“Thank’ee, mistress.”
She ruthlessly suppressed an urge to ask if she might be a party to Alex’s interview with him. It would be humiliating to be refused, which, if government secrets were to be discussed, was quite likely. Alex gave her a friendly nod and a smile, took a candlestick from a shelf and lighted it at the hearth. They would need it in the windowless butler’s pantry. The men withdrew, Alex with the candle and Cuddie with a tankard.
Conversation died at the table. They all knew Alex had sent a messenger somewhere and was awaiting a reply, though only Jane knew the details. Although there had been a feeling of being in a fortress under siege since her return, they had managed to go about their daily tasks in almost a normal manner. The feeling had intensified with the arrival and captivity of Rupert, but now the sensation of something impending was impossible to ignore.
“Well,” Mrs. Harrow said at last, to break the silence, “Moll, I think we will make the almond sort of Portugal cakes tomorrow. You must blanch and peel the almonds today, and pound them in the morning. I’ll weigh them out for you while you clear away.”
Molly bobbed her head.
“What a good idea,” Jane said. “I am very partial to them.”
When Alex and the groom returned, Mrs. Harrow dished up a large serving of pork pie for Cuddie, with cheese and pickled onions for relish, and another tankard of ale. Alex said he had a letter to write and deliver that evening, and added in a low voice, “I’ll explain before I leave.”
“I’ll go with you,” Cuddie volunteered from his seat at the table.
“Better not, I think. You’d best go home when you’ve done eating.”
Cuddie, his mouth full of pork and apple and Mrs. Harrow’s good crust, nodded reluctantly.
The last few days—no, the whole of the last month—had been shockingly informal, Jane reflected. However would she reaccustom herself to servants being invisible and nearly silent but for a “Yes, madam” or “No, madam”? And go back to the dull routine of her father’s home and the occasional party or ball at which nothing important was said or done?
Perhaps she would not have to do so.
****
The footman wanted to take the letter.
“My orders are to give it into Sir Howard’s own hand and wait for a reply,” he said. Compared to Sir Howard Dampers’s footman, Alex felt quite shabby. The man’s livery fitted as if tailored for him—which it probably was—and his white wig must have been recently reset. His shoes shone. The housekeeper had done some alterations to Alex’s coat and breeches, but they had clearly seen long usage.
“Wait here. I will inform Sir Howard.”
Dampers, like Anthony Lattimer, must be accustomed to secretive messengers for the footman returned almost at once, to show Alex to the master’s study.
Dampers, a stocky man with bulldog jowls, extended his hand for the letter, asking, “Who sent you?”
“It’s…complicated to explain, sir. It would be best if you read the letter. It’s all set forth very plain.”
“You know the contents?” Dampers asked, eyebrows arching.
“I’m in his confidence as you might say, Sir Howard.”
The bulldog growled and broke the seal. The letter ran to three pages, two written close on both sides, and the third on only one side. Alex watched rather nervously as Sir Howard read, sometimes rereading a paragraph, intermittently sipping from a glass of brandy, and once or twice muttering, “Hmmm!”
Finally, he refolded the sheets and tucked them under the blotter. “This is a confounded business. What’s your name, and how do you come to be involved in it?”
He had had the foresight to come up with a name for himself, and that different from the name he used in Wych Street. Lucky he had thought of it. No, not lucky, precisely. One must be thorough in acting a part.
“Hubertus Canty, sir.” It was the name of a character in a short play a friend had written in their college days. His own performance as the sly footman had reduced the audience to tears of merriment. Admittedly, a good deal of alcohol had been consumed beforehand.
Unfortunately, he had not foreseen the second part of the question. “I’d better not say, sir. It’s not really important, is it?”
Dampers gave a snort of laughter. “Ay, you’re a deep one, right enough. Well, I can’t put you in touch with Lattimer, because he’s pursuing inquiries out of town. However, I may be able to help. Who told you to come to me?”
“Mr. Lattimer’s second son, sir.”
“Idiot! How did he know to send you to me?”
Alex mentioned the Hawthorn Cottage butler.
“The former Sergeant Cheddle, hey? Who’s your master?”
“Better if I don’t say, sir.”
The bulldog eyed him broodingly. “Hmmm. Well, perhaps that’s true. If you’re in young Mr. Lattimer’s confidence, tell me the two things he’s asked me to do, in his father’s absence.”
“First, to make sure he is safe from arrest as a Jacobite or smuggler, or for having burned a barn containing smuggled guns. Second, to secure the arrest of Charles Pleasaunce, who is a Jacobite, which may be accomplished by the third, though you have not mentioned it, which is to take charge of an unwitting accomplice of Pleasaunce’s, who is currently being detained by a…er…private party. Mr. Alexander Lattimer believes he can be induced to turn king’s evidence.”
Dampers steepled his fingers. “So young Lattimer became, by some undisclosed means, his father’s deputy. But I am dealing instead with his—or someone’s—servant. Or agent. I would prefer to speak with young Lattimer directly.”
“It would not be safe for Mr. Alex Lattimer to come into town, given that he may be arrested, as he nearly was at Somerset House recently.”
While Sir Howard’s jaw did not drop nor did his eyebrows meet his hairline, he was clearly surprised, judging by the delay in his response.
“That was young Lattimer, was it?” Dampers shook his head, more in wonder than denial, and said, “I am always filled with amazement at Tony Lattimer’s methods. They are seldom tidy, they ignore established procedure, and yet they usually accomplish the desired end. Well, I can assist with part of the problem. I can take this ‘unwitting accomplice’ in charge and see he’s turned over to the right people. If he reveals the identity of currently unknown Jacobites and is willing to give testimony against any, I can see to it that his assistance will be taken into consideration, though I cannot promise he will escape all punishment. I assume that is young Mr. Lattimer’s wish?”
“Yes, sir.” That would be a relief to Jane Stowe.
“I’ll need to know where to collect him, then.”
“He will be delivered, sir.”
“Where? When?”
“Mr. Alexander Lattimer will advise you of the particulars after arrangements have been made.”
“Canty, I believe my department would be pleased to hire you, if you should wish to change your employment.”
“I’m flattered, sir. About the other matters…?”
“If your ‘unwitting accomplice’ implicates him, Pleasaunce will be taken into custody. His family’s connections make it damned awkward to arrest him without evidence.”
“And Mr. Alex…?”
“Now, that is a problem, indeed. I can pass word on that he is acting on behalf of his father. However, that may not do much good. It depends on who is seeking him. Tony Lattimer’s connections reach farther than mine, even up to the First Lord of the Treasury. Mine, alas, do not. Young Lattimer will do best to stay out of sight until his father returns. I can send on a message which may find him—or not. I know he expected to be on the move.”
“Thank you, sir. I will urge Alexander Lattimer to stay out of sight.”
“How soon can I expect delivery of the ‘unwitting accomplice’?”
“Most likely tomorrow night, Sir Howard.”
“Good. Are you aware that Edinburgh is in the rebels’ hands? Except for the garrison in th
e castle, of course.”
“We had not heard that news, sir.”
“We received it only today.”
On leaving Sir Howard’s elegant house, he strode briskly to the Whitehall Stairs as if he had no fear of being followed. While there was a nearer watermen’s plying place, Whitehall was likely to be busy, even at night, given the political situation, insuring a boat would be available. The south side of the river was mostly unfamiliar to him, so he asked the waterman to take him to the nearest stairs opposite the Three Crane Stairs.
“I can’t call to mind the name, but I do remember it was across from Three Crane Stairs, or near, anyway.”
“Ah! That’d be Horseshoe Alley Stairs. “
The fellow kept up a patter of ribald commentary on the way downriver, sometimes addressed to him and sometimes to watermen in other wherries and barges, many of which were bound to Vauxhall Gardens, or returning from there. No doubt any lady passengers covered their ears in horror at the language used. Though anyone who had been on the river at least once should be prepared for it: watermen were famous for taunts and jests bawled back and forth.
At Horseshoe Alley Stairs, Alex paid the man the set fare and added tuppence. Although Southwark was mostly terra incognita to him, London Bridge was not far to the east. He turned at the first street he came to, and found it ended, leaving him a choice of turning toward the Thames or away from it. Choosing the first, he learned that the south side of the river had fewer streets and lanes, and many alleys were not cut through. On the other hand, his roundabout route made it less likely anyone could follow him. When at last he found the road leading to London Bridge, he crossed it and dove into a convenient alley where there appeared to be a number of people coming and going.
It led to the Ship Inn and a maze of narrow passages by which he found his way out to Tooly Street, the last thoroughfare before the bridge. On the other side, he’d find a hackney.
“That went fairly well,” he told Jane on his return.
“You were so late I feared something had gone amiss, Mr. Gordon.”
“It occurred to me to make sure I could not be followed. I crossed the river by wherry, lost myself in Southwark, and came back by the bridge.”
“Will the man you saw help?”
“As much as he can. He’ll take your half brother, who, if he has sense, will testify against Pleasaunce and any other conspirator he knows. If he won’t…”
Jane sighed. “I don’t want my father hurt, which he would be if Rupert were brought to trial and transported or worse. Rupert is self-centered and foolish—and often perfectly exasperating—but he is my part of my family. Yet it seems wrong to hope he will betray Charles Pleasaunce, who has been his friend since they were little boys.”
“I’m sorry there’s no really satisfactory outcome to be had. We can only trust your half brother will make the most of his opportunity.”
“How and when is he to be turned over?”
“I told Sir Howard we would deliver Stowe. I would rather he not connect Stowe or me with you or this house.”
“Rupert will tell him, I apprehend,” Jane pointed out.
“He may. But I hope he will limit his disclosures to what he knows about Pleasaunce, to spare his parents humiliation.” He was quite sure Rupert Stowe did not give a rap for Jane.
Well after midnight the following night, Jessup helped him lug the inert body of Rupert Stowe out to the waiting cart. The butler’s nostrils were pinched, either in disapproval or at the smell, but he made no comment beyond, “Have a care, sir.” He went back into the house, and Alex heard the bolt slide home.
The wagon rattled along the street. Even the few people they passed paid them no attention. All they saw, if they looked at all, were two men on a night-soil cart laden with the usual barrels. No one would care to get too close. Cox had dropped his assistant off before meeting Gordon and moved his buckets, shovel, and other equipment around, to make room for Stowe, who was now propped up against a barrel in the wagon bed. If anyone did see him, he would be taken for another Tom Turd. Gordon swallowed saliva and wondered how long it had taken Abel Cox to grow accustomed to the smell of the privies he cleaned and whether his wife’s nose had also grown jaded.
They had gone some distance before Abel Cox said, “You was right about the cully. He’s dead drunk. Not a peep or a move he’s made…I reckon he is drunk and not dead? ’Coz if it’s the second, I know a doctor, a ’natomist, he calls himself, what cuts up bodies at St. George’s Hospital who’d take him off our hands and pay us for the favor, too.”
“He’s not dead.”
Cox clucked his tongue. “Ah, well, and if he’s a friend o’ yours, I wouldn’t wish him to be. Wouldn’t wish to be him, neither, when he wakes up, with a bad head, sick as a cat, and smelling of night soil.”
“He brought it on himself by annoying me,” Alex said. “Besides, I put an old sheet down in the wagon. Pull up, Cox. It’s right along here. We’ll take him down the area way and leave him by the door.”
“His cook will be right happy to see him first thing in the morning.” Cox chuckled evilly.
Alex mentally saluted Cuddie’s foresight. Without their visit to that low public house, he would never have made the night-soil man’s acquaintance.
Rupert’s clothes probably stank. So did his own, Alex suspected, glad he’d worn his old travel-and tar-stained suit. He wondered if Mrs. Harrow would let him into the house—probably about the time she came down to start her day’s work—or whether she would make him sluice himself off out in the narrow passage leading to the kitchen door. The suit—and the shirt and shoes as well—were probably fit only for burning. Or burying or dropping in the Thames.
The horse stood patiently while he and Cox manhandled Stowe’s inert body off the wagon—faugh!—and back to the tradesman’s entrance.
“We’ll prop him against the door.”
“Ay.”
They trod briskly back to the street. The nag and wagon were still waiting, as why would they not be? This was a quiet, respectable neighborhood at any time, and at four in the morning no one was stirring. Few men would be returning from late carouses. Besides, even the wildest young gentleman on a spree would not steal a night-soil cart.
“Cox, take the wagon down around the next turning and wait for me there. I’ll only be a moment.”
The night-man darted him a look: wondering if Gordon planned to go back and cut their passenger’s throat, perhaps?
“Don’t get caught,” was all he said before urging the horse to move.
When he was out of sight, Alex ran back down the areaway, pulling a folded, sealed sheet of paper from an inner pocket and a pin, supplied by Jane, from under his collar. It took only a moment to skewer to Stowe’s coat the letter addressed to Sir Howard. Then Alex made for the street and ran light-footed to catch up to Cox.
“I’ll keep in mind not to get crossways of you, Canty,” the man said as Alex climbed up to the seat. “Ah, will you be wanting that sheet you put down in the back?”
“No. It’s an old one anyway, with two or three rents in it.”
“I’ll take it, then. Plenty of wear in it, looks like, and nice quality linen. My wife can darn it. She’ll like it.”
Chapter 31
“Mr.…the new footman has returned,” Mrs. Jennings said when Jane passed the housekeeper’s room on her way to the kitchen early that morning, hoping to find Mr. Gordon.
“Oh, thank you. Did he…was he successful, do you know?”
Mrs. Jennings said primly, “I could not say, mistress. He is down the cellar with a tub of hot water and soap. Mr. Jessup has taken him a change of clothing.” At Jane’s inquiring expression, she added, “There’s not a stitch he was wearing that’s fit for anything but burning.”
“What happened to him? To them, I mean.”
“Perhaps he is telling Jessup, and we will find out later. Mrs. Harrow did not let him linger in the kitchen, you may be sure.” The housekeepe
r thinned her lips. “Mistress Jane, he smelled like a…a necessary house.”
“Oh! No wonder Mrs. Harrow did not want him in the kitchen. We will leave him to his bath and wait to hear how his errand prospered.” If it had. But surely if he had returned with Rupert, Mrs. Harrow would have said so.
Alex emerged from the cellar as Mrs. Harrow was setting out the bread, meat, and tea for breakfast. His close-cropped hair looked damp and when he took his place at the table, Jane detected a rather strong scent of eau de Cologne. He must hope to disguise any lingering aroma of privy. She wanted to ask what had happened, but while Jessup, Mrs. Harrow, and Mrs. Jennings were aware of his nighttime excursion, Molly was not. The less the kitchen maid knew, the better.
He gave her a meaningful look presumably signifying he would give her a more complete account later.
In the housekeeper’s room after breakfast—but with the door ajar for decency—she merely looked at him, with raised eyebrows.
Mr. Gordon’s account of his night’s activities was as good as a novel.
“However did you think of employing a night-soil cart? Such a thing would never have occurred to me.”
“I first thought of hiring a barrow from a street vendor, but I’d met Cox in an alehouse after taking our letter to Cuddie to deliver to Hawthorn Cottage. No one thinks anything of seeing a night-soil wagon in the middle of the night—they only work at night, after all, while a peddler on the street at three in the morning would be hard to explain.”
“What if Rupert woke after you left him and wandered off?”
“Where could he go but here or to your papa? Don’t worry. The brandy and laudanum kept him docile.”
Jane laughed at the understatement. “Mr. Gordon, when you left here, Rupert was laid out like a flounder at the fish market.”
“And so he remained, when I delivered him to Sir Howard’s areaway. There is not a chance he regained sufficient consciousness to move before the kitchen staff opened the door. He drained a pint of brandy laced with laudanum almost at one swallow. And Stowe has no great tolerance for spirits, as I observed earlier.”
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