by Corwin, Amy
“Two of us can search more quickly,” Cheery said. “In the meantime, Mr. Archer, you might wish to get those funds together.”
“It will not be done quickly, no matter how much anyone begs,” Archer replied. “The bastard wants a fifty thousand pounds. That is nearly her entire fortune. Her estates will have to be sold and her investments in the funds liquidated. It will take time.”
“Then start on it. I will liquidate some of my own investments,” Nathaniel said.
That was a hefty ransom. His own money was tied up mostly in land with an additional thirty percent of his wealth invested in the funds and various other vehicles. He wasn’t sure he could cover more than sixty or seventy percent of the ransom with easily convertible, unentailed assets.
However, if he did not supply at least a portion, Charlotte would be reduced to a pauper. She would never have enough to travel to Egypt.
Rage seethed inside him. He tamped it down, molding the emotion into something far colder and more deadly.
“I will take the east end. Bethnal Green for starters and then Whitechapel,” Nathaniel stated in a hard voice. The kidnappers were sure to be poor and most likely hiding their victim in one of the slums. One of them had not been able to read, or they’d never have gotten Charlotte’s note.
They were uneducated. Impoverished. “You take the west.” He glanced at Cheery.
Gaunt nodded, although his black eyes glinted with sardonic amusement at being elected the one to investigate Society’s most exclusive homes in Mayfair and Charing Cross, while a duke visited the slums to the east.
“We are wasting time. Let us start before anything else happens,” Nathaniel said, striding out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A detective officer should possess intelligence, tact, and good common sense, the faculty of obtaining information from others, and at the same time keeping his own counsel and opinions. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
Red showed up again the afternoon, shortly after one PM. He brought a small slate with him. Charlotte glanced at the slate and tossed it on the bed. It was far too tiny for practical use.
She got down on her hands and knees and wrote out the alphabet and parts of words like “th.” They had the entire rough, wooden floor to use as their slate.
“I will never learn,” Red groused, staring down at the letters Charlotte had chalked on the wooden floor.
She stared at her handiwork, frowning. “You will learn. We simply have to find the best method.” She sat on the floor again and started drawing swift little pictures next to each letter. An apple next to “A,” a bumblebee next to “B,” a whiskered cat head next to “C,” and so on.
When she finished, she stood back up and dusted off her hands and knees. She pulled a splinter out of her palm and sucked on the sore spot.
“Now,” she said. “I have drawn pictures of things that start with the letters next to them. Let us try again.”
This time, Red caught on more swiftly, much more quickly than she anticipated. She began to think she had been mistaken about his intelligence. She studied his broad back as he bent over, pointing to each letter and calling it out.
His shambling gait, coarse clothing, and round, scarred face made him appear like an overgrown child.
However, he had certainly managed to keep her away from his partner. He’d kept her safe.
When he made it through the alphabet, he turned to her with a smile stretched across his broad face. “That be it, then?”
“Not quite,” Charlotte replied. “Now, I want you to sit here with your back to the letters I have drawn on the floor. Take this slate.” She handed it to him. “You are going to write out the letters.”
“But what if I don’t remember all of them?”
“I will call them out. You simply write them, precisely the way I wrote them on the floor. Are you ready?”
This process was a little slower, and there were several letters he couldn’t remember how to form. His writing scrawled across the slate, and there was with barely room for more than three or four characters before he had to wipe it clean.
After managing to scratch out the entire alphabet, Charlotte made the bold move of taking the slate away from him. “You will have practice every day. As long as I am here, you may join me.”
“I mayn’t come up every afternoon. Today’s me free time.”
“You are employed?” she asked belatedly remembering he had already mentioned being a stable lad.
He snorted. “Of course I be employed. I have got a regular job—right good, too.”
“Then why did you resort to kidnapping me? I thought—”
“It is that Rose. I told you, she will not marry me unless I can read and better meself. I have saved up nearly five hundred pounds, but it is not near enough.” He rubbed the back of his neck with thick fingers. “I have done a few odd jobs on the shady side in the past, they pays rather well, ye see. So I picks up what I can to put aside a bit more.”
“Surely five hundred pounds is enough to marry?”
“Mayhap, but I have me eye on a tavern by Badger’s Mount. The Spotted Badger, it is called. Me third cousin once removed is expecting to retire. He wants to sell out. If I could get me hands on the rest of the price, I would buy it right quick. Then Miss Rose would sees as how I have lots of ambition to better myself.”
Charlotte smiled. Red was a kind, personable man and would do very well in such a situation. She could imagine him being extremely effective in dealing with any inebriated or overly-excited patrons, and clever Rose would ensure they were not cheated. It was the ideal situation for the pair.
“So you agreed to kidnap me to get the ransom?”
“Aye. I am to get a thousand pounds. Enough for the down payment, at any rate, and then some.”
“A thousand?”
He nodded.
Anger quickened her blood. She was fairly sure his partner was demanding for far, far more than a few thousand pounds.
Of course, it was none of her concern. She supposed she ought not to be too distressed that Red was not getting as much of her fortune as he should. However, it was one more annoyance out of the hundreds plaguing her. She’d rather Red get it all than the gentleman who had undoubtedly planned her kidnapping.
She rather liked the big oaf. He’d been gentle and kind to her. He’d been the big brother she had never had. Or the overgrown child she would never bear.
“Tell me about yourself?” she asked, not wanting to be left alone to dwell on Miss Mooreland and all the difficulties growing outsides the confines of the attic.
He eyed her for a moment, and then shrugged. “I suppose it will not hurt. I started life as a farmer. When I was well growed, me Dad said I was a fine, brawny lad and got me apprenticed to a prize fighter. Won a few bouts, but me manager got himself killed, so I took on other employment. Now I work in the stables and do odd jobs and the like.”
“I see, well, never mind,” she said at last. Red had obviously never had much of a chance to develop anything other than brutish muscle. “Something will work out and you shall have both your tavern and Miss Rose. Right now, however, you must buckle down and learn to read.”
He nodded warily. “What if I cannot remember me alphabet?”
“Don’t worry.” She laughed bitterly. “By the time I am released, you will remember it quite well.”
****
After facing the sullen, hostile silence of the inhabitants in the east end of London, Nathaniel galloped home, raging with frustration.
“Carter!” he called to his butler as he flung his cape and hat onto a chair. “Tell Michael to bring an old set of his clothes to my room. The older, the better. And saddle that damn nag the cook’s boy uses for errands.”
“You wish us to place your saddle on that boy’s animal?” Carter asked, his brows rising in disbelief.
“Not my saddle, you dunderhead, whatever worn out piece of leather the boy uses. And be quick about it!”
“Yes,
sir,” Carter replied. He stared down his long nose at his employer with his eyelids half closed in disapproval.
Nathaniel ignored him and raced up the stairs two at a time.
Michael joined him a few minutes later with a ratty brown jacket, coarse breeches that once might have been dark green, and a dingy gray shirt. Whistling, he threw the garments on the bed and watched his employer strip off his natty fawn breeches and deep blue riding jacket.
“Going in for a bit o’sport, are ye?” Michael asked.
“No, I am not!” Nathaniel replied curtly.
“Your Grace, begging your pardon, but I could not help but notice you seem unlike yourself.”
Nathaniel snarled at him while buttoning the snug breeches. “Boots! I need the scruffiest pair you have.”
“Here,” Michael thrust a set of worn brown boots into Nathaniel’s hand. “Now, Your Grace, if you don’t mind, I believe I ought to ride along with you, seeing as how you intend to pass yourself off as a commoner.”
“Absolutely not!”
“As soon as you open your pie hole they will know you for what you are.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
Michael laughed. “You talk like a lord. You cannot help it, Your Grace. Let me help.”
“Bored, are you?” Nathaniel studied his servant’s grinning face. “All right, but I will not wait.” He grabbed up the jacket and shrugged into it, wincing at the sound of the back seam ripping to accommodate his shoulders.
The two men bounded down the stairs. Nathaniel was relieved to find two broken down old nags in front. No one would recognize him as a duke riding one of those animals. The horses’ sagging backs were covered with contraptions that had been worn out when the first Henry was King of England.
Perfect.
“Where are we off to, then, Your Grace?” Michael asked as they tried to get their horses to move down the street.
The horses resisted. Nathaniel’s tried to lie down in the gutter, but he managed to get her under control before she rolled over on him. They finally clopped forward at such a slow pace the beggars began jeering and shouting for them to move on before their mounts sprouted grass.
“Whitechapel and Bethnal Green for starters,” Nathaniel said, kicking his nag to canter briefly before she slowed again into a sort of lolling walk.
“Lor’, Your Grace, you don’t think she is there?”
Nathaniel shot him a quick glance. “Who?”
“Why, your lady, Your Grace,” Michael answered innocently. “Who else would we be looking for?”
“My uncle’s ward.” Nathaniel ground his teeth until his jaw muscles ached. “And if you want to continue as my groom, I suggest you remember it.”
“Is that not what I said, Your Grace? Your lady,” Michael replied before commencing to whistle a few bars of some bawdy tune, neatly cutting off Nathaniel’s reply.
* * * * *
Gaunt strode through the fashionable west end of London, stopping occasionally to converse with old acquaintances. In his experience, servants, shop keepers, laborers, and the indigent were much more reliable sources of information than the bon ton who lived in the fashionable homes lining the streets. It was also much less time-consuming to press a shilling into a grubby hand and simply listen as information poured forth, than to loll about an entry-way awaiting an interview with the rich, and therefore busy, inhabitants.
As the kidnapped heiress had astutely guessed when she added the description of the scruffy, white three-legged dog, there were not very many animals matching the description, particularly not in combination with a red-haired giant. Mr. Archer, himself, had mentioned a dog that fit the description and although it seemed farfetched, Gaunt factored Archer’s information into his search.
Idle questioning gradually narrowed the chase down to a prosperous street, Park Lane, which overlooked the lush greensward of Hyde Park. Several shopkeepers agreed that a red-haired lad of outlandish proportions was seen in the neighborhood regularly and assumed to have employment in one of the stately homes. A few even ventured to offer a specific address, which confirmed what Archer had told him.
In late afternoon, Gaunt stopped to survey one of the smaller but still modish houses: one with which he was already familiar. He leaned against a hitching post, watching servants moving industriously through their chores until a young lass came to fill a bucket with water from the well. She could barely carry the container and the contents slopped over her grubby apron. Gaunt stepped up and gently took it from her.
“Here, let me carry this for you,” he offered.
She wiped her nose with her wrist. “Nay, sir, I ‘ave got it.” She tried to wrest it away from him, but he moved ahead of her toward the kitchen door.
“Nonsense. We are almost inside.”
“Well, thank you, then,” she replied glumly. As soon as they were inside, she grabbed it away from him, slopping water on the flagstone floor.
“There, Sally! Watch what you are about!” the cook called, pausing when she saw him. “Who are you?”
“Mr. Knighton Gaunt, Madam,” he replied, taking off his hat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just offering a hand to Miss Sally.”
“Go on with you, Sally!” The cook pushed the girl onward to a basin full of dirty dishes. The girl poured the water into the sink and began scouring a brass pot with a fistful of sand while her pale gray eyes strayed back to Gaunt.
“Well, sir, and what do you want?” the cook reminded him of her previous unanswered question.
Gaunt grinned. “I have been looking at the houses hereabouts and find you often obtain the best information about them from the staff. Don’t you agree?”
The cook’s bloodshot hazel eyes took in his immaculate clothing. He lounged against the door frame, glad he had worn no ornamentation, just his black vest, jacket and trousers. They were well cut enough to pass muster, but not so rich as to cause concern. She grunted and waited for him to continue.
“Have you had any problems with rats, hereabouts?” Gaunt asked.
“No, sir, we have not!”
“Burglars? Unusual noises at night?”
“No! And what do you mean, burglars? If you are thinking you can get information from me to rob us, you are sadly mistaken and can just be off!”
“Certainly, not. I am simply trying to determine if this area is as safe and comfortable as it appears.” He studied the cook’s hostile face. “It is quiet at night, then?”
“Yes.”
The girl scrubbing the pots giggled. “Except for the spectre!”
“There ain’t no ghost, Sally, now button your pie hole and get back to work.”
“Ghosts?” Gaunt eyed the maid. “Surely there are not any spirits here?”
The scullery maid nodded vigorously, although she didn’t reply.
The cook eyed him. “You interested in ghosts, then?”
“Oh, yes. I have made something of a study of them. I am surprised to learn you have one here. Have you actually seen it?”
“That I ‘ave,” the cook replied with a certain air of self-importance. She picked up a pot of boiling water and rinsed an old white china pot out before spooning in some once-used tea leaves. “You fancy a cuppa?”
“That would be a treat,” Gaunt agreed, moving toward the table set in the center of the flagstone floor.
“Sit down,” the cook ordered, pulling out cups, saucers and a plate containing a few Sally Lunn buns. “Help yourself.”
Gaunt took one and held out his cup while she poured. “I am afraid I did not catch your name?”
“Mrs. White,” she replied, taking a seat opposite him. Her chair creaked ominously under her weight, and she sat rigidly for a moment until the noises ceased. Then she sighed and relaxed, pouring a cup for herself. “And you, sir, so you are interested in them poor, incorporeal spirits are you?”
“Oh, yes. Very.”
“I ‘ave seen ‘em in many houses both in Lond
on and in Surrey where I grew up, why I could tell you stories as would make your hair go white….” she said before pausing to sip her tea and staring at the scones thoughtfully.
“Indeed, but I am most interested in recent stories. In fact, are there any ghosts in this house, for example?”
The cook nodded. “There is a story of a poor girl who fell in love with a suitor forbidden to her by her cruel parents. The lad came from a decent family, but ‘ad no title, you see, so he was not good enough for their little lambkins.”
He nodded. The story was as old as London itself. “What happened to them?”
“Oh, they locked the poor girl up in the attic where she stayed for weeks until one day her maid came with her tea and found the poor girl dead on the floor. Died of a broken heart, she did.”
“And she haunts the house? This house?”
“Yes, poor thing. You ‘ear her walking back-and-forth, back-and-forth, all night, waiting for her lover to rescue her.” The cook stared at Gaunt for a moment as if gauging his reaction. “And of course, the lad will never come for he ran off with another lady, as lads will do.”
“Have you heard her?”
The scullery maid giggled. “Deaf as a post.”
“I am not deaf! I ‘eard that did I not?” the cook said, half rising. Then she shook her head. “Not from my room, sir, I’m ‘appy to say. I ‘ave never ‘eard her.”
“I ‘ave,” the scullery said.
“You have?” Gaunt turned around in his chair, hooking his arm over the back. “When?”
“Why, I ‘eard her yesterday, or last evening.”
“You never ‘eard her!” the cook accused the girl. “Quit your lies and get back to work.”
“I am not lying,” the girl replied hotly.
“How could you ‘ear her? When did you ever go to the attic?”
“You don’t ‘ave to go to the attic, if you want to know. You remembers that Mrs. May asked me to carry some old bits of luggage up to the storage room on the fourth floor. Right near the attic door! Well, I never got a chance until late yesterday, after it was already getting dark. Right shivery it were, too, with shadows filling the spaces.” She stopped when the cook snorted. “It were shivery! And anyway, I piled the cases where she ordered, and that is when I ‘eard her—the specter. Walking to and fro up there, pacing in the darkness. I ran all the way back here, afeared for my very soul!”