by Nicole Byrd
“Now, that is odd that you should ask. We did have a female lodger ’ere by that name, nice respectable widow, she was, and very quiet about her ’abits, if a bit short at times with the maids, I ’eard—meaning no disrespect to your relation.” The innkeeper paused to take a sip of his ale. “But she ain’t been back for several days, sir, and I been wondering what to do about ’er room. ’Er things are still in it, and if she ain’t coming back, I need the room. And then there’s the bill, you see. She was paid up until the Saturday, but after that—”
Dominic nodded. “I am not completely surprised that she has disappeared; we feared as much. She sometimes has, um, fits, you see.”
Miss Fallon giggled, then turned it into a cough when the innkeeper glanced her way.
“We shall have to check the hospitals,” Dominic continued smoothly. “My poor aunt may have been taken ill. When these bouts happen, she can become confused, not even knowing her own name.”
“Mercy,” the other man muttered. “Glad she didn’t do it ’ere, would have had the maids in ’ysterics. I ’ope they ain’t carted ’er off to Bedlam, sir.”
“We certainly hope not,” Dominic agreed. “It’s also possible she might have gone to stay with another friend, of course. Did she have any callers while she was here?”
The man looked offended. “And leave me stuck with ’er bill?”
“She might have become ill, as I said. But did anyone visit her, that you knew of?”
“Only one swell gent, youngish he was. I wondered if he were ’er fancy man—oh, pardon, misses.” The innkeeper appeared to remember the presence of the two females. “Or maybe ’e was looking to marry a widow, even one older than ’e were, if she had a bit put by, don’t you know?”
“He was a gentleman?” Dominic demanded, surprised.
The innkeeper hesitated a moment. “ ’e looked it, but, well, ’ard to say. Dressed decent he did, with a fine coat.”
Glancing down at his own disgraceful garment, Dominic tried not to shudder. “How fortunate for him. What did he look like?”
“Not as tall as you, sir, thin, dark-haired. The maids giggled over ’im a bit, so I guess you’d say he was pleasing of face.”
The man took another drink of ale. Description was not his strong suit, apparently.
“Did you hear his name?”
“Never gave it, sir; she was usually waiting to meet ’im in the ’all.”
Dominic tried not to frown in disappointment. “There was no one else?” he asked. “If we could question her friends, it might help us find her.”
The innkeeper shook his head. “None that I saw, sir.”
No use beating a dead horse. Dominic gave it up. “Very well. Until she returns, or we find her, perhaps we should collect her belongings, for safekeeping and so that you can have the use of your room.”
The innkeeper hesitated, and Dominic added, “And I will settle her account, of course.”
The man brightened. “That’s good of you, sir. I’ll ’ave the maid show you and your family up to the widow’s room. And I ’ope you find her in good condition, not off ’er ’ead.”
Since Mrs. Craigmore/Livermore had already been put into a pauper’s grave, that was unlikely, but Dominic saw no reason to point that out. Instead, they all rose and Dominic handed over the amount the innkeeper requested. If he suspected the bill might be a tad inflated, Dominic didn’t care. When a maid was fetched, the landlord directed her to take them to the late Mrs. Craigmore’s room.
The girl took them up two narrow flights of stairs and showed them a small room tucked under the eaves. There did not appear to be much here, but Dominic hoped for something that might tell them more.
He looked on the one small table, but saw no papers or books. Miss Fallon, with her maid’s help, was folding the few clothes that had been left behind. Dominic looked back at the maid.
“Perhaps you could find us a large basket so we have some way to carry this, until my aunt returns?”
He passed over a coin, and she grinned and winked at him. “Thank’ee, gov. I’ll find ye something.”
Really, this masquerade was a salutary experience for him, Dominic thought, trying not to laugh. If ever anyone again accused him of being high in the instep—
He shook off the thought. Now that they were alone, he set about investigating the room more carefully.
Miss Fallon apparently had the same thought. She was already lifting the mattress to look beneath it, and he went to help her. But they uncovered nothing but a few wisps of dust and a shabby carpetbag.
“What she traveled with, I deduce.” He drew it out and glanced inside, but saw nothing.
“She had a secret drawer in her desk at the foundling home—Gemma told me about it,” Miss Fallon said.
“But there is no desk here, and thus, no drawer.” He looked about them. There was not even a clothespress, just some pegs on the wall and a small chest at the foot of the bed.
The women had already removed all the clothing from it, and Matty was pushing the folded garments into the carpetbag. He opened the lid of the chest and looked inside, but it was empty.
Miss Fallon looked discouraged, and he touched her shoulder lightly. “Don’t allow your courage to falter,” he told her.
“But we have found nothing, only a vague description of a mysterious man for whom we have no name.” She sighed.
When the maid returned with a basket, Miss Fallon asked her about the matron’s visitor. The maid giggled. “A very ’andsome man, miss, if I do say so. He ’ad eyes so dark, quite lovely.”
“Do you have any idea where he was from?”
The servant looked at him in surprise.
“I mean, did he have an accent that was from town or from one of the shires?”
The girl bit her lip. “I didn’t really ’ear ’im talk much, sir, only a word or two and nothing in his speech that seemed to mark ’im. ’Fraid I can’t say.”
So it was a glum trio that returned to the courtyard. Dominic sent a servant to hail another hackney. When it came, he helped Miss Fallon and her maid inside and wished he could cheer her spirits.
She looked lost in thought, and the thoughts did not seem to be happy ones.
“I would very much like to know who the ‘handsome young man’ is,” Dominic suggested. “Dark-haired and medium in height, and almost gentlemanly in appearance.” He looked down at his own borrowed coat and shook his head, trying to dust off a speck of lint.
But at least Miss Fallon raised her head, and her expression had changed. “The day I glimpsed the matron on the street, before I spoke to her, she was speaking to a man of medium height. I had forgotten!”
Dominic looked at her quickly and ignored his wardrobe’s deficiencies. “Did you see his face?”
Looking regretful, she shook her head. “No, nor could I see if he had dark hair. He was wearing a hat, and he looked respectable enough. Perhaps it was someone else, not one of the gang we are seeking.”
“I refuse to believe that the woman who has caused us so much trouble had any acquaintances who were not as unpleasant as she was,” Dominic told her.
He succeeded in making her smile.
“Not a very scientific deduction, my lord, but perhaps you are right. At any rate, we will keep the mysterious gentleman in mind.”
The carriage bounced as it rolled over a hole in the pavement. Miss Fallon paused to catch the side of the seat, then motioned to Matty, who was holding the shabby carpetbag.
“Let me see it, please, Matty. I want to check it again.”
Making a face at the stale smell of the clothing and the mildewed odor of the bag itself, she rummaged through it.
Just as Dominic was feeling a pang of sympathy for her, thinking that she was grasping at straws, she suddenly raised her head. Her expression had changed.
“I have found a secret pocket!”
Eleven
“You were searching for it,” he charged, even as he shared her mom
ent of exaltation.
“Miss, how clever of you!” Matty said at the same time, then blushed and, glancing at the earl, held her tongue.
Clarissa smiled. “The matron liked secret places to hide things,” she pointed out. “And after I thought about it, it could not have been in the furniture, as it was not hers but the hotel’s. So I thought the bag was worth a careful look.”
“You were brilliant, as usual,” he told her, keeping his tone light. “Is there anything inside?”
Clarissa drew out two slips of paper. They unfolded them and scanned the writing. One appeared to be a list of stolen goods—jewels and silverware and clocks, anything portable that could have been quickly taken from a sleeping household—with sums of money written after each one. And the second—
Clarissa frowned at it and passed it to Dominic. “What is it?” she asked.
Frowning, he read it twice. “Another address. I believe this may be a flashhouse or even a receiver.”
“A what or a what?” Clarissa asked.
Dominic was glad that, for once, he knew something about the lower classes that Clarissa did not. “I have been getting reports from the runner I’ve hired,” he told her. “Expanding my knowledge of the criminal world. A flashhouse is a pub where petty thieves, or worse, hang out. A receiver is a person who takes the stolen goods and resells them.”
“Ah.” Clarissa nodded in understanding. “So next we—”
“Next, I will go to check out this address,” he told her. “It will hardly be a place for a lady to visit.”
“But—” she began, but he shook his head.
“No, not this time.”
She looked at him in obvious doubt. “I do not think you can pass as a low-born person without my help,” she told him, her tone serious.
He threw back his head and laughed. He felt curiously exhilarated, not just at the discovery of another clue, but to see the fear in her hazel eyes replaced by her more usual gritty determination. “If I am found out, I pledge that I will return to you for further instruction. I don’t wish to subject you to any avoidable danger.”
She eyed him with patent disbelief. “I insist that you keep me fully informed, my lord. It is my neck already well at risk, you know.”
“Of course. If circumstances allow, I shall see you before the day ends,” he assured her.
She mulled over this, and they rode in silence for a time.
After several more blocks, Clarissa glanced at the maid beside her and saw that the servant’s eyes had closed, and she breathed evenly. Was she asleep?
Clarissa turned back to regard the earl. They had so little time alone. On impulse, she leaned forward and touched his hand.
“You have been so kind,” she told him in the barest whisper. “I can never thank you enough.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he whispered back, but he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.
She felt his touch even through her thin glove. A thrill ran through her, rippling along her arm.
He didn’t release her hand. He turned it, instead, and his lips moved to her wrist. He pushed the glove back so that her skin lay bare, naked, open to his touch. He kissed her wrist, too, and his mouth felt even warmer there.
His lips were supple and strong, and how would they feel if she pressed her own against them? At the thought, she felt goose bumps rise on her skin, and a strange sensation develop in the pit of her stomach.
He was pulling off her glove. Now her hand lay inside his, and he touched each finger, gently caressing. She had never known her hand could experience such sensations. Without her volition, a soft sigh escaped her.
A cart rumbled past them on the street, and the maid jerked.
To Clarissa’s infinite regret, he pressed her hand one last time, then let it go. She pulled her glove back on as Matty stirred. But when Clarissa looked up at him again, she saw a light in his dark eyes as he smiled at her.
And when they reached the Fallon household, the earl told the driver to wait, then climbed out first to help them down. When Clarissa emerged, he held her hand a moment longer than necessary and bent to say into her ear, “Don’t worry, Clarissa. All will be well.”
She nodded, feeling a little breathless still from the interlude inside the carriage. “Shall I tell Lady Gemma to expect you for dinner?”
“I will be here,” he agreed.
And she went inside with a lighter heart than at any time since she’d first glimpsed Mrs. Craigmore on the street. How could any peril touch her when the earl spoke her name in that intimate tone?
Dominic watched them until the door shut behind them, then pulled his thoughts—with an effort—back to the business at hand. He returned to the hackney and gave the driver the new address.
The man stared at him.
Dominic reached into his pocket and handed over several coins over and above the required fare. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Reluctantly, the man twitched the reins and the tired-looking nag stirred itself to motion. “Not moving loot, are you, gov?”
“Of course not,” Dominic said, but he filed the comment away. Did the gangs use hackneys to move their stolen wares quietly about the city? How mundane, and how yet unremarkable that would be to watching eyes.
The streets of Whitechapel were narrower and more littered than the avenues of the West End. Dominic tried not to pinch his nostrils at the noxious smells. He handed over another coin when he climbed down from the vehicle.
“If you wait—”
“Not ’ere, gov. No amount of blunt is enough for a slit throat,” the driver muttered, and lashed his horse at once into motion.
That bad, eh? Dominic considered for the first time that he should have gone back and armed himself before coming here. But it was too late for second thoughts. He pushed open the rough door and passed inside.
The air was murky with smoke and smelled almost as bad as the street. Dominic pushed his way through to an empty seat where he could keep his right side turned toward the rest of the pub’s patrons, pulled up a stool, and looked about him. The men—and occasional woman—who crowded the tavern appeared blowsy and dirty and most often drunk, and they certainly looked little like honest working folk. Although, he thought as he watched a woman slip a man’s wallet covertly from his pocket and into her apron with one hand as she caressed his cheek with the other, perhaps that depended on one’s definition of “work.”
When a woman of indeterminate age, wearing a dirty apron and a gown with a low-cut bodice, came up, he passed over a coin and ordered ale. When she returned with his drink, he took a cautious sip and tried not to wince. “Who owns this establishment?”
“Huh?” she stared at him and rubbed red-rimmed eyelids, smearing the line of kohl that she had drawn around them.
“Who owns this place?”
“ ’Im. Westy.” She pointed to a paunchy man behind the bar.
Dominic nodded his thanks. “Do you think you could suggest to him that a few words with me would be to his advantage?”
“Eh?” She blinked.
Not sure if she was drunk, dim-witted, or simply terminally exhausted, Dominic sighed and tried again. “I want to speak to him.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” she muttered. But she headed for the landlord.
Dominic remembered Miss Fallon’s lessons in proper—or improper—deportment and tried to slouch over his drink.
When the man stalked over, he demanded, his tone surly, “What you want w’me, eh?”
“I thought—” Dominic kept his tone low and tried to slur his words a little. “I thought you might know where a man might find a receiver who gives fair price for goods?”
“New at the game, are you?” His eyes narrow with suspicion, the man looked him over. “ ’ow I know you ain’t some damned police informant, or a runner?”
Dominic knew his brows had shot up. “You must be joking.”
“Na, you don’t have the look of ’em,”
the man agreed. “Come down in the world, ’ave you? Lost your fortune at cards and now you’re into lifting the odd bit? Maybe I could take it off your ’ands? Or cut your throat and go through your pockets at me leisure.”
Without even thinking, Dominic reached out and grabbed the man’s shirt. Pulling him down so that they were only inches apart, he met the man’s startled gaze.
A mistake; the landlord’s breath could fell an ox.
Ignoring it, Dominic said, “I don’t think I care for your methods.”
Several men at the next table glanced at them, but when Dominic turned his head to meet their gazes, they looked away again. The landlord had paled.
“I didn’t—I don’t—”
“No, you do not,” Dominic agreed, but he released his grip on the man. “Now, answer my question.”
“You could try Whitherby, a few doors down, or the Cattery, if she’ll let you in,” the man muttered.
Not willing to show how cryptic he found these instructions, Dominic nodded.
The man hurried away, and, pushing aside the drink without regret, Dominic headed for the door before the landlord could summon reinforcements.
Outside, he looked up and down the crowded lane and headed away from the tavern. He soon located the man called Whitherby, whose name was inscribed upon a shop front so narrow that there was barely room for a doorway and one tiny window. Behind its dirty panes was a hodgepodge of clothing, household goods, and small valuables, all obviously secondhand, and all without a doubt stolen.
The small withered man who came to greet him gave him a twisted smile; he was missing most of his front teeth. “Wot you need today, gov? I can supply it.”
“I need information,” Dominic told him. “And if you help me, it will be to your advantage. I’m looking for a woman of middle years, stout of form, dark-haired with a little gray at the temples. She might be using the name Livermore.”
The man looked puzzled. “Ain’t ’eard of ’er, gov. But if it’s a woman you want, I could find you plenty, any age or size you like.”