In Debt To The Earl

Lucy shook her head, flushing at the thought of begging from his lordship. ‘No.’ Anger rose again. ‘He lied about that. Papa owes him money. And—’ she clenched her fists ‘—he lied about his name. He isn’t Mr Remington at all. He’s Lord Cambourne—an earl.’

‘Ah.’ Fitch scowled. ‘Makes more sense, him comin’ back, then.’ He didn’t push it, apparently accepting that a fellow already owed money was an unlikely touch.

‘Well, that leaves yer fiddle,’ he said. ‘Did well enough today.’ He hesitated. ‘Lu, you know I’d never flam a mark while you’re playing the fiddle, don’t you?’

She blinked. ‘Of course I know that. You promised. Why do you ask?’

He shrugged. ‘No reason. Just thinkin’. S’long’s you know.’

Memory tugged. ‘Did you hear what Lord Cambourne said?’

He scowled. ‘Heard that. He said it loud enough.’

She reached out and touched his hand. ‘I told him you’d promised. That you wouldn’t do that. It will be all right, Fitch. As long as I can earn enough for this week, once she sees Lord Cambourne isn’t calling all the time, she’ll realise I’m not his...his—’

‘Dollymop,’ Fitch supplied. He looked sceptical. ‘Yeah. Drop the rent right back, she will. Being as how she’s so generous an’ all. Look, you want me to go away? The old bitch realises I’m sleeping here, it’ll be another three shillings.’

‘No. Don’t go.’ Knowing that she wasn’t completely alone at night allowed her to sleep better. And she knew that he was off the streets, safe for a few hours.

He cocked his head. ‘You sure?’

‘Yes. Are you still hungry?’ She changed the subject. ‘Have some bread and cheese.’

He cut bread and a chunk of cheese to go with it, passed them to her, then cut some for himself. Munching, he crouched down by the fire. ‘Least you flammed some coal outta her for the extra rent,’ he said through a mouthful. ‘With that an’ what his nibs bought you’ll starve all nice an’ cosy.’

She grimaced. A thought occurred to her. ‘Fitch?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you know someone called Kilby?’

He went utterly still, wariness in every line. ‘Where’d you hear that name?’

‘Lord Cambourne, and I think Papa knows him.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Don’t go askin’ no questions about Kilby,’ Fitch said at last. ‘Better if you’d never heard the name. Safer.’ He swallowed his mouthful. ‘His nibs asks again, tell him you don’t know nothin’. Safer,’ he repeated.

* * *

Kilby was still at his desk when Jig reported to him, but Jig noted with relief that, far from drumming his fingers, the man was eating.

‘Jig. What have you got for me?’ Kilby bit into a chicken leg.

‘Still no sign of Hensleigh, guv,’ Jig said, trying not to stare at the rest of the chicken.’ His stomach rumbled.

‘Girl might be covering for him.’ Kilby spoke through a mouthful.

Jig shook his head. ‘Don’ reckon, guv. Sounds like she ain’t got no money an’ the gent come a-calling tonight.’

‘Did he now?’ Kilby set the half-eaten chicken leg back on the platter. ‘Anything on him?’

Jig swallowed spit. God, that chicken smelled good. ‘Got a name—Remington.’

Kilby’s hand froze halfway to the tankard. ‘Remington?’

‘Yeah. Struck me, too,’ Jig said. ‘But it ain’t him, guv.’ Like he wouldn’t reckernise a bloke he’d helped beat bloody? Weren’t blind, or dicked in the nob, was he?

‘No. Of course not.’ Kilby took a swallow from the tankard. ‘You can describe the fellow?’

Jig nodded. ‘Tall. Taller’n me. Well set-up cove. Moves like ’e’d strip to advantage. Real easy on ’is feet. Dark hair. Dresses like quality. Not real bang-up new, but quality.’

‘Probably tupping the girl.’ Kilby sighed. ‘Pity.’

‘Woman owns the lodgings reckons that’s the way of it,’ Jig said. ‘Been flapping her mouth all over. But I ain’t so sure.’

Kilby stared over the rim of the tankard. ‘And what engenders this extraordinary optimism, Jig?’

Allowing that he didn’t understand any of them breakteeth words, Jig got the idea. ‘Well, you wanted me to find out why young Fitch’s earnings was down.’

‘Yes?’

‘So, I seen ’im hangin’ round a lad playin’ the fiddle. Right crowd there was.’

‘So Fitch should have had easy pickings.’ Kilby’s fingers drummed in such a way that Jig reckoned Fitch had better watch out for himself. ‘The little rat’s holding out on me, is that it?’

‘Not ezackly, guv.’ Jig went on. ‘Far’s I could tell, he weren’t picking pockets at all.’

‘What?’

‘No. Just makin’ sure no one else helped theirselves to the takin’s.’

Kilby sat back. ‘Maybe we’d better have a word to this lad with a fiddle.’

‘Well, now,’ Jig said, ‘funny you should say that, guv. I ain’t sure it is a lad—’

‘What? You said—’

‘Reckon it’s the girl. Hensleigh’s girl, playin’ for pennies. And—’

‘And why would she be doing that—’ Kilby said, looking interested.

‘If she’s givin’ rides to a toff,’ Jig finished. ‘It don’t make sense.’

‘No,’ Kilby said. ‘It doesn’t. Get word to Fitch that I want his takings up. Nothing else. No word of this. And he’s to be given a couple of night jobs.’

‘An’ the toff? You want me to find out more?’

‘No. Keep an eye on the girl.’ Kilby’s eyes bored into him. ‘I don’t have to tell you that she is to remain untouched, do I?’

* * *

The party at Aldwick House was in full swing when James arrived. He ran into his host in the first of the open salons.

‘Ah, Cambourne.’ Viscount Aldwick held out his hand to James. ‘Didn’t see you in the reception line.’

James shook his hand. ‘My apologies to you and Lady Aldwick, sir. I’m afraid I was rather late.’

Aldwick smiled briefly. ‘Never mind. As it is, I wonder if you might just slip along to my library. It’s not generally open tonight, but someone there would like a word with you.’

* * *

The library was lit only by the fire in the hearth and a single branch of candles on the chimneypiece. Shadows filled the room.

‘Cambourne?’ A dark figure rose from a wing chair by the fire.

James knew the quiet, deep voice. ‘Hunt? What the devil are you doing here?’ He moved towards the fire. ‘How—?’ He grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no point asking how you are—I saw the notice in the papers about your brother’s death. If there’s anything I can do...?’

Close enough now to make out Huntercombe’s features, he could see lines carved in the older man’s face that hadn’t been there six months ago. Deep lines and a shadow in the eyes that had nothing to do with the darkness of the room.

Huntercombe smiled briefly. ‘Kind of you. I wondered if I might have a word?’ He glanced around the library. ‘I knew you’d be here tonight, so I sent a note around to Aldwick this afternoon and he told me to make myself at home. I’m not actually invited this evening, at least, I suppose I would have been, but—’ He shrugged.

James nodded. A man deep in mourning for his half-brother didn’t normally attend balls. The Marquess of Huntercombe was only in town to attend the House of Lords. ‘You didn’t have to come out like this. I would have come to you.’

Huntercombe reached for a decanter on the wine table beside him. ‘I know. But I thought it better to be a trifle circumspect. Brandy?’

James took the chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Thank you. Circumspect about what?’

‘I heard young Remington had a little trouble recently. With a certain Captain Hensleigh.’

James leaned forward. ‘How do you know about that?’

Huntercombe’s eyes closed. ‘Don’t worry—it’s gone no further. Your cousin’s man and my valet happen to be brothers. Is the boy really all right?’

‘Bruised, battered. He appears to have learnt his lesson, thank God,’ said James.

Huntercombe’s eyes opened. ‘Then he was luckier than Gerald.’ He took a swallow of brandy. ‘If, as my valet seems to think, you’re hunting Hensleigh, or Hammersley, as Gerald knew him, I have some information for you.’

* * *

An hour later, James was still staring into the dancing fire, his mouth set in grim lines. Huntercombe had left thirty minutes ago, but he had no inclination to join the silken, perfumed crowd in the main rooms. Instead he poured another brandy and breathed the heady fumes before sipping.

Huntercombe had said Nick had been lucky. James’s fingers tightened on the heavy glass. That was an understatement. There was no longer any question of merely ruining Hensleigh—he was going to use him to get to this mysterious Kilby. And then he’d destroy both of them.

And Lucy? He hardened his resolve. He’d keep her safe, but Huntercombe’s story changed the game. Pursuing Lucy gave him the best of all reasons for continuing to call at those shabby lodgings...as long as everyone thought he was after the girl no one would question his visits.

But beyond that, he needed advice from someone who knew the shadowy world he had stumbled into.

* * *

Lucy dreamed. Dark grey eyes smiled at her with inexpressible tenderness. Strong arms held her secure against all threat of danger. Even held her warm and safe from the rain. She nestled a little deeper into the warmth and safety...until the drumming of the rain penetrated.

Literally.

Lucy woke to an icy trickle of water leaking right over her head. With a muttered curse she scrambled out of bed, dragging the thin, lumpy mattress and blankets out of the way.

She stared up at the sagging matchboard ceiling. God only knew where the water was getting in and it didn’t matter. What mattered was convincing Mrs Beattie to get it mended.

* * *

Five minutes later she was dressed, had the bed shoved against the wall and a bucket under the leak. Catching her cloak off the back of the door, she wrapped it around her and went into the other room. The curtain that hid her usual sleeping place was open, the pallet and blanket empty. The closed window suggested that Fitch had taken his leave by the stairs well before first light to avoid Mrs Beattie.

Lucy’s heart sank a little, but she pushed the melancholy aside and cut bread and cheese. The fire had gone out long ago. Briefly she considered relighting it, but dismissed the idea even though there was plenty of coal left. She needed to save it for when she was cold, not waste it on luxuries like toasted cheese. Munching, Lucy looked out of the window. Grey rain swept the yard, battering relentlessly at sagging walls and boarded-up windows.

Rain before seven, fine by eleven...

Armed with this unwarranted optimism, Lucy went downstairs to do battle with Mrs Beattie.

* * *

Mrs Beattie puffed up the stairs, grumbling that she’d see for herself. Confronted with the leak, she glared first at it and then at Lucy, as if wanting to blame her for it.

‘’Tain’t my fault,’ she said at last. ‘Dessay it’ll ease off when it ain’t raining.’

Lucy blinked. ‘I’m sure it will.’

Mrs Beattie squinted at the leak again. ‘Don’t reckon as it needs mending,’ she said at last. ‘’Course, you want to put a bucket there, you can.’

‘Of course, Mrs Beattie,’ said Lucy meekly. ‘Would you like me to tell Mr Wynn downstairs why his ceiling is leaking, or will you?’

Mrs Beattie scowled. Mr Wynn had lived in the rooms below for years. He paid his rent on time and extra to eat his dinner in the kitchen. Mrs Beattie would not want to offend him. ‘S’pose I can speak to someone about it. ’Tain’t my fault,’ she repeated, and stumped off, banging the door behind her.

* * *

When the bells of St Clement’s struck eleven the world still wept and a bitter wind whipped through every crack it could find and drove the rain ruthlessly against the window. There was no point going out, she told herself. She’d be lucky to earn a penny. No one would want to pause to listen to a fiddle in this weather, even if she could find a sheltered spot where her violin and bow would not be ruined.

Three shillings...

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