A Grand Deception (20 page)

Muriel sat in the small parlor with a book after supper
Tuesday evening. She hadn't actually been reading the
book, merely holding it up before her face, pretending, to anyone who might chance to pass in the corridor, that she was
engrossed in the pages. Nothing could have been further from
the truth.

Both Aunt Penny and Mrs. Wilbanks thought Muriel
needed quiet, time to rest. She and her aunt had been out
nearly every night since she had arrived in Town. Susan and
her mother, once they had arrived in London, had joined
them whenever they could. It seemed that Muriel had been
busy nearly every hour of every day.

"One evening at home should do you a world of good,"
Mrs. Wilbanks had told her just before she and Susan had
left for their evening's entertainment.

How could Muriel read? How could she do anything while
Sherwin's fate remained unknown to her?

Long before she had sat for supper, Muriel had penned a
missive to Signore Biondi canceling their Wednesday morn ing lesson, sending it in the very same prearranged manner
she had always contacted the tutor. The young messenger's
name was Marcello, and he stopped by twice a day, checking the place where Muriel hid her correspondence.

It was impossible for her to concentrate on her studies. If
only there was something Muriel could do to help to find
Sherwin.

Two hours later she went to bed. Not that she slept. She
would probably look worse than she had the day before. Her
aunt and Mrs. Wilbanks would be quite put out, not knowing why Muriel's health continued to decline. She could just
imagine the next step would be a tisane or poultice. After
that they might send for a physician.

How could Muriel tell them that what she really needed
was a Bow Street Runner?

Knowing she would be unable to sit placidly at the breakfast table the next morning, she had a tray brought up to her
room but allowed the contents to remain untouched.

After barely touching her toast and tea, Muriel donned a
frock for her drive in the Park with Susan, Freddie, and Sir
Samuel later that afternoon. If she could manage to have a
private word with Sir Samuel and explain her-Sherwin'spredicament, perhaps he would come to her aid once again.

Muriel descended the stairs, still deeply disappointed at
her brother's inability to act when action was clearly needed.
She turned right, heading for the foyer.

A cacophony of male laughter echoed down the corridor.
She identified her father as one of the participants, but the
identity of the other gentleman remained a mystery.

Moving cautiously and quietly toward her father's library,
she leaned around the corner to observe. Muriel felt uneasy
at the jovial scene before her. The Duke and Sir Samuel stood
at the doorway, shaking hands, as if sealing a business deal.

"What are you doing? What's-" Freddie approached,
coming from behind her.

Muriel straightened and gasped in fright. She waved,
shushing him, and returned to her post, leaning around the
corner to catch a glimpse.

Freddie stepped lightly, nearing with care, and peered
around the corner just above his sister's head.

"No father could ask for a better prospect than you," said
the Duke. "Now, if you can only persuade the young lady to
accept. I cannot predict how onerous a task that will be"

"Does he mean you?" Freddie's outburst could have
given them away, and Muriel shushed him again.

"I will be the first to wish you happy." The Duke leaned
toward Sir Samuel and said in a softer voice, "Good luck to
you, Samuel, eh?"

"Thank you, Your Grace." Sir Samuel stepped away,
moving toward the marbled foyer, in Muriel and Freddie's
direction. "I am to accompany her to the Park soon. I certainly hope I will manage to approach the subject with
some sort of poise. I must confess, I feel as if I'll make a
muddle of the whole thing."

"I'm sure you'll manage just fine," the Duke replied.
"There isn't a gentleman alive who feels confident in such
matters"

Muriel stepped back, urging her brother to retreat around
the corner. She led him through the parlor, then up the
staircase to her bedchamber to make certain their conversation would not be overheard.

"That cannot mean Sir Samuel is about to propose, can
it?" Muriel could not imagine how this had come about. How
had his commonplace regard for her taken a warmer turn?

"He dashed well is about to offer for someone. When Father is that jubilant about Sir Samuel coming up to scratch,
whom do you think it could be?" Freddie carried on in an
animated fashion. "Common sense tells me it might be you"

"Since when do you have any sense? Samuel has no intention of making me an offer." Muriel strode past her dressing
table to her bookcase. "No. No. It cannot be true."

Sir Samuel had no notion of Muriel's affection for Sherwin. How could he? She had only recently come to the realization herself. In the past she had relied on Sir Samuel to
aid her. Had he understood her trust in him as romantic interest?

"But why?" She uttered the words on a sigh to herself.
"How should he ever think to offer for me? No, I simply
cannot believe it."

"Has Sir Samuel hinted at his affection?" Freddie paced
to the end of the room.

"No, never." Muriel no longer felt comfortable asking Sir
Samuel for help locating Sherwin.

She drew Tragedies of Sophocles from the bookcase and
allowed it to fall open, revealing the iron key and folded map
Sir Samuel had given her. Muriel wondered if she had misinterpreted his intentions. She hadn't thought so, but it seemed
she might have been wrong.

"So this is where you are hiding!" Sir Samuel appeared
at the doorway of Muriel's bedchamber. "I beg your pardon, but His Grace instructed me to locate you, Brent"

"Right. Sorry to keep you waiting, of man." Freddie
moved to exit but turned back to address his sister. "You
ready to join us, Moo?"

Muriel glanced from the open book and its contents before closing the tome and pushing it back into its place in
the bookcase. If asking Sir Samuel to help her attend her private lessons had resulted in a marriage proposal, she
could not imagine what asking him to help locate Sherwin
would bring.

He'd been in the coach for hours on end. Sherwin endured
the discomforts of the hard seats and cramped interior. The
experience was made worse by Mr. Goodwin's uncanny
ability to slumber in this most uncomfortable circumstance.
His head rested upon Sherwin's shoulder, lolling about, and
Mr. Franks, on the right, pinned his arm to his side. The
snores and coughing of Sally, the child, and her guardian,
Miss Phelps, added a feminine aspect to the interior quartet.
The blare of the horn before every stop and, it seemed, at
every intersection was the highlight of the journey.

He hadn't expected that the pocket watch he'd traded in
exchange for his passage might have been of any help to tell
him how many hours had passed. There'd been many stops,
most where the passengers barely had time to stretch their
legs, and once they'd been supplied with a bite to eat before
returning to the confines of the coach.

The vehicle listed and rattled to a stop again. They were
about to disembark for another change of horses. The door
swung open, and the driver called out, "End o' the lineLunnun."

After everyone had exited, Sherwin moved forward in his
seat, readying himself to disembark. End of the line? This
was it: they had arrived in London!

Never had he experienced so treacherous a journey in a
wheeled vehicle. Was it his imagination, or had this last leg
been more gravity-defying than the earlier parts of the trip?
At times he felt as if they'd gone airborne.

He gripped the side of the coach and stepped outside.
Sherwin peered around at his surroundings. This was Lon don? It was not any part of the city he recognized. "Where,
exactly, are we?"

"Town's right there, ya see, yonder." The man stabbed
his large finger to the left, down the road.

Had Sherwin expected they'd deliver him to the doorstep
of Lloyd Place? Perhaps if they had stopped at the gates of
Hyde Park ... that was a place he recognized ... only one
of very few. "How am Ito get to . . ." He stared at the driver.

"Don't rightly know, gov. S'pose you can hire yourself a
hack." He slammed the door closed. Then he clarified, "A
hackney cab. Just down the way there." The man pointed
somewhere behind Sherwin.

"A hackney?" he repeated. It had cost him his gold
watch to get this far. Sherwin didn't know what he had left
that was worth trading. His hand stole over his waistcoat
pocket.

If he could engage a hackney cab, where would he go?
He wanted to rush to Muriel at Worth House, except he
could not be presented in his current disheveled state.

He knew barely a soul in Town-a handful of casual social acquaintances, no one he could turn to for help. Then it
came to him-a man who had always, without question,
lent him support: Signore Biondi.

With his destination set, Sherwin gazed across the road.
There, several coaches stood idle, ones, he thought, meant
for hire. How to do so without money was another matter,
but he did not despair. He had made it this far on his wits
and his pocket watch, he would manage to see himself the
rest of the way to Town.

He put himself in mind that he was an earl and would try
to conduct himself in a noble manner. Most of all he imagined the Earl of Brent and exactly how he would behave in
a situation such as this.

"Excuse me, my man," he addressed an idle, beefy chap
sitting upon the box of his rig. "By any chance are you-"

"Off wiff ye, ya toff!" the man rumbled back without the
benefit of hearing Sherwin's request, shaking a beefy fist at
him. "Yer a beggar, that be certain. I'll have none of ya."

Sherwin staggered back, fairly fearing for his life. This
was badly done of him. How would he manage to-

"'Ere, look, gov. Yer going about it the wrong way," the
driver called out to him, waving Sherwin back in his direction.

Sherwin returned to the mail driver, who met him halfway. "Did you not say I could hire a hack-" He pointed in
the same direction the driver had previously.

"Lookie, here. I can sees yer havin' a bit o' difficulty." The
driver winked and pulled on Sherwin's sleeve. Only hard
enough to urge him in the opposite direction. "Allow me to
be of assistance. You come wiff me, now, lad."

"I would sincerely appreciate that, sir." Sherwin nodded,
following along amicably.

"I can sees ye've gots yourselfs in a bit of a bind, and I
don't wants to sees ya dig yerself in any deeper. I can sees
yer a good lad at heart."

"Why, thank you, sir." Sherwin continued, "I am having
some difficulty at the moment, and it would be kind of you
to lend me a hand. I assure you, it will not be forgotten."

"Then just remember my name. Georgie. 01' Georgie
Hope."

"Really?" Sherwin could hardly believe his luck. "I shall
remember you, Mr. Hope, and I assure you, when my circumstances are ... better, I shall."

"Oh, aye, ye do that, lad." Mr. Hope chuckled as if he
would grow older and grayer before he'd ever see his kindness returned.

They walked about halfway down the block, bypassing a
good several vehicles standing idle. Sherwin's surrounds appeared mostly gray. The buildings did not appear as ornate,
and the streets were not as clean as the London to which he'd
recently become accustomed.

"Look alive, Danny!" The driver called out. "This 'ere's
my pal, Mr. Turner.

"I think the two of you gentlemen can work out the rest
by yourselves, eh?" The driver winked at Sherwin again
and gave him a resounding clap on the back.

"Th-thank you, Mr. Hope." Sherwin vowed he would remember the driver who had helped him on the next step to
finding Muriel. He looked to the man sitting on the box. "I
need a ride to Number 4 Tavistock Road."

Mr. Turner wore a dark, ratty coat and tilted his head. "It'll
cost you, gov," he said in a voice that sounded as rough as
the ride Sherwin had just survived.

"I have no money." He said it right up front. Sherwin would
not be humiliated as he had been at the Dog and Whistle at
his inability to pay his way.

"Well, let's see . . ." Mr. Turner scratched his whiskerstubbled jaw and eyed Sherwin. "Seein' ye've been highly
recommended, so to speak, I s'pose we can makes ourselves
some sort of deal, wot?"

"I find that agreeable, sir." Sherwin didn't have any other
choice. He had no doubt Freddie, the Earl of Brent, could
forge a deal on a promise and a handsome smile.

"That's a nice jacket I sees." Mr. Turner motioned for
Sherwin to turn about and display his garment. "Wouldn't
be work of Weston, would it?"

"Why, yes, it is." If handing over his jacket would be
enough to see him safely to Signore Biondi's, then so be it.
It appeared that he and the driver understood each other quite well. "If you would be so good as to lend me a hand,
kind sir?" He would need Mr. Turner's help to strip the garment off his back. Sherwin began to undo his brass buttons
to rid himself of his new jacket and pay his passage.

Muriel sat next to Susan, across from Sir Samuel, on the
drive to Hyde Park in the open-air coach. Never had she felt
so nervous in his company. He didn't exactly appear the study
of tranquility himself. Muriel exchanged a few quick glances
with Freddie, who sat to Sir Samuel's left, knowing he was
privy to the goings-on in their father's library a scant hour
ago. Did her brother notice the addled manner of their male
companion?

Susan seemed the only serene one of the four, gazing at the
passing scenery. She wore a lemon yellow and white dress
and a Capucine-colored Spencer that matched her new
bonnet, the one that Muriel had borrowed the other day.

They rounded the corner, passing through the gates of
Hyde Park, joining the long string of carriages.