. His waistcoat had been striped in black, red, and green.
The colors of Thayne’s neckcloth.
No, she would never think Thayne a revolutionary. Thief, sadly yes, but nothing worse. Where was he now? How was he? He must be safe or surely she would sense something amiss.
If all had gone to plan, he was here in London. So tempting to seek him out. He’d warned her not to, but the address on that letter was clear in her mind. Sir George Hawkinville, 32, Peel Street. That was in the West End of London, but only a few miles away.
Sir George. A knight or a baronet at a fashionable address. It was odd, but for all she knew, there could be a gang of gentleman thieves. She’d read scandals of criminals in high places. Whoever Sir George was, she could write to Thayne care of that address in order to tell him she was safe and had arrived in London. She’d treasure such a message from him.
He’d been serious about her not trying to meet him here, however, and she couldn’t be sure Sir George was a person to be trusted. She’d only just arrived in London. In a day or two perhaps everything would be clearer. She drank the rest of her tea, concentrating on Edgar.
As soon as they’d begun to plan this journey, she’d glimpsed the vigorous man who’d traveled the world and survived adventures. Even unwell, when they’d entered the noisy bustle of London, he’d sparked again. She touched the kris in her pocket. She didn’t expect to have to use it, but it had become a talisman. It would guide her safely to the cure.
She touched the brass button that lay beside the hilt. Thayne had arrived in London and he was safe. Perhaps believing that would make it so.
Chapter 29
The next day Hermione found Edgar improved, so she felt able to set off with Nolly to find a bookshop. A nearby one provided an excellent guide to London, and she also purchased two newspapers. Ones printed that very day. What a luxury!
She couldn’t help looking for Thayne in each passing man, but she also kept alert for the brute’s brother. He’d never seen her, but if she saw him, she’d have a valid excuse to use Sir George Hawkinville’s address. Alas, she saw no one with even the slightest resemblance.
When they returned to the inn, she described their little outing to Edgar, who was drinking some spiced ale that the innkeeper had recommended. He seemed to be enjoying it, which was a good sign. He enjoyed her account, too, and later, a spicy stew. She read one of the newspapers aloud as he ate, relating matters of national interest.
In a few minutes he growled, “Duties on rice, naval stores, and pursers. Twaddle. Isn’t there anything interesting going on?”
“Lunatic asylums?”
“No.”
“Window tax?”
“Rubbish.”
She reminded herself that he still could be in pain and looked ahead. “An elephant is dead in France.”
“What? Why?”
“It doesn’t say. It was forty years old.”
“No age for an elephant. Poor thing.”
She skipped over the list of performances at theaters, as he wasn’t well enough to attend, and spotted a long piece about American shipping and trade. Edgar seemed interested in that, but eventually he dozed off.
She took the papers with her into the parlor and ate lunch there with Nolly. Afterward, she set to searching the paper for advertisements or items to do with medicine. It would be miraculous to find mention of Dr. Grammaticus, but perhaps there were associations of physicians. She also looked for mention of the Curious Creatures. They might know Grammaticus’s whereabouts. There were many nostrums on offer: Ching’s Worm Lozenges, Dr. Fothergill’s Nervous Drops, Nelson’s Mixture for Diseases of the Lungs. Nothing about Dr. Grammaticus’s cure for the Black Disease.
As she continued to scan down the column, her eye was caught by Dr. James’s powder. It was among a long list of products available from F. Newbery and Sons, who warned the public to be wary of imitation products. Lawrence’s Powder. Dr. Steer’s Convulsion Oil. What on earth was Cephalic Snuff?
Never mind that—Newbery and Sons sounded just the place to find Dr. Grammaticus’s cure. It was located to the east side of St. Paul’s, which wasn’t far away. She summoned Nolly and they set off to walk the few streets. The tall brick building must be the warehouse, but the public could enter only a small shop. The glass-f
ronted shelves were full of bottles and boxes and the counter spread with more of the same, some open. They must provide the odd mix of smells. A gray-haired clerk stood eager to assist.
Hermione went straight to the point. “Do you carry Dr. Grammaticus’s cure?”
The man blinked. “I don’t recall it, ma’am. If you will allow me a moment?”
He went to consult a thick ledger, but Hermione was prepared for the result. He returned to say that they didn’t. “I must admit, ma’am, that I’ve never heard of it. What ailment does it assist? Perhaps we have something else.”
“It’s for kala-azar, a tropical disease.” From the look on his face she feared the man would be offering her a cure for insanity, so she came up with an explanation. “A friend living in India has written to ask me to procure Dr. Grammaticus’s cure for her. Can you suggest where I might find it?”
His nose went up. “If Newbery’s doesn’t carry it, ma’am, I doubt any other establishment will.”
Hermione was very tempted to wield her title, which would bring down those hairy nostrils. Instead she spoke mildly. “Pray, sir, do you know an association called the Curious Creatures?”
She expected another flat denial, but the man responded with a smirk. “Is that where you heard of the so-called cure, ma’am? Just the sort to rattle on about nonsense.”
Irritation building, Hermione said, “You may be correct, but where will I find out more about them?”
“You will be better advised to avoid them, ma’am.” Under her stare, he wilted. “I believe they meet at the Green Man in New Bond Street.”
“Thank you.”
As Hermione left, he called after her, “There’ll be nothing to anything coming from there, ma’am—you mark my words!”
“Infuriating man!” Hermione exploded once they were outside again.
“They do sound an odd lot, milady.”
“Don’t be impertinent!” Hermione immediately apologized. “Please, continue to question my actions, Nolly. I truly don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’re doing fine, milady. You’ve learned a lot in one day.”
Hermione smiled. “I have, haven’t I? And New Bond Street is in the fashionable part of Town. We’ll need a hackney to go there, but I’m familiar with the area. We’ll go there now.”
“Are you sure, milady?”
Nolly’s nervous question made her hesitate. She’d never taken a hackney carriage without a gentleman as escort. But if she stuck to that, she’d go nowhere. “A hackney is perfectly safe,” she said, “and New Bond Street is a safe part of Town.”
It took some time to cover the distance, but the journey took them through interesting older parts of London, and then into Mayfair. Nolly was agog, particularly at the way streets of buildings went on and on and on in all directions.
When they climbed down, Hermione paid the fare but looked dubiously at the Green Man. It seemed little more than a tavern, but the area was as respectable as she’d thought. Just up the street she saw the Blenheim Hotel, which she and Polly had visited once with their mother to take tea with an old friend.
Surely it was safe, but there was one hazard she’d not foreseen. It was gone midday and the tonnish sort were out and about. She might encounter someone she knew and she wasn’t dressed for fashionable society. They’d think the Poor Merryhews had fallen into even deeper poverty. She hurried inside the low-ceilinged building.
The small entrance hall reminded her a little of the Lamb in Warrington, but it wasn’t used as a taproom and the prevailing smell was of tasty food. Through a door she glimpsed a common dining room with long tables, but some of the diners were well-dressed gentlemen. Respectable, then, but she saw no women.
A sturdy man came forward in polite curiosity. He was neatly dressed in a dark suit, so she assumed he was the innkeeper.
“I’ve come to enquire about a group called the Curious Creatures,” she said, in as tonnish a manner as she could. Alas that her clothing didn’t suit.
“The Curious Creatures?” he echoed, oddly guarded.
Heavens. It had never occurred to her that it might be some sort of secret organization. She was here now, though, so she’d plow on. “I was told they meet here, sir, and I wish to speak to someone from that group. It is a matter of some importance.”
“Um, well, they have met here, yes, ma’am, but there’s no one here right now.”
“I didn’t suppose there was,” she said, letting her irritation show. “You must know the address of someone.”
“Well, as to that . . . Tell you what, ma’am, why don’t you write a letter about your business and I’ll see if I can think where to send it.”
Hermione gave him her haughtiest stare, but it didn’t move him, so she sat at the table he indicated and drew off her gloves as she waited for pen and paper.
“’Appen he don’t want you to know, milady,” Nolly whispered.
Hermione echoed the Northern term. “’Appen. But they do meet here and I will make contact.”
When the materials came, she wrote her note, keeping her request vague. After a moment’s hesitation she signed it with her title, Lady Hermione Merryhew. If the innkeeper opened it to see what it said, that might give him pause. If he sent it on, it might spur the recipient to a rapid response. She sealed it with a wafer and gave it to the innkeeper. “Thank you. If I don’t receive a reply in the next day, I will return.”
“I may not be able to get it to anyone in that time, ma’am! Not everyone’s in Town.”
Hermione had to accept the justice of that. She could only say, “I’m sure you’ll do your best,” and hope it was true.
They left the inn and she looked around for a hackney to take them back to the Cross Keys. None was passing, so they’d have to find a hackney stand. She thought there was one at Oxford Street that she and her mother had used. She was still uncomfortable in the fashionable throng and would have gone there briskly, but Nolly paused to stare in wonder at a window full of fruit of all varieties.
Well, why not? The beau monde would assume she and Polly were poorer now their father was dead, whether she dressed in silk or fustian, and they’d be correct. So she ambled along at Nolly’s pace, enjoying all the shop windows and introducing the maid to the pleasure of imaginary purchases.
* * *
Over three days as the dandified Lord Faringay, Mark had joined in the hunt for Solange without success. Though he resented the waste of time, he’d also had to take his place in the beau monde and even attend a couple of manly evenings with Braydon, where old friends had teased him about his transformation. None, however, had seemed to doubt his Mauritius story.
When not wasting time on such matters, he’d sought new ways to find Solange. At his suggestion, the notice in the papers about Nathan’s body had been made into posters that were nailed up all around London in hope Seth Boothroyd would see one. He was barely literate, but someone might catch the resemblance to Seth and report that. The posters urged people to go to Bow Street with information, and to claim their reward. Still nothing, and every day increased the danger.
They’d failed to find Solange’s contact in the Home Office. The enquiries had been discreet but thorough, but they’d uncovered no suspicious person, and certainly no one with a taste for black, red, and green in even the most subtle form. Hawkinville had been inclined to dismiss the idea, but Mark had looked at it from all angles and decided they were looking for an innocent gossip.
“A flapping tongue,” he’d said. “It has to be. A man in that department gossips with someone who reports back to Solange.”
“A woman.”
“Yes, of course, and the man himself will be innocent of anything but gossiping about his work with a beguiling lady.”
“But guilty as hell anyway,” Hawkinville said. “If the connection’s illicit, he’ll not easily admit
it, but people in the department will know who fits the mold and we can apply force if necessary. What female friends does Solange Waite have?”
That question stumped Mark. “I’d have said none, but it’s clear she’s been playing a deep game. I blame myself for not realizing that sooner. I remember a few times when she paid attention to some of the wives of ardent Brotherhood members, but I saw that as her playing the good wife to Waite. Now I believe she’d watch him drown without raising a finger unless it suited her needs.”
Hawkinville had demanded names and Mark had supplied them, but he hadn’t believed that the wives who came to mind could be complicit in explosions. However, Solange might have detected a few women who thought as she did. In this case, it would need only one.
He wasn’t surprised that the enquiries thus far had achieved nothing, but the need to play the returned Viscount Faringay was an irritating waste of time. He had to do the minimum, however, and today he was traveling by hackney to the City to visit his bank. He could have summoned his banker to Braydon’s rooms, but the journey gave another chance to watch for a glimpse of his targets and to assess the mood of the people sporting black, red, and green.
As always, London was raucous and chaotic, but the mood was no more fractious than usual. When he saw people sporting the colors, he wondered whether they’d seen Tregoven’s picture and were ready to stab or shoot Ned Granger on sight. When he stepped out of the carriage, a nearby shopkeeper wore the colors, but paid no attention to him other than to hope for a customer.
At his bank he found he was more comfortably off than he expected or deserved, for he’d not paid close attention to the people chosen to oversee his property and investments. As he left, he decided they should have a bonus, perhaps at Christmas. A fleeting image of a jolly Christmas at Faringay evaporated in face of reality. The place held too many dark memories. A letter would do. . . .
He was pulled out of his thoughts when a man said, “Thayne? Gads, man, you’re buffed to a fine polish.”