“Got the lock picked, didn’t you?” Freddie asked as they settled on the steps.
Henry grinned and patted his hat. “Got the tools in the lining. Lock picking was the best thing you ever taught me.”
Delicious smells rose from the rucksack and, for a moment, the fear that was Freddie’s constant companion vanished. His stomach rumbled and his mouth watered in appreciation. “Give it over, little brother.”
The contents of the rucksack were quickly devoured. Pasties, a chunk of cheese, apples and a small stone jug of milk soothed the gnawing ache in Freddie’s stomach. At long last he sat back and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Thanks,” he said. “That did the trick. What’s the news in the world?”
“That duke is back,” Henry said without preamble. “The new one, that is.”
That duke. The two words were enough to coil Freddie’s stomach into knots. “Bradford is back? Where’d you hear that?”
“At Victoria’s.” Henry worked as a waiter and sometimes a croupier at the exclusive gaming club, and overheard all kinds of useful things. “Them at the club are saying he’s probably gonna start looking for a wife, but he’s already got himself a mistress. A widow by the name of Mrs. Emily Martin with a fortune of her own. Not bad to look at neither.”
Sweat gathered on Freddie’s forehead. “What’s else?”
“Word on the street is that the new duke is gonna start asking questions about his pa’s death. Some are already saying it weren’t no suicide, but murder.”
A convulsive shudder shook Freddie and he folded his arms over his chest. “Then that means him that done in the old duke is gonna start looking for me again. Damn, I shoulda left England right after he saw me.”
“Ma’s half-sick with worry about you, Freddie,” Henry told him. “Why don’t you just go tell a magistrate what you saw that night?”
“You think they’re gonna believe me?” Freddie hissed. “’Fore I changed my ways and gave up picking pockets and locks, I spent half my time runnin’ from the law. Roscoe the book seller was the only one who gave me a chance by letting me make special deliveries to the old duke for ’im. He even convinced the law I’d changed. But the killer saw me, Henry. If he’d weighed a stone less, he’d have caught and killed me too.”
“But most folks still believes the old duke killed himself,” Henry argued. “No one thinks you killed him. ’Cept for the killer and Roscoe, no one knows you was even close to the duke’s house that night.”
“Yeah, well I’m still not gonna take the chance in showing my face on the streets,” Freddie said stubbornly. “’Specially if the new duke is back and thinking he can prove his pa was murdered. He’ll get some of his friends—them that calls themselves that Rogues’ Gallery—to help him. If the killer hears what Bradford plans to do, then he’ll start looking for me again.”
“It’s killing Ma that you’re not at home,” Henry wheedled. “Can’t you try and come see her?”
“Not gonna put her, you or the others in danger,” Freddie said. He reached into a trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of dirt-caked coins. “Found these when I was sweeping up a pub floor two days ago,” he said. “Knew you was coming today so I saved ’em for you to give to Ma.”
“She’d want you to buy food for yourself,” Henry said, stowing the money in the paper-lined rim of his hat. “You’re nothing but skin and bones, you are.”
“I’m doing fair,” Freddie insisted. “The coins ain’t much, but they’ll help buy extras for the little ones. You better go now.”
He hugged Henry tightly and waited until he had eased his way down the stairs and out of the house before following him. A quick look up and down the deserted street proved Freddie was alone. After locking the door, he turned up his collar to the April breeze and vanished into the fog and darkness.
* * * * *
“But where are we going?” Emily asked, touching the blindfold. “I’m supposed to be at the dressmaker’s in an hour. We’re going to a party at Jocelyn’s tonight and there’s a ball tomorrow night. I can’t keep wearing Jocelyn’s clothing.”
“If Jocelyn told her modiste you’re my friend, she’ll wait all afternoon,” Anthony said. “Besides, where I’m taking you and what I’m going to show you are every bit as important as a new wardrobe.”
Emily forced her lips into pout. “Isn’t that just like a man. From what Jocelyn tells me, fashion—or lack of it—can make or break a woman’s reputation in the ton.”
“Slow us down, Thomas,” Anthony called.
“Yes, my lord,” the coachman called. “Easy on down, boys,” he told the matched geldings. “Easy on down.”
The rumbling wheels slowed their pace, matching the steady clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves. They stopped and after taking off the blindfold, Anthony said, “Keep your eyes closed until I count to three. One—”
“Anthony Dyson, you are the silliest—”
“Hush. I’m a duke. Two—”
“Man I’ve ever met. Even if you are a duke.”
“Three. Open your eyes and look to the right.”
Deliberately exaggerating her sigh, Emily did as he asked and gasped. A two-story brick house sat on one corner of a square. A pair of crouching lions on two pedestals flanked the steps leading to a stone walkway with barrels of crimson and white tulips sitting on the front steps.
“Anthony, what have you done?” Emily demanded as he helped her to the sidewalk.
“You need a house, so I’ve found you a house. What do you think?”
She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him far enough away from Thomas to keep their conversation private. “I forbid you to buy me house,” she hissed. “I will not have the ton think that you are keeping me.”
He sighed, removed his hat and rubbed his forehead. “Emily, I’ve not bought you the house. I’ve merely arranged for you to try it for a month. The leasing agent was eager to find a renter and agreed to wait for you to come by today with the first month’s rent if you like it. I would suggest, however, letting Davis do it for you until you can hire a man of business. A lady of the ton never handles such matters personally.” Putting on his hat, he winked slyly. “What would people think if you did?”
Her irritation subsiding, she gave her attention to the house and the tree-lined street. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Where are we?”
“Bloomsbury. Not Mayfair, but still quite fashionable. My friend, Amos Quigley—when he’s not staying at the St. Ives—lives in that house there.” Anthony pointed at the house next door. “You will remember Greg Keller telling you that Amos is another member of Rogues’ Gallery.”
“What is ‘Rogues’ Gallery’?”
“A small band of friends dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure.” Anthony wiggled his eyebrows at her. “We can be most naughty.”
“And when do I get to meet Mr. Amos Quigley?” Emily asked. It was good to know a friend of Anthony’s was living nearby.
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
Recalling his other friends, Emily asked, “Do Sir Gregory and Lord Brandon keep rooms at the Saint Ives as well?”
“They do. Phillip did until he married Franny. Let’s go inside.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Another surprise?”
“Something like that,” he said cheerfully as he took her arm and escorted her up the sidewalk and the front steps to the wide porch. Anthony opened the front door and removed his hat. “You may go in, Mrs. Martin. Good morning, everyone.”
A row of people stood waiting in the foyer, their crisp aprons and caps or smart black suits marking them as servants. They bowed and curtsied as Anthony entered and led Emily toward them.
“This is the some of the staff from my father’s house. They’re yours until you can hire your own. I thought having them here would be helpful so you wouldn’t have to rush to find others.” He pointed at a strongly built man who appeared not much older than himself. “Emily, this is Timmons, the Dyson family butler.”
T
immons stepped forward and bowed. “When His Grace proposed we work for you until you can find your own staff, Mrs. Martin, we were delighted.” Behind him came nods and murmured agreements. “I promise you, ma’am, we will provide you with complete satisfaction.”
“Timmons runs a tight ship,” Anthony said. “Everyone here has been employed by my family for at least three years. Even little Sally here, your kitchen maid. She does the dishes and helps keep the kitchen clean, but the last I heard she had been entrusted to cook the potatoes and makes a very fine piecrust, don’t you, Sally?”
A girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”
Anthony pointed at the serene-faced woman next to Timmons. “This is Mrs. Timmons, the housekeeper. Next to her is Ruthann, the first parlor maid, Eliza, the second parlor maid, Joseph, the footman, Harold who will take care of the grounds, Ralph, his assistant, Masie, the tweenie and last but not least Mrs. Jackson, the best cook in London.”
“I’ll be glad to have someone to cook for again other than the staff, Mrs. Martin, and that’s a fact,” Mrs. Jackson declared. “I hope you like simple cooking, ’cause that’s what I’m best at. But if you’ve a mind to entertain, I’ll do you proud.”
“Simple sounds wonderful,” Emily told her. “Thank you all very much.”
Timmons cleared his throat. “My lord, there is one thing. I hope you don’t mind my presumption, but…”
“Timmons, I’ve never known you to beat about the bush,” Anthony said. “Just say it.”
“I brought Zeus with us.”
Anthony’s eyebrows rose. “You did?”
“My lord, I promise you he’ll be no trouble. I’ve taken good care of him while you’ve been away and I do believe he’d grieve himself to death if he were left behind. I’ve…” A rosy pink flooded the butler’s face. “I know it sounds strange, but I’ve grown fond of him, if…if one can be fond of a parrot.”
“A parrot?” Emily asked. “Zeus is a parrot?”
Timmons seemed to be looking at something over Emily’s head. “Yes, ma’am. A macaw, actually.”
Anthony’s bellow of laughter filled the foyer and, cautiously, the staff began to laugh as well.
“Well,” Anthony gasped. “I suppose that will be all right, Timmons. We can’t let Zeus die.”
Relief relaxed Timmons’ worried expression. “Thank you, my lord.”
“And when do I get to meet this beauty of a bird?” Emily asked. “Especially if I’m going to be sharing my house with him.”
“I put him in the sitting room, ma’am,” Timmons said. “It gets plenty of morning sun and he likes that.”
“Then to the sitting room we shall go,” Anthony announced. He led Emily across the foyer and opened a door. The room was small, but cozy and well furnished. Large medieval-themed tapestries hung from each wall and a fire burned in the grate as if Anthony was sure of her acceptance to rent the house. Next to a window overlooking an expanse of yard a large cage hung from a stand. Inside the cage was the biggest bird Emily had ever seen. Covered in blue and gold feathers, it swung back and forth on a wooden perch, seemingly oblivious to his visitors.
“Good heavens,” she said. “That’s Zeus? He’s huge.”
“Hence his name,” Anthony said. “Zeus belonged to my father. To tell the truth, I had completely forgotten about him.”
Emily tucked her hand in the crook of Anthony’s arm. “Have you been to your father’s house since your return?”
“No.” The single word signaled more questions would not be wise.
“I’m sure with Timmons’ help, Zeus and I will become good friends,” Emily said quickly. “And his feathers are such beautiful colors! I’ve never seen a macaw before.”
“Let me show you the rest of the house,” Anthony said, leading her from the room. “The original owner had it built forty years ago. He was a notorious rake who slept with anything wearing a skirt. It’s rumored his poor wife had no clue to his many infidelities, even after he died in flagrante delicto with a woman whose morals—or lack of them—equaled his. The man’s sneakiness knew no bounds.”
“The furniture in the sitting room doesn’t look forty years old,” Emily observed. “Has the house had a more-previous owner?”
“It did. But the man’s fiancée bolted with another just before the wedding and the jilted bridegroom-to-be fled for the safety of a monastery. Or so says Brandon. I don’t know if the former owner’s taste in furniture matches yours, but at least you won’t have to worry about buying any for now. Three of the four bedrooms upstairs are furnished as well. You, of course, will want to have your own things for your room.”
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” Emily asked. “How very kind of you. Does the staff know we—”
Her face heated. It was one thing for Jocelyn to know she and Anthony were lovers, but his servants?
He raised her chin with two fingers. “I told Timmons you were my friend,” he said simply. “And that with your sudden good fortune, you needed someone to help ensure no one unscrupulous would take advantage of your loving nature and generous heart. He will have told the staff the same so there will be no questions asked.”
“You make me sound like saint,” she accused.
“And you’re certainly not that,” he teased. “So, do you want the house or not?”
“Yes.” She adopted a lofty tone. “You may tell Davis to make all the necessary arrangements.”
He kissed her forehead. “I’m glad my lady is pleased. Now, let’s see about getting you to that appointment with your modiste. After all, there’s a dinner tonight at Jocelyn’s and a ball tomorrow night, and you can’t keep wearing her gowns. I’ll have Timmons make arrangements for your bedroom furniture to be delivered.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “We might need to try out that new bed of yours.”
Chapter Ten
“‘At long last, I have found you, Lysander McHeath.’ The apparition floated above the man cowering in the corner. Emitting an exultant cackle, it extended a ghostly arm, blood dripping from its fingers. ‘At long last, the Healy family will have their revenge.’”
“Oh do please stop, Margaret!” Miss Felicity Sykes emitted a hair-raising shriek. “My heart is having such palpitations, I fear I shall faint!”
Emily quickly covered her laugh as Miss Margaret Stanhope put her book in her lap and peered at the girl. “Don’t be frightened, Felicity,” she said gently. “It’s only a story.” She looked at Emily who sat beside her on the loveseat. “Were you frightened, Mrs. Martin?”
“Terribly,” Emily fibbed. “You read with great feeling. So dramatic!”
Jocelyn’s other female guests nodded.
“I’m sorry.” Miss Sykes’ voice trembled. “I could almost see that ghost coming down the passage after poor Lysander McHeath.”
“If it frightens you, then I won’t read any more,” Miss Stanhope promised, putting the book on a nearby table. “I thought since you always seem to know before anyone which books are currently popular, you would have surely read Miss Alexander’s The Curse of the McHeaths.”
Kind and knows how to give praise. Emily made a mental note to add these items to the growing list of Miss Stanford’s qualities for her report to Anthony. Except for her youth—she was only nineteen—she just might well do for him.
“Perhaps Felicity can play the gentlemen in from their port,” Jocelyn suggested. “It’s high time they joined us.”
“What a good idea, Lady Rolfe,” Miss Stanhope said. “Felicity, why don’t you give us that Irish tune about sweethearts you played the other night?”
A relieved Miss Sykes nodded and went to the piano, sat and began to play. The lively melody did the trick because the door soon opened and the men entered. They chose various places around the room to converse with the ladies. Anthony went to speak with Jocelyn and Emily gave her attention to Miss Stanhope.
“You were very kind to Miss Sykes,” she bega
n. “Have you known her long?”
“Since we were little girls,” Miss Stanhope said. “I’d quite forgotten how timid she is unless she’s seated at the keyboard. I wish I played as well.”
“I’m sure your playing is quite fine,” Emily said. “Do you really enjoy gothic novels?”
“Yes, I do,” the younger woman admitted. “It’s rather fun being scared, always wondering when the next thing will happen to the poor, unsuspecting characters. And the authors are often so creative. Have you read Mrs. Millicent Hawthorne’s newest novel, The Mystery of Blackwood Hall?”
“No,” Emily admitted, trying not to smile at the younger woman’s enthusiasm.
“Oh, you should! It’s full of secret hiding places with lost treasure maps and locked rooms filled with ancient relics. Does His Grace like gothic novels?”
“I don’t know.” Trying to imagine Anthony hunched over Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho, Emily laughed. “I shall have to remember to ask him. Or perhaps you can ask him yourself.”
The music ended and Miss Sykes called, “Margaret, do come and play a duet with me.”
“There’s your chance,” Emily murmured.
“I’d be happy to if Lord Bradford will turn pages for us.” Miss Stanhope looked in Anthony’s direction.
“I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure.” Anthony bowed to Jocelyn before crossing to join the younger woman and lead her to the piano. After a brief discussion with Miss Sykes, the music began again.
What a cunning little flirt! By the end of the Season, she’ll have Anthony eating out of her hand! Emily chuckled. Anthony probably thought he was in charge of the courting and would deny that any woman could have him under her thumb.
“May I join you, Mrs. Martin?” Sir Edgar Lennox stood in front of her. He bowed. “Unless someone else has claimed the honor?”
“I’d be delighted,” Emily said, darting a quick glance at Anthony. If he minded Sir Edgar joining her, his expression did not betray it. Indeed, he appeared to be enjoying his employment as a page turner.
But something glimmered in his eyes as his glance met hers, and she recalled the men’s previous meeting at Lady Featherstock’s home. Their conversation this evening so far had been civil, but Anthony’s manner was cool, suggesting meeting with Sir Edgar tonight was not something he had counted on. Emily wondered why Jocelyn—who would have known about Sir Edgar finding the body of Anthony’s father—had invited him. Fortunately, with so many guests in attendance wanting to speak to Anthony, his time with Sir Edgar was brief.
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