Barbara Metzger (4 page)

“But, sir, I overheard the driver tell the guard that Bow Street would surely have someone waiting for us in London, what with the delays and the holdup we reported.”

“Bow Street, eh?” He acknowledged her warning with a chuckle that changed to a choking cough. When he could speak again, he said, “They’re naught but a pack of hound pups chasing their tails. The old fox has one more trick up his sleeve.”

Playing dead wasn’t a very good trick, Kathlyn thought sadly, especially if the fox wasn’t pretending. The coach clattered into the inn yard in London, and the door was wrenched open by a spotty-complexioned young man demanding to search the carriage in the name of the law. Not a good trick at all.

Chapter Four

Snow covered the inn yard, so Mrs. Tibbett had to be carried across, sobbing on her husband’s thin shoulders. Kathlyn thought weeping an excellent idea, if she only had time for such an emotional display. She didn’t. She had to get to Lady Rotterdean’s in Berkeley Square. The representatives of Bow Street had other plans.

“You wish to do what? I told you I just met the man when he got on the coach. You’ve turned my reticule inside out, searched my luggage and my cloak pockets. I do not know what you are looking for, but I absolutely refuse to let you—or the landlady, as you so courteously offered—search my person. No, I won’t. I’ve been held up, snowbound, and seated next to a dying man for days. Now you tell me he was a mastermind thief who should have had a fortune in jewels with him, and you won’t get paid until you find them. Well, I won’t get paid until I find Berkeley Square, so I would appreciate the return of my possessions, on the instant. Please.”

Kathlyn was wrong; she did have ample time for hysterics, especially when the younger, spotted Runner threatened to take her off to Bow Street if she did not cooperate with their investigation. The underage, over-zealous jobbernowl was about to get a display of fireworks that would put Vauxhall Gardens to shame. Then the other Runner returned with some hot tea for her. He was older, almost grandfatherly with his silvered hair, spectacles, shuffling gait, and kindly smile. She might even have been happy to see such a solid, reliable figure, if not for his distinctive red waistcoat.

“You’ve got to forgive Nipperkin, Miss Partland,” he was saying, nodding his head in the youth’s direction. “That’s not his name, neither, which is Ned Ripkin, but I call him Nipperkin on account of him having so much to learn. I’m training him up for the job, just like I would my own boys, see? And my name is Dimm, Jeremiah Dimm. That’s my name, not my brain, I always say.” He gave a courtly bow, which Kathlyn returned with a nod of her head, sipping the hot tea.

“Now, Nipperkin here, he don’t understand women. Me, I spent twenty-odd years with my dear departed Cora, bless her, and some were right odd, I swear. But then I had my daughter with me, and my sister, and her daughters, and
their
daughters, so you see, I understand women, as well as any man can. Reasonable creatures, females. You better write that down, Nipperkin, so you don’t forget. Now, I figure that if I explain the situation, a reasonable person such as yourself, miss, being as sensible and law-abiding as my own girls, will help us what has to conduct this investigation.”

Kathlyn nodded again and agreed to listen. She had to, lest he think her as addlepated as Mrs. Tibbett, or as guilty as Mr. Miner.

“It’s like this,” Inspector Dimm began, sitting down to rest his feet while he consulted his Occurrence book. “Bow Street’s been after a ring of jewel thieves for years, and finally caught up with your Mr. Miner.”

“He’s not my anything,” Kathlyn insisted.

“He’s not Harry Miner neither. Harry Minestere, he was born, but he got dubbed Harry the Diamond Miner from being so successful at his chosen profession. But his luck ran out last month when he was arrested with a pouch full of stolen gems. His gang came and broke him out while they was waiting for the Assizes, though. Harry grabbed up the evidence and took it along. The guards saw it, afore he locked them in their own cell. Downy cove, your friend.”

“He’s not my friend. He was sick, is all.”

“As you say, ma’am, and I’m sure you’re right. Anyways, we know he had the jewels. The gang must of had a falling-out over sharing the booty, ‘cause the local magistrate reported a dead thug name of Peters, killed by a pistol ball. We know Harry didn’t split with his partners, or they wouldn’t of held up your coach looking for him, now would they? And the diamonds wasn’t in his pockets. So where are the sparklers, I want to know?”

“He hardly left the coach.”

“ ‘Xactly,” Inspector Dimm agreed proudly, like her father when one of his students had mastered the fourth declension. “And you were the one he spoke to, what brought him coffee.” The Runner held up a weathered hand. “Now, I’m sure you acted out of the goodness of your heart. Miss Partland, a decent, God-fearing lady like yourself, doing as you ought. Why, I’d want my own girls—did I tell you I have two granddaughters? Pretty as pictures, both—to be as kind to strangers in need. And I’m sure you had nothing to do with Harry Miner, but I gots to make sure, you see, or my superior will have my hide. Not very accommodating chap, the governor. This way, I’ve seen your boney-fides.” He pointed to Lady Rotterdean’s letter, from Kathlyn’s reticule. “So as soon as Mrs. Lambert here has her look-see, we can all go about our business.”

“If your business is bothering innocent citizens, you should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Dimm.” Still, she went behind the screens with the landlady and let that woman pat the seams of her clothing. She even took her heavy black braid down, so the woman could see she hadn’t any gold candlesticks or such hidden away.

At last she was free to go, with Mr. Dimm’s apologies. “It ain’t just the jewels we’re after, neither, miss. We want to get those partners of his, a pair of cutthroat killers if there ever was. They killed one of the goalers, and now they’ve held up a Royal Mail coach and shot the guard. The governor wants them found something fierce. If you think of anything useful, you can find me through Bow Street. Oh, and there’s a reward for information.”

Here was the second man speaking of rewards, when all Kathlyn wanted was to find her warm bed, even if Lady Rotterdean made her sleep in the attic. She wanted dry shoes, her fair wage, and the satisfaction of teaching young minds—that would be enough reward. She didn’t want recompense here or in the hereafter for befriending a dying man, and she didn’t want to think that she might know anything worth Bow Street’s coins. Mostly Kathlyn did not want any more adventures.

But she was still lost in the dark and it was still snowing. Oh dear.

Thank goodness, there was a more brightly lighted road up ahead at last. Kathlyn shifted the grip on her suitcase—now she had blisters on both hands—and headed toward the lamps, her head down to avoid the stinging pellets of wind-driven snow. So she didn’t see the two men standing at the entrance to an alley, and walked right into them.

“Well, well, what have we here? Must be a lost little hen, come to roost. Don’t worry, chicky, you’ve found two fine gamecocks to keep you warm.” The man thought his wit was hilarious. He slapped his thigh and pounded his friend on the back. The friend fell down in the snow. Kathlyn kept walking toward the lights, faster.

The men came after her. She could hear the crunch of their footsteps, like the sound of a crypt opening. She hurried as fast as she could on the slippery surface.

“Naw, Fred, it’s a Christmas present from me da, come a bit late. Here I was thinking the old codger’d gone and forgot his favorite son.”

“Your dad tossed you out two years ago,” Fred gibed, “and he never would have shared a tender morsel like this. I say it’s a pretty little fish.” He reached an arm out and snagged Kathlyn’s cloak. “And she’s almost on my hook.”

Unable to go farther, Kathlyn turned to face her assailants. “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she blustered so they wouldn’t see how frightened she was. “Harassing innocent women. You’re inebriated, that’s what. And you’ll feel great remorse tomorrow, I’m certain.”

“That’s nothing to what I’m feeling now, sweetings,” Fred crowed, his hand grabbing for her breast.

Kathlyn screamed and swung her valise, clipping him on the knees. Fred went down, expanding Kathlyn’s vocabulary. She didn’t stay to ask for definitions, but dropped her bag and ran. She didn’t see that the other man was following her, and she didn’t see that she was at a crossing, with a curricle and pair coming straight at her.

Courtney saw it all. He pulled back on his bays, praying they wouldn’t slip and break their legs on the icy roadway. If anything happened to his horses, those dirty dishes had even more to answer for than bothering a female who should have known better than to be out alone after dark. The horses stopped, the female ran past, but now both men were loping after her. Courtney cursed at not having his tiger with him, but he never took the groom to Kensington to carry tales. The cattle might stand on their own, but by the time Courtney managed to clamber down from the curricle, those two blackguards would have the woman up some alley or in a recessed doorway.

The viscount backed the curricle and joined the chase. When he came upon the slower man, he flicked his whip, catching the dastard on the ear.

The other man wasn’t so fortunate. The whip coiled right around his neck, dragging him off his feet and almost under the carriage wheels.

Courtney recoiled the whip, snapping it a time or two. The noise made the horses nervous, but not nearly as nervous as it made the two men, now whimpering and scrambling to safety. “Get out of my sight, you muckworms, and don’t let me see you again. Next time I’ll use my pistol instead.” He patted his side pocket, where a pistol would be, if he carried one. When he was sure the men were gone, he turned to the female. He couldn’t see her face in the dark, just a pale oval with wide, frightened eyes. “Deuce take it, what were you thinking of, out here by yourself?”

She’d been thinking of a walk through the park, of course. What did this clunch think, that she was enjoying herself? This day, this night—this life—was growing entirely too vexatious to bear a lecture from a stranger. Still, Kathlyn wouldn’t forget her manners. “I thank you for coming to my assistance, sir. Good night.” She headed back, into the dark, to fetch her suitcase.

Courtney frowned. The female’s voice sounded educated, with no trace of London’s guttersnipe accent. He waited for her return. “Are you all right, miss?”

He was pulled up near the lamppost Kathlyn had been running toward, not that it would have provided a safe haven, she saw now, for no one was in sight but this fancy swell. He was too full of himself to get down from the elegant yellow-wheeled carriage to come to her aid, no, not even to lift the suitcase that must have gathered paving bricks while it waited on the sidewalk. Kathlyn looked up, noting that he was a handsome devil, with high shirt points and such an intricate neckcloth that only a man of leisure could take the time to tie it. His gleaming horses likely had pedigrees longer than hers. Heavens, they likely ate better than she did. What did a toff like him care about a girl like her? “Thank you, my lord. I am quite well.” She bobbed a curtsy as best she could with her mantle now sodden around her ankles and the suitcase dragging down her arm. She turned her back to him again.

Devil a bit, Courtney thought, only a conscienceless cad would let a female walk off unprotected into such a night, even a female as prickly as this one. “Miss, are you near your destination?”

Kathlyn paused. “To be quite honest, I am not sure. I thought someone on this street ahead could direct me. Perhaps you could tell me if I am properly headed toward Berkeley Square.”

What could such a draggletailed miss have to do with the cream of Mayfair society? They didn’t even let their servants wander unaccompanied. “The east side or the west side of the square?” he probed.

Kathlyn bit her lip, but set the valise on the pavement again, thankfully. “I cannot say. I am looking for Lady Rotterdean’s house.” When he didn’t respond with more than a raised eyebrow, she added, “I’m to be governess to her daughters, but there was a mix-up in the coach schedule.”

“Ah.” Now Courtney understood. In fact, now he could almost write the unfortunate female’s biography, he thought. She was someone’s poor but proper relation, fresh from the country. There was no dowry, of course, or she’d be sent to the local assemblies to snabble a husband, instead of being sent to London to work. Oh, and she must be a plain female, for Lady Rotterdean wouldn’t have hired a dasher, not with Rottenbottom known to have wandering eyes. Courtney pitied the poor girl, he really did, and acknowledged to himself that he was committed to seeing her safely to a barren, bone-wearying existence—that was still better than what could happen to her on the streets. He gestured with his whip. “It’s about six blocks in that direction. It’s not out of my way. May I offer you a ride?”

Kathlyn had seen his lip curl at her admission that she was in service. Six blocks were nothing. She’d crawl on her hands and knees, pushing her portmanteau with her nose, rather than accept begrudged favors from any aristocratic jackass. She made a deeper curtsy this time, to show what she thought of his condescension. “Thank you, my lord, but I’ll just be on my way.”

There was her back again, blast! The female wouldn’t last long in service, not with the hauteur of a duchess. She wouldn’t last long in the dark either, he reluctantly conceded, turning the carriage again to follow her.

Sure enough, at the very next block, the black-cloaked female was wrestling with a street urchin over possession of her valise. The young cutpurse was turning the frigid air blue with his curses, but the governess was hanging on, retorting with some pithy comments from Horace, if Courtney recalled his schoolboy Latin. In two minutes they’d have half the scum of London crawling out from beneath their rocks, so he used his whip again. The young footpad hied off to the shadows after easier prey, and the viscount held his hand out to the female. “Please, miss, this isn’t good for my horses.”