“I agree, so I must wed, and quickly.” For Madelina’s sake, Cecilia’s, his own, and his plans to help keep other women from ending up like his mother. For those, he needed the marquess’s money. He would find justice in using the old man’s hoard to aid the downtrodden of London.
“So you must wed.” She pursed her lips, thinking. “Surely there’s someone you’ve noticed? Someone who intrigues you?”
Darington’s daughter, as painted by his letters, flittered through William’s mind. “It wouldn’t matter. The old bastard had Lethbridge draw up a list.”
Cecilia nodded, compassion in her eyes. “Of course he did. Why leave the choice of your wife to you?” She sighed, then cast off her moment of gloom like tossing off a cloak. “Will I see you at breakfast? I finished the latest Walter Scott. We might exchange thoughts on it.”
He shook his head. “I can’t give the appearance of staying here all night. The marquess is suspicious I love my mistress. I’m sure to be followed and the hours I remain reported.”
“Shall we change out the servants and choose a new name again?”
“Likely, but that would necessitate another meeting with Lethbridge. Besides, I’m fond of Chastity. I enjoy the irony.”
“So long as you feel it’s safe.” Her smile brightened. “I was thinking Valentina for next time.”
He shook his head, amused. “You can’t pull off Italian, and there won’t be a next time. The old man will die soon.”
“We can only pray you’re right,” she said fervently.
William rose and bowed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to check the streets.”
“You will be careful, won’t you? You know I enjoy practicing my surgical skills, putting all my study to test, but last time you gave me a worry. That knife would have killed you if it hadn’t hit your rib.”
“But it did hit my rib, and that was nothing but a small scrape. A minor inconvenience. You stitched it up beautifully.”
“Yes, well, I get plenty of practice. Has it occurred to you that you may not be very good at what you’re doing, with how often you’re injured?”
William put his hands to his heart, affecting a hurt expression. “You wound me deeper than any blade.”
Her expression softened. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Yet you never tell me not to go.” He wouldn’t have listened, but he wouldn’t have blamed her.
“I don’t know why you do it, William, but I can tell you must.” Her smile returned. “Besides, I do know you’re quite good. I was only cossetting you. Someone must, and I am your stepmother.”
“And I appreciate it very much, step-mama dearest.”
“When you return, would you like me to yell and scream and rail against you marrying, so the servants can hear?”
“We can do it another time. It’s not worth waiting up for. Will you lock the doors?” It wouldn’t do for a servant to come by and find no one in a compromising position.
She nodded. “Happy hunting.”
Using the adjoining door, he entered her bedroom, ignoring the door to his own. A key unlocked a compartment hidden in the heavy headboard. William slid out a set of common garb, a wide brimmed hat, and the scarf that covered the lower half of his face. After changing attire, he crossed to her dressing table and released the secret drawer beneath it, large enough to hold a knife, pistol and powder. He loaded the pistol and put it through his belt, then slipped the knife into a boot.
A glance showed it was dark now, night coming quickly in the gathering London fog. William doused the candles and opened the doors of the Juliet balcony. A blur in the dark, he climbed onto the railing and jumped upward. He easily caught the edge of the roof and pulled himself up. The marquess’s men watched the house from the street, so he kept low as he ran along the garden-side of the roof. A short five-foot jump carried him to the next roof over, and the next.
The rooftops grew lower and closer together as William made his way into the poorest section of London. From his vantage point above, he patrolled the streets he and his mother had called home for a decade. Good people lived there. People who were doing their best to have peaceful, decent lives and feed their children. They were easy targets for the worst sorts of opportunists, for the bulk of the city couldn’t be bothered to right their misfortunes.
The night seemed peaceful. William was pleased. He would finish his rounds and return to Cecilia. If she was awake, they could discuss Walter Scott’s latest work before he left. He knew she was starved for company, locked in that house nearly alone, with servants she could never fully trust.
He didn’t need to watch over the borough throughout the dark hours. Soon, decent folk would be abed. William had no care for what those who lurked on the streets in the wee hours visited upon each other. They weren’t his concern.
He was returning to Cecilia’s when a furtive movement caught his eye. A woman, worn coat fastened tight and bonnet pulled low, hurried down the street. Her gaze darted, trying to be everywhere. The way she clutched her hands to her chest bespoke of someone in possession of more money than they were accustomed to, and afraid of losing it. William slipped along the rooftops, careful to keep her in sight.
She didn’t see the man until he slithered from an alley into her path. She stopped with a gasp, then made to go around him. He sidestepped into her path.
“Where are you going so late, Miss?” His voice was rough, words slurred.
“To see the doctor. There’s sickness in my house.”
She said it as if it might stop him. William knew better. This man’s type was already dying. William lowered himself from the roof into the shadows behind the man. He dropped the final few feet, silent.
“What’ve you got there?” The would-be robber reached for her clutched hands.
“No. It’s for my girl.” She didn’t yell, likely aware that could attract as much unwanted notice as help.
“Yeah? It’s for my drink now. Give it here.”
William drew his pistol, took two steps, and pressed the weapon to the back of the man’s head. “If she gives you that purse, it will be the last thing you ever put your hands on.”
The woman gasped.
The man whirled and swung at William. He dodged back.
“Why if it isn’t Lord Lefthook, ruining a man’s fun.” The robber drove his fist toward William’s jaw.
William dodged again. “I see my reputation precedes me.”
“Aye, and I know you won’t use that pistol.” The words were accompanied by a wild swing.
William ducked. He stuffed the pistol into his belt. He preferred not to kill. He brought up his fists. “You’re correct. I won’t use it, unless I must.”
“You saying I’m not worth shooting?”
“Probably not. Gun powder isn’t cheap.”
The man dove forward, fists swinging wildly. William ducked under the flailing blows. He came up close enough to smell the man’s rancid breath. He slammed both arms out, throwing the robber’s arms wide. The man staggered back. William cocked his arm. A single blow sent the man flying. He landed on his back and skidded across the cobblestones toward the woman. She stepped aside as the limp form slid until the man’s head checked up against the rough stone of a building.
Wide eyes turned to William. “Lord Lefthook?” she whispered.
“At your service.” William moved to stand before her. He bowed. “You’re walking the streets rather late, Miss.”
“Missus,” she said quickly. “Missus Banke. I know, my lord, but my daughter is sick. I can’t go in the day on account of I had to work, and I had to try to feed her before I could come out.”
He doubted she’d fed herself. “The doctor won’t be in at this time of night.”
She looked about, forlorn. She was frail, and young. “I thought an extra penny might wake him.”
William knew the old charlatan, who claimed to be a doctor. A penny might wake him, but he would do her child no good. “You’ve been ski
pping meals to save?”
Her eyes grew rounder. She gave a shaky nod.
“I take it there’s no Mister Banke?” Beside them, the robber groaned. Eyes still on the woman, William kicked him in the ribs.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“A guess.” Her story was a common one. Men died, they deserted their families, they went to war and didn’t return. They beat their eldest son to death for fearing horses, causing a mother to run off with her remaining child and be declared a mad murderess. It was the dark side of life. If Mrs. Banke had a husband, she wouldn’t be so thin, or made to walk the streets at night because missing a day of work would mean no food for her daughter. His mother had lived like this for years to keep him from the marquess.
William handed her a card. It was monogramed with Lord Lefthook’s initials. “Take this to the doctor on Amber Street. He will help you. He may need to return with you to examine your daughter. It’s safe to let him.”
Her hand shook as she took the card. “I can’t pay him. He’s too fine.”
He wasn’t fine by London standards, but William knew him to be honest and good at his craft. They had an ongoing association, and a shared desire to alleviate the suffering in their city. “He’ll accept that card in payment. He’ll also have some coin for you, so you are to go during the day. He won’t be open at night,” he added, in case she thought to risk herself again and keep the extra coin.
“Thank you, my lord,” she stammered. “I never thought to see you with my own eyes. I wasn’t sure you were real.”
“You can best thank me by not putting yourself in such danger again. I am not everywhere.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You can see yourself home?”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” She bobbed an awkward curtsy and hurried back the way she’d come.
William nudged the would-be robber with his foot. The man groaned. William dropped a couple coins on his chest as his eyes opened. “You look like you could use a drink, friend,” he said, before disappearing into the darkness to make sure Mrs. Banke got home.
Chapter Four
Lanora took in the dwindling line with satisfaction. After three days in the small building on the back of the church, she’d finally handed out enough bread that people had better activities for their time than waiting for it. Sadly, in a few more days they would be willing to line up again, but for now they and their families were fed. She wished she could offer meat as well, but it wasn’t practical to distribute.
Perhaps meat pies, she mused. Grace would know what was best. Lanora should likewise look into procuring fruit. As she handed out the last few loaves of bread, she pictured the look on Grace’s face at the suggestion of a trip to the wharfs to bargain for fruit.
“No thank you, Missus,” the woman standing before her said.
Lanora blinked. “You don’t want bread?”
The woman, not much older than Lanora and too frail to be turning down food, shook her head. “I was wanting to ask a favor of you, Missus.” She leaned close. “In private.”
Lanora looked down the line. “Well, I’ve only a few dozen more loaves, and I count about twenty people in line. If you take some to the end of the line, I’ll be free to speak with you sooner.”
The woman nodded. Clean enough hands scooped up an armful of loaves. She scuttled away as Lanora resumed passing out bread. The murmurs and suspicious looks ended as soon as the young woman began handing out what she carried.
By the time the line was gone, Lanora had only four loaves remaining. Those she took outside, where she knew urchins lurked. They were too afraid to enter, as parentless children were often rounded up and put into orphanages. Hungry eyes watched her lay the loaves on the bottom step and walk away, gesturing for the woman to follow. Trying to nourish the urchins was like feeding feral cats. They suspected every kindness of being a trap.
The woman fell in stride with her as they passed from the churchyard to the narrow street, her gaze shifted past Lanora’s shoulder. “Them boys belong in an orphanage, or a workhouse.”
“That’s hardly my trouble,” Lanora said. “I aim only to give them a respite from hunger.”
The woman chewed on her lip. “Where are we going?”
“I’m going to visit the foreman in charge of the new home for women, Mr. Finch. May I assume speaking while we walk is private enough?” The woman seemed harmless, but Lanora wasn’t about to go off alone with her. She wasn’t the fool Grace worried she was.
“Are they really building a place for women whose menfolk have abandoned them and their babes?” The woman sounded wistful.
“They are.” At least, if Lanora had any say, they were. “Progress should never have stopped. Is that what you wished to speak with me about, Miss?”
“Missus Banke. I’m a widow, like you, Missus.”
Lanora smoothed her dull grey skirt. She could play a role, but wasn’t an accomplished dissembler. She found it best to bring a falsehood into being quickly and let rumor carry it through. If she had to lie to the face of each person, she wouldn’t succeed in her ruse. “And do you have children, Mrs. Banke?”
“A daughter. It’s somewhat on account of her I need the favor.”
Lanora wished she’d saved some of the bread. The woman would ask for money now, for her sick child, who may or may not exist. Likely, Mrs. Banke thought turning down the bread would make her plea seem more honest, but Lanora never dispensed coin. Only food, lessons or work that might be done to earn money.
She stopped and motioned for Mrs. Banke to step to the side of the roughly cobbled street, where they could speak without blocking passing traffic. “I don’t have any coin. I will return with more food in a few days.” The woman hardly had enough meat on her to last a few days, but Lanora hadn’t forced her to give up her loaf.
Mrs. Banke shook her head. “I’m not asking for a handout, Missus.” She sounded offended. “I need a favor.”
Lanora looked down to hide her surprise, suitably chastened. “What favor?”
“They say you can write, and read and all.”
“I can.”
“I got a story about Lord Lefthook for the paper. They pay for stories.”
Lanora’s brows shot up. “You met Lord Lefthook?”
The woman smiled, her head bobbing up and down in confirmation. “I did, and I want to sell my story to them papers, but I know better than to go there.” Her words bubbled out. “The boys, like the ones you left the bread for, they watch the papers. Anyone sees me in there, they’ll know I got paid. They’ll rob me. You’re always here helping people. I want you to get my money for me and no one the wiser.”
“So, you want me to take down your story and deliver it to the paper, then bring back your payment?” Lanora didn’t know if she was more amused or surprised. “Perhaps I could simply remember it for you?”
“You’ll do it, then?” Her eyes darted about again, but the few passers-by seemed disinterested. “I don’t know anyone else I can ask, you see, who won’t take any, or spread my name.”
What a sad thing that said about this woman’s life. “You trust me so much, when we’ve never met before?”
The woman looked her up and down. “You bring all that food, and you’re finer than you pretend. I can hear it when you talk. You won’t be tempted by what the papers’ll pay me.”
Lanora frowned. Perhaps Grace was right. Mrs. Smith might not be the foolproof costume Lanora thought. “Did you really meet Lord Lefthook? Do you have proof?”
The woman pulled out a card and extended it to Lanora. It was a fine make. A gentleman’s card. On it were Lord Lefthook’s initials. She turned it over, but found nothing.
“You can take that to the papers as proof,” Mrs. Banke said. “They seen those before.”
“You don’t need it?” Lanora ran her fingers over the monogram.
“I already shown it to the doctor. He knows me now.”
Lanora tucked the card away. “
Doctor?”
Mrs. Banke’s head bobbed again. “I was on my way to see a doctor, for my girl, when some fellow who weren’t no gentleman tried to take the coin I’d saved for the medicine. Lord Lefthook appears, and he lays the fellow out with one swing.”
To Lanora’s amusement, Mrs. Banke mimicked a punch, much as Grace had.
“But that’s not all.” Mrs. Banke lowered her voice. “He gave me that card and said I was to go to another doctor, one what’s much finer than I could ever afford, and Lord Lefthook has it all paid for, the visits and the medicine.” Her voice dropped to the barest whisper. “And the doctor gave me money so as I don’t have to work this week, so I can care for my girl.”
Lanora stared at Mrs. Banke. Lord Lefthook sounded too good to be true. “And they didn’t ask for anything, Lord Lefthook or the doctor?”
Mrs. Banke shook her head vigorously. “Not a thing, and Doctor Carter gave me tonic for my girl. She doesn’t like how it tastes, she says, but she’s doing better already.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” Lanora said. “So, you would like me to trade your story to the Times for coin?”
“It would be a help to me, Missus, but don’t give them my name or nothing.”
“Certainly not.”
“And don’t give them the whole story till they pay. Those writers can be sneaky, I hear. Learning to write does that to a brain, makes it cunning.” She cast Lanora a startled look. “Meaning no offense, Missus.”
“I took none.” Lanora frowned. “If the boys watch the papers, as you said, and would rob you, won’t I endanger myself by going in and then returning here?”
Mrs. Banke chuckled. “Nah. No one would lay a finger on you, Missus. Half the borough would stone them on account of you bring us food. The other half would because robbing a gentlewoman will bring the Runners. No one wants that kind of trouble round here.”
Lanora nodded. Though she was mostly convinced, she would send Grace, who never set foot in the shadier parts of London. That should be safe enough for all concerned and Grace would be overjoyed to go to the Times with another story of how valiant Lefthook was. “I’ll bring the money when I hand out bread, but if I don’t see you, I’ll leave it with the doctor. You said his name is Carter?” She would also attempt to learn more about Lord Lefthook, who obviously associated with the man.
The Archaeologist's Daughter (Regency Rendezvous Book 3) Page 3