In Debt To The Earl

She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, sir. There is no one—’ Her mind cleared and her stomach chilled at her near mistake, at the cold eyes that raked her. ‘That is, he’s not here.’ She clutched the polishing rag to steady the sudden trembling of her hands. Hensleigh, not Armitage. Papa had drummed it into her years ago not to use their real name. Ever. The name he used changed periodically, but it had been Hensleigh for weeks now. Before that it had been Hammersley and before that...well, something else starting with H. According to Shakespeare, a rose would smell as sweet by any other name, but she thought the rose might find it confusing to be renamed every few months.

Cold eyes narrowed and her pulse beat erratically. His voice, lethally soft, curled through her. ‘Of course a rose by any other name may smell as sweet.’ She flinched. Was the man a sorcerer? ‘Although I’m sure it does become confusing.’

She bit her lip. Neither confirm, nor deny. Explanations are dangerous. There was only one reason such a man would be looking for her father. How much this time? A question that was none of her business even to think, let alone voice.

‘He isn’t here, I’m afraid. Please move your foot.’ She wished she hadn’t used that word, afraid. It nudged too close to the truth.

The visitor cocked his head to one side. ‘And when do you expect his return?’

His foot didn’t move. Lucy forced breath into her lungs. A cold knot, not entirely composed of hunger, twisted in her belly. ‘I... I don’t know.’ And for the first time in a very long while she wished that her father were about to walk through the door. This man had every nerve prickling the way he looked at her...as though he didn’t believe her.

‘I’ll wait.’

Let the wolf over the threshold? Alarm bells clashed.

‘No. He’s—’

Powerful hands seized her shoulders, lifting and dumping her out on the landing. Her breath caught and her senses whirled in panic, as he stalked into the apartment. For a moment she considered leaving him to it and racing downstairs to the relative safety of Mrs Beattie’s kitchen. Coward! Find your backbone, for God’s sake! He’d dumped her out here like yesterday’s rubbish! Anger drove out the fear and common sense flooded back. A man with designs on her wouldn’t have pushed her out on the landing. Ergo, she was safe. Gritting her teeth, she went after him.

‘How dare you! I don’t care who you are! Get out!’

His glance flicked over the room and back to her. ‘How do you propose to make me?’ he asked, as if he really wanted to know.

She had no idea how, but— ‘This is my home!’ she retorted. ‘I have every right to ask you to leave!’ As homes went it was pathetic, but that didn’t mean she had to accept this...this thug’s presence in it.

Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. ‘Your home, madam? Not much to defend, is it? Or are you defending Hensleigh? Or is it Hammersley this week? Where is he?’

She had spent the morning dusting and polishing. The floor was clean. Every stick of furniture gleamed. And she had never been so bitterly aware of the rickety table and chairs, the chipped looking glass over the fireplace, the bare floorboards or the threadbare curtain hiding the corner where she slept, as that scornful gaze raked the room.

‘I already told you, I don’t know!’ That he knew the last name they had used sent a chill slithering down her spine.

‘So you did,’ he said. ‘Are you going to invite me to sit down?’

‘No.’

He shrugged and sat down anyway on the battered chair by the cold, empty grate. There hadn’t been a fire in it for weeks. There was barely enough money for food, let alone luxuries.

She dragged in breath and let it go again. There was nothing she could do to shift him and she refused to rail at him like a Billingsgate fishwife. She stuffed her fury behind a solid door and slammed it shut.

‘You will excuse me if I continue my work,’ she said calmly and swiped her polishing rag back into the open jar of beeswax on the table. She could not afford more, but despite that she started all over again in the corner furthest from the fireplace, taking her time, hoping he would get bored and leave if she ignored him.

Unfortunately he didn’t ignore her.

That grey, assessing gaze remained on her as she re-polished the table with painstaking thoroughness.

‘I must say I envy Hensleigh,’ murmured her unwelcome guest after a few moments. She stiffened, but continued polishing so that the table wobbled noisily. ‘Lucky fellow,’ he went on, ‘having a wench willing to clean his lodgings twice in one morning and warm his bed.’

Everything inside her stopped as well as the polishing rag. And the temper her grandparents had tried so hard to curb slipped its leash. Slowly she straightened and faced him, the dusting rag clenched in her fist. ‘Wench?’ She restrained the urge to throw the rag in his face.

His brows rose. ‘A poor choice of words,’ he said. ‘You’re certainly a cut above wench-dom, even if your taste in men is execrable. You could do better than Hensleigh or whatever his name is this week.’

‘Really?’ Rage slammed through her, but she kept her voice dulcet. ‘You, for example?’

He smiled, reminding her of the wolf down at the Royal Exchange. ‘If you like. If you tell me where he is.’

‘They say it’s a wise child who knows its own father,’ she said, her stomach twisting. ‘It would be an interesting set of circumstances that permitted her to choose him.’

James wondered if he’d been hit on the head with a brick as the implications slammed into him. No one had suggested that the woman in Hensleigh’s lodgings was his daughter! He had assumed...

‘But,’ the impossible girl continued, ‘if you are prepared to acknowledge me as your natural daughter I’ll be very happy to have it so. Although...’ she looked him up and down in a way he found oddly unnerving ‘...you must have been a rather precocious child.’

James collected his scattered wits and found his tongue. ‘You’re his daughter, not his—’ He stopped there. If she was Hensleigh’s daughter—

‘Correct.’ The chill in her voice would have shaken an iceberg.

‘Do you expect an apology, Miss... Hensleigh?’ Hell’s teeth! Men did have daughters, even Hensleigh could have one. But—

She stared at him. ‘What? Do I look stupid?’

He took a careful breath. Delicate features, and the small fist gripping the polishing rag as though she’d like to shove it down his throat was gracefully formed, if grubby. She looked furious, not stupid. And her voice was well bred, even if it had an edge on it fit to flay a rhinoceros, and there was something about the way she held herself, and that damn polishing rag—an air of dignity. He’d meant it when he said that she could do better than Hensleigh. She was not a beauty, not in the strictest sense of the word, but—those eyes blazed, and the mouth was soft and lush—or it would be if it weren’t flat with anger. Damn it! There ought to be nothing remotely appealing about her! She was a redhead with the ghosts of last summer’s freckles dancing over her nose, the whole shabby room smelt of furniture polish, and the truth was that he didn’t want to believe that she could be Hensleigh’s mistress. Which was ridiculous. It didn’t matter a damn if she was Hensleigh’s mistress or not. Or did it? Stealing a man’s mistress was one thing, seducing his daughter quite another. And selling Hensleigh’s vowels if it might condemn this girl to an even worse situation was yet another thing.

His gaze fell on a narrow door on the other side of the room. Had he been so intent on the girl he’d nearly missed that? Without a word he rose and strode across, shoved it open and looked in.

‘He’s not here!’ The girl’s voice was furious now. No fear, just raw fury. He had to admire that.

A neatly made bed, washstand and small chest were the only furnishings. He closed the door and turned back to the girl.

‘Are you satisfied now?’ she demanded. ‘Or would you like to look under the bed?’

‘One bed, ma’am?’ he asked. ‘And where do you sleep?’ Talk about stupid! He’d damn near believed her!

Her eyes spat green fire in an absolutely white face. She stormed across the room. ‘It’s none of your business, but—’ Reaching the far corner he’d assumed held a chamber pot, she flung back the curtain across it.

His shocked gaze took in a thin, narrow pallet on the floor, covered with a totally inadequate blanket. A folded nightgown lay on top of the blanket and with it what looked like a violin case.

It convinced him as nothing else could have. Any man with this girl for a mistress would have her warming his bed, not shivering there in the corner.

‘You sleep there?’ It was all he could find to say. What sort of man let his daughter sleep in a draughty corner on a pallet that would scarcely do for an unwanted dog, while he took the relatively comfortable bed?

She jerked the curtain back into place. ‘As you see.’ Her cheeks were crimson. ‘I don’t care what you think of me,’ she went on, ‘and I doubt you care what I think of you, but you have forced your way into my home, insulted me in every conceivable way—I would prefer it if you left. I will tell my father you called.’

‘But you won’t tell me where he is.’ Why would she? The man is her father, for God’s sake. Even if he doesn’t look after her.

‘I don’t know where he is.’

He cocked his head. There was something there in her voice. Fear?

‘Would you tell me if you did know?’ he asked gently.

‘He owes you money, doesn’t he?’

He stiffened. No, she wasn’t stupid. But neither was he. If he told her the truth, what were the odds that he’d lose his quarry? ‘So quick to assume the worst, Miss Hensleigh?’ he said. ‘The boot might be on the other foot.’

She stared. ‘You owe him money?’

He hesitated only a moment. ‘Is that so surprising?’ It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t said outright that he owed Hensleigh money. His conscience squirmed regardless.

She looked at him uncertainly. ‘I see. Well, I still don’t know where he is or when he will return. But if you leave your name I will let him know that you called.’

And the instant Hensleigh heard his name, he’d bolt again. However, at least he could be fairly sure now that she really didn’t know where her father was. ‘Remington,’ he said. Another half-truth. He quashed his conscience’s mutterings with the reminder that neither she nor her father had seen fit to share their real name, either. Remington was his family name, after all. Unless she described him, hopefully he’d think it had been Nick. No one would view Nick as a threat.

‘Very well, Mr Remington. Good day to you.’

‘You really don’t know where he’s gone?’ James pressed. ‘Your landlady mentioned that she hadn’t seen him for several days.’

Scarlet washed into her cheeks again. ‘No. At least, not exactly. He may be with a...a friend.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘There is a woman he visits, but—’

‘What?’

Her chin went up. ‘A mistress. I thought you knew all about mistresses!’

He cleared his throat. ‘I know what a mistress is for!’ It was the concept of a father who didn’t keep that sort of knowledge from his daughter that startled him. And the concept of a daughter who didn’t pretend ignorance of such things. Although he supposed under the circumstances that would rank with stupidity.

‘Quite.’ Her voice spat scorn. ‘I don’t know her name, or where she lives. If you knew he wasn’t here, why bother coming up?’

She was quick enough, he’d grant her that. ‘Because your landlady might be mistaken, or you might have known where he was.’ He rose. ‘I’ll call again, Miss Hensleigh.’

There was no point staying any longer. He had as much information as he was going to get on this visit.

* * *

James reached the bottom of the stairs without falling through them. The stench of cabbage and fish had gained ground while he’d been upstairs. Or perhaps it was the contrast with the beeswax. Plain beeswax. Mama had always insisted on a touch of lemon in the furniture polish...his grandmother had favoured lavender.

There was no reason, logical or otherwise, why a girl wielding a beeswax-scented polishing rag should interfere with his plans to destroy Hensleigh. He was not responsible for the fate of Hensleigh or his daughter.

He stepped out into Frenchman’s Yard. A shabbily dressed man snored fitfully in a doorway, an empty bottle beside him, while several ragged boys played some sort of game with pebbles. One of them eyed him hopefully. ‘Got a copper, yer worship?’

Aware that it might be a monumental error of judgement—men had probably been mugged for less—James fished out a sixpence and held it up. ‘Information first.’

The sight of this untold wealth had the attention of all the boys. They crowded around and James kept his other hand in his pocket, firmly on his purse.

‘Hensleigh. Anyone seen him recently?’

The boys exchanged glances. One of them, clearly the leader from the way he stood forward a little, spoke. ‘The cap’n, you mean?’

James let that pass. ‘Yes.’

The boy shrugged. ‘Not for three, mebbe four days. Lu bain’t seen ’im, neither.’

‘Lu?’

The boy’s eyes narrowed and he glanced up at the window of Hensleigh’s lodgings. ‘You was up there with her long enough. She’s ’is daughter. Lucy.’

‘Right.’ If she was anything else, these boys would know it. And then there was the hair. Hensleigh’s fading ginger hair must once have been red. Those few tendrils drifting from the confines of the girl’s mob cap had shimmered copper.

‘Fitch might know where the cap’n is.’ One of the smaller boys spoke up. ‘Fitch’s real friendly with Lu. Gives ’er money sometimes, ’e does.’

Without looking, the leader cuffed the boy on the head. ‘Stow it.’

‘Fitch?’

But the small boy took one look at the other boy’s face and shook his head.

The leader shrugged. ‘Just a cove.’

James reminded himself that it was none of his business if Miss Hensleigh was real friendly with anyone. Even a cove who gave her money sometimes. It happened. Yet in his pocket, his hand balled to a fist.

From above the sound of a violin being tuned floated down. James listened, arrested as first the G string was tuned, then the D and A in turn were coaxed into harmony. Finally the E string. A moment’s silence and then the instrument sang, a lilting, dancing tune that somehow brightened the dingy yard even though the sun sulked behind its gloomy defences.

Dragging his attention away from the music, James tossed the original sixpence to the leader, plucked another out of his pocket and gave it to the small boy who had mentioned Fitch.

‘If anyone does know where the captain is, I’d be interested.’

‘Took a bag, ’e did,’ volunteered another boy. ‘Saw ’im wiv it right down on Fleet, by the Bolt.’

‘Did you see him get on a coach?’ James asked. The Bolt-in-Tun, on Fleet Street, was the departure point for some of the Bath coaches. Bath would be a very likely destination for a card sharp looking to recoup his losses.

The boy hesitated, finally shrugged. ‘Nah. Just happened to see ’im there. Wasn’t that int’rested, was I?’

James fished out another sixpence and flicked it to him. ‘Apparently not. And you’re also clever enough not to tell me what you think I want to hear. Thank you.’

The lad nipped the coin out of the air with startling dexterity. ‘Could nick down there an’ ask around if you like, guv.’

James considered that. ‘No. Never mind. Does the name Kilby mean anything to you?’

The boys went very still and furtive glances were cast at their leader. He shrugged. ‘Nah. Never heard of ’im.’

James nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Fairly sure he had just been lied to, he strolled out of the yard and headed west, towards Fleet Street and the Bolt-in-Tun. The lilt of Lucy Hensleigh’s fiddle remained with him long after it had been drowned by distance and the rumble of wheels and hooves.

* * *

Lucy played until the light slid away from the window, leaving her in the shadows. Wrapped safely in the music’s enchantment, she could pretend for a little while, hold out the terrifying reality of her life. She played from memory. He had sold her music months ago, along with her last three books. The only reason he hadn’t sold the violin as well was that she had been out with it when he came home looking for things to sell. Slowly she let the spell unravel, knowing that even music could not keep out the world for ever. Shivering a little, she set the instrument back in its case and closed the window. She had practised for long enough and Fitch would be along soon.

Her stomach growled.

If only Papa had been home when Mr Remington called! Then they’d have some money. Money for the rent, money for food. Unless he owed it all to someone else. Over the four years that she’d been with him after Grandma’s death the gentleman’s code of so-called honour had been drummed into her—debts of honour were paid first, no matter if your daughter was hungry and you weren’t using your real name.

Perhaps he wasn’t out of town after all. Surely he wouldn’t have gone right away if someone owed him money...unless he owes more to someone else...

The gaming was a disease, holding her father in a fevered grip. Nothing else mattered to him. No logic, no reason could reach him. Nothing but the game. He was charming about it, naturally. Papa was always charming. Even when he was lying. In fact, especially when he was lying. He had reassured her at first. There was nothing to worry about. Everything was quite as it should be. All proper gentlemen played. He would stop as soon as he had made their fortunes. And she had believed him. Or perhaps she had just wanted to believe him. That he would stop. Just one more game to set all right, get the dibs in tune. Always just one more game. To get the dibs in tune. To oblige a friend. A matter of honour. Just one more.

She supposed she had wanted to believe him. What sixteen-year-old girl, with nowhere else to turn, wanted to believe that her father had them on an irreversible downward slide to destitution?

She looked at the worn-leather violin case. Thank God she’d had it with her the afternoon Papa had sold her books and music. He’d been furious that the violin had not been there to sell as well.

Luckily he had won that night and had forgotten about selling the instrument the next day. Now she either took it with her or hid it. And she hadn’t told her father the truth—that, courtesy of Fitch, she had found a way to earn enough money to feed herself.

Chapter Two

Jig waited as Kilby’s pen scratched across the big ledger. Wonderful it were, how the man could write so quick an’ all. Not that Jig had any use for book learning—he did all right. Too much book learning could make a fellow soft. But there was no doubt that Kilby had kept his edge, right enough.

The pen slowed and sand was sprinkled across the page.

Kilby looked up. ‘Your report, Jig.’

Jig, so named because he’d narrowly escaped dancing a hempen jig as a boy, shifted under Kilby’s flat stare.

‘Found ’is nest, guv.’

Kilby stretched his arms and set his hands to either side of the ledger. His smile, to Jig’s way of thinking, weren’t real encouraging. Nor his fingers, drumming on the desk. Jig watched, narrow-eyed. The left hand it were—the one near the knife. Word was that Kilby drumming his fingers meant he was annoyed. Further word said that the first a man knew of Kilby reaching for the knife was the realisation that his difficulty breathing had to do with the knife buried in his windpipe. Nor a smart cove didn’t discount the pistol near Kilby’s right hand neither.

‘Two days since I set you on to find Hensleigh, Jig,’ Kilby said. ‘Two whole days. I note you only say you’ve found his nest. But perhaps that’s just your roundabout way of saying you have found the man himself?’

Jig swallowed. ‘As to that, guv, I ain’t found ’im as such. Seemin’ly ’e’s away. No one ain’t seen ’im.’

The fingers stopped drumming and Jig breathed a mort easier. Kilby was usually open to reason.

‘Away?’

‘That’s it, guv. Can’t find a cove who ain’t there, but I got ’is hole.’

Kilby nodded. ‘But if he’s left his hole, Jig, then it is no longer his hole. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘Reckon ’e’s comin’ back, guv.’ Cold sweat trickled down his spine. ‘Got a girl there.’

This time the fingers of Kilby’s right hand—the one near the pistol—started drumming. ‘Jig, men abandon women all the time. What makes you—?’

‘Reckon this is different, guv.’ Jig cleared his throat. ‘Seems the wench is ’is daughter.’

Kilby’s fingers stilled. ‘A daughter? He’s kept that very quiet.’

Jig relaxed a little. ‘Yeah. An’ it ain’t hard to see why, neither.’ Remembering the tasty-looking little redhead, he licked his lips.

‘Ah. Pretty, is she?’

‘Ripe as a plum ready for pluckin’,’ Jig assured him. He’d been tempted to do a bit of plucking himself, but he knew better than that. More than his life was worth if the wench turned out to be of interest to Kilby.

‘Hmm.’ Kilby leaned back, frowning. ‘The question will be, has someone plucked the plum already?’

Jig said nothing. For himself he didn’t much care if a wench were already broke to saddle. But an unbroken ride was worth a mint in some quarters.

‘Well, never mind.’ Kilby said. ‘Since Hensleigh has a saleable asset I’ll get back the money he bilked me of with the Moresby boy’s vowels. You can go now, Jig.’

Jig hesitated. The rest of his information might not be so welcome, but information was information. Kilby liked to know everything. ‘Got a bit more, guv.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a gent sniffin’ around.’

Kilby sat up slowly. ‘Sniffing where? Not here?’

‘Nah.’ Jig shook his head. ‘Heard him askin’ around about Hensleigh. That’s how I tracked Hensleigh.’

‘After the girl?’

Jig scowled. ‘Could be. But he found out Hensleigh mighta gone to Bath.’

Kilby raised his brows and Jig expanded. ‘The gent asked some lads. Got told Hensleigh’d been down the Bolt. So I follered ’im and sure enough ’e goes down there an’ starts askin’ round. Seems Hensleigh or a bloke like ’im took a ticket for Bath.’

Kilby let out a breath. ‘The odds are high Hensleigh owes him money, too.’ He considered. ‘Or he might just be after the girl.’

‘Might be both,’ offered Jig.

Kilby nodded. ‘Yes. He might have come looking for his money and now be wondering if he should just take his winnings out of the girl’s hide.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Check at the Cockpit who Hensleigh lost to recently. And watch his lodgings. If the same gentleman shows up again, find out where he lives, or get a name.’

‘Aye, guv.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Asked about you, he did.’

Kilby’s hands clenched to fists. ‘Did he now?’ His voice was very soft and Jig tensed. ‘Did he get an answer?’

Jig shook his head. ‘Nah. No one said nothin’.’

Kilby nodded. ‘Very wise. Anything else?’

Jig hesitated. This went against the grain, so it did, but he valued his life and folks that held out on Kilby tended to find that their lives ended unexpectedly. ‘The boy—Fitch.’

‘What about Fitch?’

Jig shuffled. ‘Seemin’ly ’e’s hangin’ around the wench, too. Heard one of they lads say as how ’e gives ’er money.’

Kilby’s fist clenched. ‘Is he now? Isn’t that interesting? It might be an idea to keep an eye on him, as well. His earnings have been down recently. Find out why.’

‘Aye, guv.’

‘You’ve done quite well, Jig,’ Kilby said. ‘I’m impressed.’

* * *

It was probably a waste of time to call at Hensleigh’s lodgings again. James told himself that as he strolled along the north side of the Strand the next day. His visit to the Bolt-in-Tun had netted the information that Hensleigh had bought a ticket for Bath. James had discarded the notion of driving down himself. Tracking Hensleigh would take time and might alert him. The last thing he wanted was for the fellow to run altogether.