“We are going to set a trap,” the magistrate announced. “On Friday there is to be a special performance of Handel’s oratorio Esther. Several of the royals will be present, and among the guests in their box will be the Russian Princess Olga Fyodorovna. She is the proud possessor of a set of diamonds reputed to be the size of birds’ eggs—an irresistible target for any jewel thief, as I am sure you will agree.”
“Why not send Mr. Pickett to guard her?” suggested Mr. Foote with a grin. “He has a well-known partiality for women above his station.”
A good deal of ribald laughter greeted this recommendation, and Pickett, flushing, slid lower in his chair.
“As the Princess Olga has almost thrice Mr. Pickett’s years in her dish, Her Royal Highness is a good deal nearer your age than his,” answered Mr. Colquhoun, frowning. “No, all jesting aside, this is a task that will require the cooperation of the entire force. You will all be positioned at different points about the theatre. The Princess Olga and her party will be under observation at all times and from every angle. If anyone makes an attempt to steal her diamonds, he will not get far.”
“And what of the princess herself?” asked Mr. Pickett. “Surely it can’t be right to put her in danger, even to apprehend a thief.”
One member of the foot patrol leaned over to whisper something in the ear of one of his fellows, and both men snickered. Pickett sighed. He did not know exactly what had been said, but he could hazard a guess. At such times as this, it was tempting to inform his colleagues that he was actually married to the Viscountess Fieldhurst, just for the satisfaction of seeing their jaws hit the floor. But no, it would only make the annulment three weeks hence that much more painful. The fewer people who knew of his irregular marriage to her ladyship, the better it would be in the end.
“There will be no danger to the princess, Mr. Pickett,” the magistrate assured him. “In fact, the lady wearing the diamonds will not be Princess Olga at all, but one of her ladies in waiting. The princess will be there, but among the other attendants. She and her lady in waiting will change places for the evening.”
“And—forgive me, sir, but are you sure the princess will agree to this?”
“Agree to it? It was her idea! Quite delighted with her own ingenuity, is Her Royal Highness. Of course, I need not point out that she is placing a great deal of trust in the lot of you—and that I expect her confidence will not be misplaced.”
A murmur of agreement answered this thinly veiled threat.
“Now,” continued Mr. Colquhoun, “I have tickets for each of you for Friday night’s performance. Members of the foot patrol, you will not wear your red waistcoats on this occasion, but plain clothes, so as not to call attention to your presence. Mr. Dixon, you will be in the pit, stationed as near to the exit as you can contrive. I’m afraid you will not have an uninterrupted view of the royal box, but more importantly, you will be the last line of defense should our jewel thief succeed and attempt to escape the theatre. Mr. Marshall, you will be seated in the gallery, directly beneath the royal box. Should the Princess Olga have need of you, she will thump the floor of her box three times with her cane. Mr. Pickett, you will be in the third tier of boxes, directly opposite that occupied by the royals. You should have an excellent view of the princess, or rather, her surrogate. Mr. Griffin—”
One by one, each member of the Bow Street force received his instructions for the evening, along with a theatre ticket.
“What, no ticket for me?” asked Pickett’s tormentor when the last ticket had been handed out and the last assignment made.
Mr. Colquhoun shook his head. “No, Mr. Foote. Since you were the one to answer Lady Oversley’s summons last night, you might well be recognized by our quarry. You will be left in charge here—after all, someone must see that the rest of London remains on the straight and narrow. I hope for your sake it is a quiet night, for I can’t spare many men to help you.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage, sir,” said the senior Runner, although his sullen expression gave the magistrate to understand he was not best pleased with his assignment.
“Good. Now, if there are no further questions, you may consider yourselves dismissed,” Mr. Colquhoun said to the group at large. “Not you, Mr. Pickett. I’d like a word with you, if you please.”
Pickett hung back until the others had dispersed, racking his brain to recall if he had done anything to warrant the magistrate’s displeasure. There was, of course, the ongoing conflict with Mr. Foote, but surely Mr. Colquhoun could see that he did nothing to provoke the man. There was, too, his connection with Lady Fieldhurst, of which Mr. Colquhoun heartily disapproved, but that, he reflected bleakly, would soon be a thing of the past. “Yes, sir?” he asked when they could be assured of relative privacy.
“You may have noticed, Mr. Pickett, that while most of your fellows will be stationed amongst the hoi polloi, you will be occupying a box. As the success of this operation depends upon each of you being as inconspicuous as possible, it is imperative that you look as if you belong there.”
Pickett nodded. “I shall brush my black coat this evening, sir,” he promised.
This plan, however, found no favor with the magistrate. “I’ve seen your black coat, Mr. Pickett, and while it may serve very well for court appearances at the Old Bailey, it won’t do if you are to present the appearance of a gentleman.”
“It’s the best I have,” protested Pickett.
“I don’t doubt it. Fortunately, I have had a word with my tailor, and he has agreed to let you hire a suit of clothing for the night.”
Pickett rapidly performed a few mental calculations involving the amount of money in his pocket and the number of days until he would next receive his wages. “Begging your pardon, sir, but how much—?”
Mr. Colquhoun held up a hand to forestall him. “The cost will be paid out of the department, so it need not concern you. You will need to stop by Mr. Meyer’s shop in Conduit Street this afternoon so that your measurements may be taken. The clothing will be delivered to my residence. You may join me for dinner Friday evening before the performance.”
“Thank you, sir,” Pickett said, rather taken aback by this unprecedented invitation. “I should be honored.”
“Nonsense! My Janet is away visiting relatives, so I’m batching it for the next few weeks. No reason why you shouldn’t take your mutton with me. After dinner you may don your borrowed plumes. My valet will assist you.”
“That is kind of you, sir, but I’ve dressed myself without assistance all these years—”
“I’m aware of that, Mr. Pickett, but since the idea is to have you look as much like a gentleman as possible, I think it best if I oversee the transformation.”
The twinkle in his eye robbed the words of any insult, and Pickett grinned back at him. “Very well, sir, I shall try not to disappoint.”
The magistrate’s expression grew serious. “There is one other thing—”
“Yes, sir? What is it?”
“Since it would be most unusual for a man to attend the theatre alone, your charade might be more convincing if a female were to accompany you. Not just any female, mind you, but a lady—one who would not look out of place in the box herself, and who could, if necessary, prevent you from committing any glaring breach of etiquette. Would you happen to know of such a female?”
Pickett listened to this speech with dawning incredulity and no small sense of elation. “Sir? You—you’re instructing me to invite Lady Fieldhurst to accompany me?”
“I’m doing nothing of the kind! In fact, if you know of another female who would fit the bill, I would urge you to choose her instead. But as I suspect that is not the case, I suppose we shall have to make do with her ladyship.”
“But sir, you agreed not to send me out on cases where I might be obliged to see Lady Fieldhurst again,” Pickett reminded him.
“If I remember correctly, I agreed—and that only reluctantly—not to send you to Mayfair,” pointed out the magistrat
e. “The last time I consulted a map, Drury Lane was not in Mayfair.”
“No, sir, but—but why, if I may ask?”
Mr. Colquhoun did not pretend to misunderstand him. “To be perfectly honest, Mr. Pickett, I have no idea,” he grumbled. “I daresay I’m growing soft in my old age. Or perhaps I’m merely tired of seeing you moping about the place.”
“Not for much longer, sir,” Pickett assured him somewhat bleakly. “I had a letter from her ladyship’s solicitor by yesterday’s post. The annulment will come before the ecclesiastical court in three weeks.”
“Hmm. I wonder if that will make things better, or worse? Ah well, if you’re going to ask her ladyship to accompany you, I suggest you do so without further delay. Women like to have time to prepare for these things, you know—assuming, of course, that she accepts your invitation.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir! I shall do so at once,” promised Pickett, all but falling over his feet in his eagerness to carry out this task.
Not until he had left the magistrate did he recall that there was bound to be a certain awkwardness in approaching Lady Fieldhurst. He had not spoken to her in three long months, but he had not forgotten the circumstances under which they’d parted, any more than he had forgotten his last words to her. I am in love with you . . . I know there is no hope for me . . . He never would have said such a thing had he not been quite certain that he would not see her again. He reminded himself that at least she had not laughed in his face, but this was small comfort; she was too well bred—and, more importantly, too kind—to do such a thing, whatever her own feelings in the matter. He consoled himself with the knowledge that at least he had not committed the crowning folly of begging her to drop the annulment proceedings and be his wife indeed.
No, it would be too humiliating to seek her out now. And yet the temptation to see her again, whatever the embarrassment to himself, was irresistible. One thing was certain: he would issue his invitation on paper. He would not call on her; in fact, given what had transpired the last time they’d met, he dared not look her in the face until he was sure she was willing to see him again.
To this end, he collected pen and paper and set about phrasing his request. Should he promise not to refer to that Other Matter, or would it be best to pretend it had never happened? He decided it was best not to acknowledge it at all; he did not flatter himself that he held the same place in her thoughts as she occupied in his, so it was quite possible she had already forgotten the declaration that still plagued him with the memory of his own stupidity. If that were indeed the case, it would be foolish in the extreme to remind her of it by promising not to mention it. In fact, it would probably be a good idea to make plain from the outset that it was at Mr. Colquhoun’s behest he was writing to her in the first place. Yes, he decided, that was the ticket.
My Lady Fieldhurst, he wrote, As part of an ongoing investigation, it is necessary that I attend the performance of Handel’s Esther at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane on Friday, the 24th of February. My magistrate, Mr. Colquhoun, has suggested that my presence there will appear less conspicuous if I am accompanied by a lady. Since my acquaintance amongst the better class of females is limited, I wonder if you would oblige me by accepting my escort on this occasion. After some hesitation, he added with perhaps less than perfect truth, Mr. Colquhoun adds his entreaties to mine. He signed himself Yours, John Pickett, then added a post scriptum: P.S. I promise not to make you sit in the pit.
He read through this model of the epistolary arts several times, and then, deciding there was nothing he could do to improve it, folded it, sealed it, and surrendered it to a messenger, along with instructions that it be placed in the hands of Lady Fieldhurst at Number Twenty-two Curzon Street.
Lady Fieldhurst, reading this communication approximately an hour after it had been written, was not quite certain what to make of it. Upon first reading, it seemed almost as if he were inviting her under duress; certainly he appeared to be acting upon Mr. Colquhoun’s instructions, rather than any inclination of his own. She reminded herself that three months had passed since his declaration, and that his sentiments might have undergone a change; he might even have met another woman, a woman who was not of the “better class of females” and therefore ineligible to accompany him on this particular occasion. Then she reached his post scriptum, and smiled. Here was the rather endearingly gauche Mr. Pickett she remembered. His distant, almost cold invitation was no doubt due to embarrassment at the prospect of seeing her again, given his words to her at their last meeting. Well, she would find it a little awkward, too, but surely a few minutes of discomfort would be no worse than three long months of loneliness and misery had been. However infelicitously worded, his invitation was the answer to prayers she had not even been aware of praying.
She instructed the messenger to wait, then took the missive to her writing desk and sat down to compose a reply. It was brief almost to the point of curtness, but when she read back over it, she made only a one-word addition to the end before giving it to the messenger.
The brass bell over the door jangled a cheerful greeting as Pickett entered Mr. Meyer’s shop in Conduit Street. There, however, his welcome ended. He stood awkwardly just inside the door, unsure quite how to proceed. Had the purpose of this call been to make inquiries regarding an investigation, he would not have hesitated to request of the first employee he saw an audience with Mr. Meyer. But he had never had the means to purchase clothing tailored specifically to his own measurements, and he was not at all certain how the thing was done. Perhaps more to the point, the Princess Olga and her fabled diamonds had faded from his mind somewhere between Bow and Conduit streets, and his primary concern had become the transformation of himself into an acceptable escort for Lady Fieldhurst.
And never had he been more painfully aware of his shortcomings. There were some half-dozen gentlemen clients in the shop, only three of whom troubled themselves to look up when the bell announced Pickett’s entrance. One of these, a silver-haired man of middle age standing before a looking glass and admiring the fit of a black evening coat and form-fitting pantaloons, paused long enough to regard the newcomer with a contemptuously curling lip before turning his attention back to the far more satisfying sight of his own reflection. Two younger blades, both of them very nearly Pickett’s own age, interrupted their debate on the merits of bottle green wool as opposed to mulberry long enough to exchange murmured quips, the only words of which Pickett could make out were “gapeseed” and “up from the country.”
After what seemed an eternity to Pickett (although it was in fact no more than thirty seconds), a small, wiry man with a tape measure draped around his neck and a pencil tucked behind his ear separated himself from his noble clients and came forward to meet him.
“Yes, sir?” he asked. “How may I be of service to you?”
“Mr. Meyer?” Upon receiving an affirmative nod, Pickett continued with more confidence, finding himself at last on familiar ground. “John Pickett of Bow Street. My magistrate, Mr. Colquhoun, said you would be expecting me.”
“Of course, Mr. Pickett. If you will follow me?”
Pickett did so, and was relieved when the tailor led him into a small antechamber, away from the mocking curiosity of Mr. Meyer’s aristocratic patrons.
“If you will be so good as to disrobe, Mr. Pickett?”
Pickett shrugged off his brown coat, conscious as never before of how his meager wardrobe must appear to one who was charged with dressing England’s wealthiest and most influential men. He had never thought of his linen as being particularly dingy, and he was sure Mrs. Catchpole, who laundered his garments for three shillings and sixpence in addition to what he paid her each month for rent, did her best. But when he compared his shirt and cravat to the snow-white linens of the men just outside the anteroom door, he could not deny that they bore a faint but unmistakably yellow hue.
Waistcoat, shirt, shoes, and breeches followed the brown coat, and soon Pickett stood before the tailo
r in nothing but his smallclothes. Mr. Meyer whipped the tape measure from his neck and set to with a will, taking measurements and jotting them down, pausing occasionally in his work to offer some comment on Pickett’s breadth of shoulder or length of leg. Pickett, feeling rather like a horse up for auction, found the experience only slightly less embarrassing than the doctor’s examination he had been forced to endure in order to provide Lady Fieldhurst with grounds for an annulment.
At last the tailor’s work was done, and Mr. Meyer set Pickett free to dress himself, promising that, although the particular articles of clothing he had in mind were already made up (and, in fact, were sometimes shown to wealthy clients as samples of the tailor’s art) he himself would make whatever minor alterations were necessary before having the garments delivered to Mr. Colquhoun’s house.
“Depend upon it,” he assured Pickett, “they will fit as if they had been made for you. In fact, you will look every inch the gentleman.”
Pickett rather doubted this, but as he left Mr. Meyer’s establishment and headed back toward Bow Street, his mind was not on the coming Friday night’s experiment, nor even of his sudden (if temporary) rise in the world. In fact, he could think of nothing but the progress of his own letter to Lady Fieldhurst. Had it reached Curzon Street yet? Surely it must have done by now. Assuming that were the case, what had been its reception there? Would her ladyship wish to give the matter some consideration before penning a reply? If so, he might not receive a response before morning. For that matter, he might not receive a response at all. He had just spent half an hour in close proximity to the sort of men to whom she was accustomed; however friendly she might be toward him when they were alone, appearing publicly with him would likely be quite another matter. Perhaps she would think it kinder to spare him a rejection by not replying to his invitation. Perhaps his communication, so agonizingly worded, had been promptly consigned to the fire, and was at this very moment curling to blackened ash. Yes, that was probably it, he thought miserably.
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