A Dog in a Doublet
The Regency Romance Mysteries Book 2
by
Emma V. Leech
Published by: Emma V. Leech.
Copyright (c) Emma V. Leech 2018
Cover Art: Victoria Cooper
ASIN No.: B076ZHL5SS
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The ebook version and print version are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook version may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is inferred.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
The Rum and The Fox
Want more Emma?
About Me!
Other Works by Emma V. Leech
The Key to Erebus
The Dark Prince
Acknowledgements
A Dog in a Doublet
Prologue
Harry watched with trepidation as his aunt’s husband lumbered about the room. Young as he was, Harry knew that getting in his Uncle Joe’s way after a night drinking was a bad idea. Clasping his skinny knees tight to his chest, Harry tried to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible in the dim hope that he could escape a beating.
He never knew why he’d been beaten, and never really even questioned it. His mother was dead, his father gone before he was born, and so he’d ended up with his mother’s sister. He had never been anything but a blessed nuisance to his Aunt Nelly, who was ready enough to belt him if he was too noisy or got under her feet, which was most of the time. But Joe was far bigger and stronger, and the last time had hurt so bad that Harry felt himself tremble at the idea of repeating it. He was eight now, and was used to spending most of his time in the streets to escape either Nelly’s or Joe’s attentions. But it was a bitter cold night, and so he’d crept home, hoping Joe would stay out. But luck wasn’t with him tonight.
Harry gasped as a big hand reached beneath the table and hauled him out by the ear. The shouting started, just as he’d known it would. He should never have come back. Why Joe hated him quite so ferociously, Harry couldn’t fathom, but he knew as Joe pulled the glowing poker from the fire that if he survived ...
He’d never be coming back home again.
Chapter 1
A Dog in a Doublet - A daring, resolute fellow
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
November 1807
Eleven years later ...
“Ah, come on, Harry,” Ivor said, failing to keep the impatience from his sly blue eyes though his tone was wheeling. “It’ll be easy. The latch is broke an’ we know they’ll be out.”
Harry hunched his shoulders, keeping his eyes on the bottom of his glass which was depressingly close to being empty. “No,” he replied, wishing Ivor would damn well change his tune, as he’d been singing the same sorry song for the past two days.
“But why?” Ivor insisted, sounding more angry than impatient now. “We need a bit o’ muscle in case there’s any bother. I never thought you’d let me down.”
Harry snorted and looked up at his one-time crony.
“Thought you said it was easy and there’d be no bother?” he said, his tone dry. “And I ain’t lettin’ no one down. I ain’t no cracksman and well you know it. I may ‘a lifted a wallet or two in my time, but house-breakin’ ... that’s not my line an’ never has been.”
“But this is a fat pigeon, Harry, ripe for pluckin’!” Ivor hissed, leaning across the table towards him.
Harry flinched as Ivor’s foul breath rolled across the table to him. “All the more for you, then, Ivor,” Harry replied, tired of the same old argument. He’d had a close shave with the law six months earlier and narrowly avoided deportation. Now he’d found himself honest work labouring at the docks and a little self-respect, even if the pay was barely enough to feed a mangy dog, let alone a man of his size. Still, the thought of crossing the oceans to some foreign hellhole had put the fear of God in him, and he’d resolved to stay out of trouble from now on and keep his temper, no matter what. So Ivor could nag and whine and berate him all he liked - and he had, but it would change nothing. He reached for his hat and stood as Ivor’s hand reached out and grabbed at his wrist.
“You’ll regret it,” Ivor snarled, any pretence of friendship chased out by the glittering anger in his eyes.
“Maybe,” Harry said with a shrug. “Maybe not.” He looked long and hard at the filthy fist grasping at his sleeve and gave Ivor a pointed look. The man dropped his hand, looking sulky as hell, but thankfully not stupid enough to do anything about it. For good or for bad, Harry had a reputation with his fists, and no one angered him unnecessarily or they tended to regret it for a good long while after.
Leaving Ivor to nurse his disappointment, Harry headed outside. The stench outside was just as foul as that in the tavern, just a damn sight colder. Pulling his thin coat closer to him, Harry shuddered and decided to head over to The Lamb and Flag. Moll might be feeling generous and give him a bowl of soup. His guts were clamouring, as he’d eaten nothing since the night before; but as he’d not a farthing to his name until pay day tomorrow, there was little he could do about it.
The Lamb and Flag was packed as he might have expected, but Moll grinned at him as he entered, showing yellowing teeth, but the kindly glint in her eyes was a beautiful sight to Harry and his empty belly. She was the wrong side of forty and her voluptuous charms were not what they’d once been, but her heart was as wide as her girth for those she liked. There were few in the world who’d do a fellow a favour and expect nothing but a kind word in return, but Moll was a good sort. Of course, Harry knew she was sweet on him, but she never pressed him for anything more than a smile and he counted her a friend of sorts.
Settling himself down in a quiet corner, he murmured his thanks as Moll passed him a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread destined for another table with a wink, and sashayed off again.
Too hungry and intent on wiping the bowl clean with the last
of the bread, at first Harry didn’t notice the disturbance at the bar. It was only when Moll cried out in distress that Harry looked up. There was raucous laughter and to his dismay, Harry saw some devil had caught Moll by the arm and was twisting it. By the distress in Moll’s eyes, he could tell she was frightened, and there was little that frightened the woman who’d presided over The Lamb and Flag and its rough clientele like an empress all these years.
Looking around, it was clear that no one else was willing to intervene. The fellow holding her was big and angry and clearly in his cups. Sighing inwardly, Harry got to his feet.
“Let her go.”
Harry was rewarded by a look of deep gratitude from Moll, but the fellow holding her so tight didn’t move, didn’t even turn, at first, and the tavern fell silent. The expectation of a fight hung over the room with the inevitability of the space between one heart beat and the next.
And then the man turned.
For just the briefest moment Harry was eight years old again and screaming in agony as Uncle Joe held the burning poker against his shoulder. The eyes were the same, full of spite and malice, if older and more bloodshot.
“Outside. Now.” The voice was Harry’s, though it seemed to come from a long way off, and he didn’t really remember saying it at all. He barely registered the protests from Joe that he’d only been messing about. As ever the man’s swift and familiar switch to blind drunken anger appeared fast enough when Harry could not be swayed.
A cold, dark rage swept over Harry as he stripped off his coat and shirt and handed them to Moll to keep, unwilling to ruin his only decent shirt on filth like Joe.
He stared back at the lumbering drunk and remembered the scrawny lad he’d been at the hands of this monster. The idea of using his own hands to beat a child made Harry physically ill, and the scar on his shoulder seemed to burn anew at the horror of it.
Joe would pay now.
He’d pay for the days of fever that Harry had been grateful for, as he’d dreamed of a mother long-dead to him. He’d pay for his life on the streets that had begun the moment he was strong enough to leave his bed and drag his trembling bones as far from Joe as he could get.
He’d pay for it all.
The fight was short and brutal. Joe might be big, but he was a drunkard and no match for Harry’s youth and vigour. With fury, Harry realised that even the satisfaction of beating the man bloody was lost to him, as he found no respite from his anger in a man that was no match for his heavy fists. With a last, frustrated punch, Harry hit him, breaking his nose and hoping to lay him out cold. Let him spend the night freezing in the gutter and see how he liked it. But Joe stumbled on the wet cobbles, his eyes rolling back into his head as he slipped sideways. With a sick feeling in his stomach, Harry watched as the man fell, a dead weight, and could do nothing as his head hit the pavement with a nauseating smash.
The crowd who’d been jeering and cheering and taking bets fell silent once more as blood pooled between the cobbles, leaving little rocky islands in a dark, dark sea.
Joe wasn’t moving.
“Go,” Moll hissed, thrusting his shirt and coat into his hands. “You need to get out of here, Harry. You’ll get the rope this time, never mind transportation.”
Harry just stared at her, clutching his clothes, too numb to do anything.
“Go!” she said, her eyes frantic and glittering with tears now as she gave him a hard push. “Get as far away as you can, Harry,” she said, her face full of misery. “And don’t come back.”
***
There was a cockerel crowing. The sound penetrated Harry’s brain and brought him back to life, if that was what you called it. He was frozen to the bone, his guts so hollow he felt his belly must be fused to his spine. Three days since he left London. He’d hitched a ride on a cart and walked until his legs felt like they would buckle, hardly daring to stop and sleep. Exhaustion had pulled him down in the end and he’d crept into a dilapidated barn. It was no warmer in the dusty darkness than in the frigid landscape outside, velvet white with hoarfrost, but at least it was out of the wind.
Harry hauled himself to his feet, his protesting limbs aching and sore, his hands and feet so cold that the pain was sharp and pulled at his empty belly. How long must he keep walking, he wondered, how far should he go? He couldn’t keep this up for much longer at any rate. He needed to eat. The idea that his wages were waiting for him back in London was an added torment. His pockets were empty, and with no job, he’d not find food anytime soon. His only hope was to find temporary work on a farm or estate in return for a meal at least. He was fit and strong, when he wasn’t about to faint from hunger, and he could do the work of two men, at least. That ought to be obvious. Perhaps he’d get lucky.
He snorted, the freezing air billowing around him in a cloud.
Luck.
If luck existed, it had a decided antipathy towards Harry Browning, he thought with chagrin. Except he could no longer be Browning. Not that it bothered him. He’d always hated the name, Joe’s name. He’d choose a new one.
Thompson, he decided for no reason in particular as he tramped out of the barn, his worn soles sliding on the frozen muck of the lane as he set off. Thompson was a lucky name for sure. Yes, Harry Thompson was a lucky fellow who always fell on his feet, he assured himself, knowing he was being idiotic. It must be the lack of food making him delirious.
He paused, stopping in his tracks and staring at the sun as it glittered on the horizon. The landscape spread out before him, stealing his breath and making him wonder for the first time in his life if there really was a God.
Harry had never seen the countryside before, never seen anything beyond the filth and the stench and the bustle of the slums of London. Yet this ... this was beautiful. Frozen to the bone, sick with hunger, and with no prospects of any kind, Harry looked at the world anew. This world was clean, the air was sweet, and it was full of beauty. Not that he was some romantic fool. A landscape like this was designed to be every bit as cruel and hard as those he’d left behind if there was no work, no food, no roof over your head, and yet despite everything ... he began to hope.
Chapter 2
To have enough tongue for two sets of teeth - said of a talkative person -
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
Harry tormented himself as he walked by, thinking of what he’d eat if money was no object. In truth, he’d sit down to a scabby horse with pleasure at this moment in time, but he leaned towards roast beef, followed by a huge slab of apple pie with cream.
His stomach twisted, his mouth watering at the idea as he paused beside a stone trough. Close to a farm, he reasoned, as the ground around the trough was churned up and muddy with hooves, though none of the beasts were in sight.
Slithering over the frozen ruts he leaned over and smashed the inch-thick ice, cupping the water with his hands and drinking as much as he could hold. Perhaps it might ease his grumbling belly for a time. Splashing some over his face for good measure, he felt his beard rasp beneath his fingers and grimaced. He hated being unshaven, but maybe it was for the best, for now, in any case. The cold air prickled and stung his cheeks, wet as they were, and he rubbed his face on his sleeve.
The wind picked up, stirring the bare branches overhead and making the trees groan and creak, and yet Harry paused, frowning. He’d thought he’d heard ...
Persuading himself he’d imagined it, he put a foot forward to move on when the sound came again, a little stronger this time.
Still unsure, Harry moved in the direction of the sound, slowly, all on alert, and then broke into a run.
The sound grew louder as he approached, grinding to a halt as he forced his way through a narrow thicket of trees and came out upon a long thin strip of land covered in bramble and ferns, and beyond it ... a sheer drop. It was a quarry, the gaping hole yawning wide like an open mouth on the face of the landscape.
Harry stared around, listening for the cry to come again. To hi
s left, the strip of land broadened and a vista of fields and woodlands opened out like a much-patched bedspread. A horse stood cropping the grass with a nonchalant air, reins trailing and saddle all askew.
“Help, dammit!” came the voice again, certainly male and so obviously upper class that the sound was sharp and precise in Harry’s ears. “God damn you, I will not die like this!”
The voice sounded rather more furious than frightened but Harry ran to the edge of the cliff, fighting his way through brambles and tearing his clothes as he went.
Leaning over, he saw an older man, perhaps in his late sixties, balding, with greying hair sticking out in tufts. He rather put Harry in mind of a helpless baby bird with his bright beady eyes, scrawny neck, and that wispy hair sticking out like downy feathers.
“Hold on there,” Harry called down as the old man spied him. “I’ll get you.”
The man let out an audible sigh. “Thank God, but you’d best hurry. I can’t hold on much longer, the edge I’m standing on is crumbling.”
Harry stripped off his shirt and searched along the cliff face for a suitable place to get down. The quarry had obviously been abandoned for generations and the face was weathered and unstable. For a moment, Harry wondered what the devil he thought he was doing, but he knew he couldn’t just walk away and pretend he’d never seen the fellow. He could try and get help, but the man was right, he could hear the skitter and slide of stones and sand as the ledge he stood on gave way. A few minutes more and he’d plummet the rest of the way to the ground, and no one would survive that fall.
Of course the chances were now that they’d both plummet to the ground. What was it he’d been saying about Harry Thompson being a lucky fellow, he thought with a grimace.
“Hurry,” the old man urged, sounding really rather agitated now as a small avalanche fell down beneath him, the stones smashing against the cliff as they went.
Harry swallowed and took a breath as he eased his bigger frame down the cliff, feeling with frozen fingers and toes as best he could.
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