Den of Thieves (33 page)

Reader, imagine yourself sitting in the luxurious surroundings of Boxton, the country house of the Duke of Avon situated near Bath. In the morning room, the walls are hung with hand-painted paper depicting Chinese flowers and animals; the delicate tables bear silver teapots and teacups so fine that the light shines through them. To amuse yourself, you have a pianoforte – or any other musical instrument you care to name, embroidery, sketching or polite novels. And what is the result? Boredom.

Do not mistake me, Reader: this is not just a little ladylike weariness – I am so bored I could scream.

My two friends, Frank, the Duke's son, and
Pedro, a superb violinist originally from Africa, are out hunting with the gentlemen. The duchess is still abed. And I'm left kicking my heels until the men of the family come home. I'd exchange an embroidery frame for a good muddy walk across the fields any day, but according to Frank, it would not be decent for me to go with the hunters. He even laughed when I suggested as much this morning.

‘You know you can't do that. What would the other guests think?' Frank's navy blue eyes twinkled at me, daring me to laugh with him at my absurd idea.

‘I don't care,' I said, refusing to succumb to his attempt to charm me into a good humour. ‘I'll do something desperate if I have to sit about any longer.'

He smiled with slight apprehension, knowing me fully capable of acting outrageously. ‘I trust you would not abuse our hospitality and do anything too scandalous. Take a well-deserved rest, Cat. Read. Study Latin if you must. You're supposed to be having a holiday.'

‘No, Frank, gentlemen have holidays; ladies just have extended periods of vacancy.'

Frank cast an exasperated look at me, then turned to Pedro who was helping himself to a hearty breakfast from the sideboard. ‘What shall we do with her?'

Pedro shrugged, piling three bacon rashers alongside a poached egg. ‘Can't we take her with us?'

‘Not you as well! You both know that'd cause a scandal.'

This was true: my position in the Boxton household was strange enough already. An orphan brought up in the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, I had had the good fortune of making some unusually well-bred friends. When made homeless by the closure of the theatre, I had been invited to live among them while I sorted out my future. The invitation had stretched to several months. Pedro, just back from Italy where he had been on tour with his master, Signor Angelini, had returned to find me domiciled with one of the first families in the land; me, who had been the lowliest maid-of-all-work,
now not even having to empty my own chamberpot!

‘Act like a proper lady just for today, Cat,' Frank appealed to me, taking my hand. ‘Some of my family have particular views about behaviour suited to your sex.'

‘Not your mother, surely?' I protested.

He shook his head. ‘No, she would probably tell you to put your boots on and take a gun with you. No, I was thinking of Cousin William. He's come up from Bristol especially for the shoot and to be introduced to my friends. I don't want him to meet you for the first time and get the wrong idea. I want him to like you; I want
you
to like him.'

Frank's cousin, William Dixon, had arrived late the night before. I knew Frank had been looking forward to this visit most among all the other company expected at Boxton for Christmas. He had described William with great affection, recounting many tales of previous holidays spent roaming the estate with them both getting into hilarious scrapes. According to Frank, over the last
few years William had sobered as he had taken over his father's shipping business in Bristol and been deluged with new responsibilities, but I sensed that Frank still felt a little in awe of the glamorous older man.

On the strength of this description, I was strangely eager to meet him too.

‘All right,' I conceded grumpily. ‘I'll behave.'

‘I'll stay with you if you like,' offered Pedro.

‘No, no, you go. I'll be fine.' Given that Pedro was a former slave, it was important that the other guests realized that he was in the household by invitation, not as a servant. Staying behind to entertain me would undermine his status. ‘Perhaps your mother will give me another singing lesson when she rises,' I suggested to Frank, trying to make the best of it.

Frank grimaced. ‘You know her. She won't leave her bedroom till well after noon.'

‘Then I'll find your tutor and badger him to translate a passage of Virgil with me.'

‘Sorry, he's going on the shoot too.'

I sighed. ‘In that case, I'll write to Lizzie
and Johnny and tell them what a scintillating time I'm having.'

Frank chuckled. ‘You do that. Send them my love, won't you?'

‘Frank, you really should write to your sister yourself.'

‘I know, but you're so much better at that kind of thing, Cat. It's one of the female accomplishments that you possess in abundance.'

‘Meaning I'm sadly lacking in the others?'

‘Well, you could pass the time improving your embroidery – or painting a screen.'

I poked Frank in the ribs, making him spill his devilled kidneys on his lap.

‘All right, all right: I surrender!' He held his hands up. ‘And I promise I'll take you riding this afternoon when we get back.'

So there I was, marooned in the morning room, waiting for someone to rescue me. I couldn't remember being bored ever before. Life at Drury Lane had been so busy; something was always happening, what with the bustle of rehearsals, the noise of set construction, the daily ebb and flow of
the audience as regular as the tides. And, of course, the excitement of each performance. I desperately missed watching Shakespeare and Sheridan acted out on stage. Despite having the library at Boxton at my disposal, the printed page was no substitute for a play. It was a madness worthy of Bedlam to expect anyone to be satisfied with Shakespeare from a book.

I was interrupted in my thoughts by the arrival of the post. Joseph, my favourite footman, brought me a letter on a silver plate.

‘This just came with the carrier, miss,' he said solemnly.

This was a rare event: a letter for me. Thanking him, I turned the envelope over with interest as I didn't recognize the handwriting. After breaking the seal, I unfolded the cheap notepaper:

Bow Street, 1 December

Dear Miss Cat,

I apologize for taking the liberty of writing to you, but our Syd always said you were a true friend, so I hope you don't mind. As you know, our boy was expected back in
October at the latest from his boxing tour but we've had no word from him or his manager. His father and I are going almost out of our wits wondering what to do. One of Syd's boys suggested we write to you and ask you to beg that young lord of yours if he can make enquiries on our behalf. The last news we had was that Syd was in Bristol. They tell me that this is not far from you so I hope it won't inconvenience you to ask around for us.

Yours in hope,

Mrs Joanna Fletcher

I folded the note and sat staring at the walls, no longer seeing the painted paper but remembering my oldest friend. Syd, the gentle giant, leader of the Butcher's Boys, missing! I didn't like it, and yet I also found it hard to imagine that he could have come to any harm. He was too skilled with his fists to fall prey to anyone wishing him ill. There had to be an explanation. He couldn't read or write, so perhaps it was just that he was delayed longer than he expected and had failed to get a message home. Take into consideration that he was with Mick Bailey, his manager, then it wasn't surprising.
Bailey was a piece of work: I wouldn't put it past him to persuade Syd into staying away if Bailey was still making money from his boxing matches. Mrs Fletcher need have no doubts about us helping her: Frank and I would do all we could to discover Syd's whereabouts. After all he'd done for us, we'd go to the ends of the earth to help him if we had to.

An excited barking and slamming of doors announced the return of the shooting party. I stopped myself running out into the hall and sat demurely with the letter folded in my lap like a proper lady. Frank burst in, his face reddened with cold, curly brown hair hanging damp with dew on his neck. He looked full of energy, invigorated by his morning's excursion.

‘Seven – I shot seven, Cat!' he said, rubbing his hands with delight. ‘What do you think of that?'

‘Poor birds, that's what I think.' I passed him the note.

The door opened again and Pedro entered, talking to a tall, handsome man who bore a family resemblance to Frank: same blue eyes and dark
hair, same lanky frame, though his shoulders were broader and his nose worthy of a Roman emperor. It wasn't hard to imagine he might be Frank's older brother.

Frank frowned over the letter but thrust it into his pocket as his guests arrived.

‘Ah, Will, this is the young lady I mentioned. May I present Miss Royal?'

Frank's cousin clicked his heels together and bowed most charmingly over my hand. ‘Miss Royal, a pleasure to meet you.'

I rose and curtseyed. ‘I'm very pleased you have joined us, Mr Dixon.'

‘I hope my young cousin here has not been neglecting you?' Mr Dixon asked, ruffling Frank's hair affectionately. ‘He kept us out far longer than expected chasing after an elusive eighth partridge.'

Frank grinned apologetically at his cousin. ‘But Will reminded me of my duty to my other guests so it lives to see another day.'

With the newcomer among us, it didn't seem polite to ask Frank what he thought of the letter. Mr Dixon might not appreciate a duke's son being
asked to run an errand for a butcher's wife. Frank obviously thought this too as he passed the letter to Pedro when his cousin's attention was engaged elsewhere. Instead we spent the time until dinner listening to Mr Dixon's lively talk.

‘I have my own small business in Bristol,' Mr Dixon explained modestly. Frank had mentioned a far from insignificant shipping concern with vessels all over the world. ‘It keeps me in this part of the country so I am thankful to have the delights of Bath to amuse me. I understand you like the theatre, Miss Royal?'

‘Like' was too feeble a word for what I felt about the stage.

‘Yes, sir, it is my passion.'

Mr Dixon gave me an encouraging nod. I realized then that he knew exactly who – and what – I was, but he didn't seem to mind. ‘So I suspected, Miss Royal.' He flicked a curious glance at Frank and I wondered if I had misunderstood him. Perhaps he thought my background a mark against me? But then he returned his attention to me and my doubts melted away in the warmth of
his expression. ‘Well, you must come to Bath. We have our own very good little theatre; you'll hardly miss Drury Lane. And then there are the balls and the assemblies – Frank can't keep you tucked away here at Boxton, depriving the rest of us of your company!' He turned to Frank, tapping his arm with mock outrage. ‘Cousin, I won't have it! You must prevail upon your mother to bring Miss Royal to the Assembly Rooms as soon as possible.'

I was flattered that Mr Dixon understood me. He seemed to realize what a torture it was to sit in the drawing room while everyone else was having fun.

‘Oh, do, please, Frank. I'd love to see Bath,' I pleaded.

Frank looked to his cousin who nodded his approval.

‘Of course, we'll all go,' announced Frank. ‘See, Cat, I told you Will would cheer us up. Now, what about that riding lesson?'

Reader,

 

Over time we have shared enough confidences for me to feel quite safe entrusting you with the story of how I came to be published. You may remember that I had an awful experience with a certain Mr Tweadle who stole my manuscripts and sensationalised them
*
.
From that day on I determined that my literary career was not going to be ruined by another such scandal, and fortune later favoured me when my stories were discovered by a lady scholar, Dr Julia Golding.
Julia (she has given me permission to be on first name terms) was once a diplomat in Poland and I feel that she is a kindred spirit, as I was once an envoy to a foreign country - France - myself. You cannot imagine how delighted I was when Julia, acting on my behalf, accepted awards for my first book, T
HE
D
IAMOND
OF D
RURY
L
ANE
. It won both the Waterstone's Children's Book Prize and the Nestlé Children's Book Prize. Julia, being something of a bluestocking, has also penned her own prose: R
INGMASTER
, THE C
OMPANIONS
Q
UARTET
, T
HE
S
HIP
B
ETWEEN
THE W
ORLDS
and D
RAGONFLY
.

If ever perchance I visit Oxford, she has assured me that she, her husband and children will always welcome me into their home.

 

*
For full details of his wicked exploits see DEN OF THIEVES.