The Suspect's Daughter (25 page)

The carriage rolled to a stop on Bond Street, and they turned their attention to shopping. First, they paid a visit at a Glover for riding gloves and evening gloves, and then at a millinery where Aunt Ruby ordered a hat to wear with her new walking gown. Lastly, they shopped for shoe flowers and hair ribbons. Jackson followed unobtrusively behind, carrying their parcels while they added to his burden.

Inside the shop, after an apologetic glance at the Runner posing as a footman, Jocelyn selected three pairs of shoe flowers that coordinated prettily with her ball gowns. Aunt Ruby desired several of different colors.

While her aunt deliberated over the selection, Jocelyn sidled up to Jackson and leaned against the wall near him. Keeping her gaze casually flitting over the wares in the shop, she said softly, “We’re almost finished. She’s just getting her shoe flowers and then we’ll return home so you can resume your investigation.”

“Shoe flowers?”

“Ladies wear them on dancing slippers. They’re pretty. And it’s unseemly not to wear them, you know.”

Jackson let out a small huff and shook his head. “Ladies and their fripperies.”

Jocelyn smiled. “I blame it on fashion. Perhaps it’s a secret agreement between fashion designers and makers of shoe flowers.”

Then, with Ruby still occupied, Jocelyn brought up the main reason she’d asked Jackson to accompany her. While keeping her focus on items on a shelf nearby, she asked Jackson quietly, “How long have you known Grant Amesbury?”

“Since before the war.”

“That long? How did you meet him?”

“We attended Cambridge together.”

A new curiosity seized her about Connor Jackson, a man who worked as a Runner and yet attended the university while most men of his social class lacked money for a formal education.

But she stayed focused on learning about Grant. “Do you know what happened to him during the war?”

“No details.”

She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. Finally, in an enormous breach of etiquette, she said, “I don’t mean to pry, but if there is anything you can tell me to help me understand him better, I’d be very grateful.”

“You’re going sweet on him?” He chuckled darkly. “I wish you luck. I don’t think he has much use for women, beggin’ your pardon, miss.”

“You can drop that servants’ speech with me, Jackson. But yes, at times, I think he is developing an attachment for me, but other times, he questions my motives as if I have some hidden agenda.”

“Most unmarried girls do, don’t they?” He grinned.

“He doesn’t think I’m trying to drag him to the altar, he thinks…well, I’m not sure what the thinks, but he scrutinizes any act of kindness as if there is an evil reason behind it.”

Jackson said nothing for so long, that she had almost given up on learning anything about Grant. Finally, he said, “All I know is that a woman he loved betrayed him and delivered him to the French.”

All sound inside the shop and street hushed as if the entire district gasped and then held its breath. What kind of heartless creature would betray a man and hand him over to the enemy? A spy? That was no excuse for toying with his heart.

Poor Grant. No wonder he viewed women with mistrust. Fate had dealt him a brutal hand. All the shoppers suddenly seemed shallow with vain and silly purchases, ignorant of the suffering of brave men like Grant, and her brother James, who fought for freedom in lands far away.

She searched Jackson’s face for more detail, but he shook his head. He either didn’t know more or refused to say. In little more than a whisper she asked, “Was he a prisoner of war long?”

Jackson straightened suddenly and said to someone over Jocelyn’s shoulder, “Allow me, ma’am.”

Ruby had approached with several parcels. With a smile, she handed them to Jackson. Though she cast an appreciative glance at the footman, she addressed Jocelyn. “Such a pretty selection today. I could hardly make up my mind.”

With effort, Jocelyn tried to hide her sorrow from her aunt by forcing a smile. “My, that’s a lot of shoe flowers. How many balls are you attending this season, Aunt?”

“Oh, one never knows. Invitations arrive almost daily, you know, and it’s best to be prepared. Not that I’m seeking another husband, but socializing is a nice diversion and I do so love to dance.”

Jocelyn nodded and turned her face away to give herself another moment to compose her expression. After enjoying an ice at Gunter’s Tea Shop, they returned home.

Inside the foyer, Jocelyn nodded at Jackson. “Thank you for taking time away from your other duties to accompany us.”

Jackson touched his hat and strode away. She waved farewell to the hope that she would learn more about Grant through his associate at Bow Street. She’d have to get creative to reach Grant’s protected heart.

Keeping to the twilight shadows, Grant made yet another pass around all sides of the decrepit wooden warehouse looking for signs of life. All remained quiet. No one had entered or exited the building in the hours that he’d been watching the place. He tried the door but found it locked. No matter. Grant picked the lock and crept in. Birds perched in the rafters, flapping at his intrusion. A few high windows let in what was left of the fading light, revealing the leavings of what appeared to be a vagrant’s abandoned camp beside a broken down desk. In one of the desk drawers, he found a copy of the rent, clearly listing Fairley as the new lessee, and a copy of a shipment of guns scheduled for tonight.

Someone had gone to a great deal of work to ensure Fairley appeared involved. Grant went back outside to await the shipment, if it ever arrived. Mist crept down the street, dampening Grant’s face. A ship bell clanged and dogs barked. Carts rolled past and dockworkers whistled as they strolled. The buildings seemed to crowd together as daylight waned. Sunset faded into the haze of fog and gathering darkness.

Through the swirling mist, a feminine form sauntered down the street, passing from one pool of lamplight to another. Grant frowned. Was that Maggie? The prostitute didn’t usually frequent this part of town. He tucked his hands into his pockets and strolled to her.

She straightened, and veered toward him. Her teeth flashed white in the semi-darkness.

“Maggie?” he said quietly.

“Well, well, fancy meeting ye ’ere, Mr. Smith. I hain’t seen ye in days. What brings you to me side o’ th’ streeet?” She gave him an openly flirtatious smile.

“I didn’t know you worked this street.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes, when it gits too quiet down th’ other way. Are you finally going to share yer night wit’ me?” She took a provocative step closer. Did he imagine her face had gotten thinner?

“I’ll share my evening taking you to Goodfellow’s.”

For the first time since their strange friendship began almost a year ago, she paused as if considering it. Then shook her head. “Not fer me. An’ ifn ye take me there, I’ll leave agin like I did ’afore.” She tugged her ragged shawl around her shoulders and raised her chin in a challenge.

Perhaps her resolve was weakening and she would eventually leave the streets. With any luck, she’d do it before she caught a fatal disease.

“If you change your mind, take a cab to Mrs. Goodfellow’s Institution. Tell her that Mr. Grant sent you. She’ll pay the jarvey for your cab fare and she’ll take you in and treat you well.”

Maggie grinned triumphantly. “Mr. Grant, is it, then?”

He nodded. It was the name by which most of the Runners and street contacts he’d made knew him, so he’d left that name with the reformer as well, just in case.

“And here I thought I’d always have to call you Mr. Smith.” She reached out and brushed light fingers over his hair. “You cut your hair.”

For a quick, mad second, he wished it were Jocelyn touching him so intimately. She’d done it so gently, and he’d wanted her to do it far longer than she had.

Maggie giggled. “You look like a real gentleman, Mr. Grant.”

Giving up on trying to rescue the light-skirt for the moment, he pointed his chin toward the warehouse where the shipment of guns was supposed to arrive, if the planted receipt were to be believed. The ramshackle building leaned against its neighbor. “Do you happen to know anything about that place?”

“Never seen no one there, at least, not th’ hours I’m out. But I think someone new bought th’ place. ’Bout a fortnight ago, a new lock ’ppeared on th’ door. ”

A fortnight ago—the time Bow Street learned of the plot, and that Fairley might be involved.

She cocked her head to the side. “Did you follow me ’ome, is that ’ow ye knew where I live?”

He scrambled to keep up. “I don’t know where you live.”

“Ye jes ’appened to be there last week when I saw ye?”

Oh, right, the week he’d been tailing Jocelyn, he’d also happened upon Maggie and her friend. He’d forgotten about that. “I was there on an errand, of sorts. I didn’t know you lived there.”

“With my friends. We share the rent.” She nodded and her face clouded over.

“Is something wrong?”

She shook her head and tried to smile but sorrow showed underneath.

He peered into her thin face. “Maggie, are you in trouble?”

“Naw, jes a bit worried ’bout my friend. Ye know her—ginger hair? She’s taken ill, is all.”

“Has she seen a doctor?”

She let out a mirthless laugh. “Don’t got no blunt fer the likes o’ them.”

Of course. Few people of her income level had money for an expensive doctor. “Apothecary, then?”

She nodded. “I got medicine fer ’er this mornin’.”

“I hope it helps.”

She quirked a sad smile. “Me, too.”

“Are you working here tonight because you spent all the money on medicine and now you need money for food?”

She let out a sigh and nodded. “Me usual street ain’t paying well ’nuff these days.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew half a crown. “Will this help?”

Her eyes lit up as if he’d handed her a whole bag of gold instead of a single coin. Then she took a step back and held up her hands in rejection. “Don’t take no charity. I work fer me blunt.” She turned an imploring gaze upon him. In the soft dusky light, she looked young and pretty and vulnerable. “Don’t ye think I’m pretty, even just a little? I can please ye, I can.”

“I’m not the type of man who pays for favors, and you know it.”

She slumped. Nearby, a cat crept by, crouched, and sprang on a rodent. The small predator carried its meal into a hole in a nearby building. The strong always preyed upon the weak. But not if Grant could help it.

He returned his focus on the girl. “Maggie, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

She looked doubtfully up at him, her mouth still turned down in disappointment. “I s’pose.”

“And just like you’re helping your sick friend by going hungry so you can pay for her medicine, I’m helping you by paying for your food.” He held out the coin to her.

She still hesitated.

He tried again. “Consider it payment for the information you gave me.”

Softly, resigned, she nodded.

As she reached for his coin, he fisted his hand over it. “Buy some food and go home. Don’t work tonight. Understand?”

She nodded, still resigned but with a touch of relief in her eyes. “Sure, sure, whatever ye say. Wit’ this, I won’t have t’ work for a week.”

“Good. Now be off with you.”

She walked with sure steps down the street and disappeared into the gathering fog.

The clattering of wheels and the clopping of hooves announced the approach of a cart. The shipment, perhaps? Grant slunk into the shadows to watch. A cart stopped in front of the warehouse, and a swayback horse stood with its head drooped. The driver leaped down from his seat and banged on the door. No reply. He paused, then banged again. He squinted at a paper in his hands.

The driver went to the horse, a nag really, and patted its neck. “Well, Nell, this ’ere is the right place. But no one ’ere to take me delivery. What do you say about that?”

The nag whinnied.

“Lor’ luv ye, yer right. I got mesself keys, I do.”

Grant stepped out of the shadows and began whistling a drinking ditty. As he reached the front door, he stopped and looked pointedly at the driver. “Ah, yer ’ere, are ye?” he said in his best Cockney.

“Aye, right on time.” The driver hesitated. “I didn’t know anyone was gunna be ’ere. Why’d they give me keys, then? Are ye Master Fairley?”

Grant sniggered. “Lor’ luv a duck! Do Oi look like a nob to ye? No, Oi ain’t Fairley. ’e’s ’ome ’avin’ a noice, juicy beefsteak while Oi’m out ’ere working me bones. You got me shipment, mate?”

The man nodded sympathetically and gestured to the cart. “All ’ere.”

Grant helped the man hoist a large, wooden crate and carry it inside. Good thing he’d already broken in or it would have appeared suspicious if the employee had to pick the lock. They carried in several cases, staggering under the weight.

The man handed Grant a crowbar. “Wan’ter check th’ goods?”

Grant took the crowbar and pried open one of the lids. Inside, nestled in straw, lay shiny new guns. As if he were doing a thorough job, he checked them all.

Grant nodded and said to the driver, “Buy ye a pint, mate?”

“Temptin’, but I gotta be on me way. Oh, a’most forgot. ’ere. I s’pose I should give you these back, since you’re in ’is employ.” He held out the keys.

After Grant pocketed the keys, they parted. Grant waited until the cart clattered away before slipping out and locking the door. Full darkness had fallen before his replacement arrived. The Runner, Connolly, nodded in greeting as Grant crossed the street to him. Briefly, Grant filled the Runner in on the developments.

Connolly listened intently and nodded. “I’ll follow anyone who shows up for the guns.”

“Good man.” Grant clapped him on the back. “Here are the keys to the warehouse the deliveryman gave me.”

Connolly tucked them away and virtually disappeared into the shadows. Bow Street was lucky to have Runners like Connolly.

A nearby pub provided dinner, after which Grant walked a circuitous route home. In an alley, he came across a footpad robbing a terrified young buck who should have been at a gentlemen’s club instead of out in the streets alone. Grant wrestled down the footpad, took his knife, and cuffed his hands before delivering him to the nearest magistrate’s office. The entire encounter didn’t even raise his pulse. When had such activities failed to feed his thirst for action, for teaching criminals a lesson?