Trouble With Harry (21 page)

“Harry?”

“Harry, my aunt's new husband. Lord Rosse. He's a marquis, and I don't think he'd take kindly at all to being robbed, so I would appreciate it if you'd strike his house from your list of possible sources of revenue.”

Nick almost choked, pushing his wet hair back from his head to glance at the children running ahead of them. These unrecognizable monsters were Harry's children? True, he'd been away at Oxford having an education pounded into him the last few years, but had it really been so long since he had seen them? He counted and found it had been almost five years since he had accompanied his father and stepmother to Rosehill.

Thom was looking at him with a worried frown. He hastened to reassure her. “I think I can swear without any difficulty never to rob Lord Rosse.”

“Oh, good,” she said with obvious relief, pausing before they crossed a busy street. “I was hoping you'd see reason. Harry isn't as big as you are, but my aunt says he's fought duels. Of course, he wouldn't challenge you to a duel since you aren't a gentleman, but still, I imagine he'd thrash you soundly if you were to rob him.”

“Undoubtedly so,” Nick answered, about to explain to her that he might not be a nobleman, but he was a gentleman. When they stepped into a narrow alley between two houses, down which the children had run, he assumed it was a shortcut to Harry's town house. But before he could say anything, Thom gasped and darted forward.

Ahead of them, about twenty yards away, the children were yelling in horror as they ran toward them, looking over their shoulders at a carriage that bore down on them, the coachman slumped sideways in the seat as if he had fainted, the horses foaming as they thundered unchecked down the confined passage.

Nick took in the children, horses, and distance to safety in one quick glance as he raced after Thom. There was no way he could get the children out of the alley, and not enough room to hope the carriage would pass cleanly by. The horses were wild and obviously heavily panicked, and there was no guarantee they wouldn't plow down anyone who stood in their path. The only solution was the miniscule rubbish area for the house on the left. If he could get the children there, they would be safe.

He passed Thom, who had evidently had the same thought since she was waving her hand to the left and yelling at the children to run to the rubbish area. He ran past an oncoming India and Anne, snatching the youngest boy out of Digger's arms.

“Run,” he yelled at Digger, lunging awkwardly after him. Thom had reached the girls and was shoving them into the area, Andrew following. The horses screamed behind him, the clatter of their hooves deafening in the confined space, drowning out even the pounding of blood in his ears. The horses were almost on him, flecks of equine saliva splattering his back. With one last desperate burst of strength, Nick threw himself out of harm's way, curling himself to protect McTavish from slamming up against the wall. The horses charged past just as he hit the brick wall, the carriage ripping by them with such force that the boxes of rubbish were knocked to the ground behind it.

“Stay here,” Nick shouted, getting to his feet and running after the carriage.

“Nick!” Thom yelled after him, but he didn't stop. If those horses continued down the street, someone else would be in danger. He ran out the end of the alleyway, skidding to a stop at the street. The coachman was sitting up, the reins firmly in his hands as he shot a look over his shoulder toward the alley. At the sight of Nick he whipped up the horses, barreling down the street without regard for anyone else.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Plum said to herself, standing behind a bust of Shakespeare, a ribbon draped around its neck. She consulted an open book. “
Slip
the
noose
over
the
forefinger
of
the
right
hand
…yes, I've done that.
Pick
up
the
remainder
of
your
garroting
cord
with
the
left
hand
while
silently
approaching
your
victim.
Silently, that is the key, isn't it? Where was I…?
Use
your
left
hand
to
throw
the
noose
over
the
head
of
your
victim
…mmm…
twist
it
tightly
…
victim
at
arm's length
, yes, yes, I've done that…
strangling
should
be
instantaneous
…well, pooh.”

Plum frowned at Shakespeare. She couldn't imagine that it would be easier to throttle Charles, and yet here she was unable to successfully manipulate a ribbon around a statue. She held little hope that she would do better with a sturdier cord and a live person.

“I'm just not applying myself,” she said, taking her ribbon from the statue. “It can't be that difficult. The book says the element of surprise is the most important part. Very well, I will practice until I am sure of myself.”

Plum made a loop with her right hand, and whistling a sprightly air, casually strolled toward the bust of Shakespeare as if she was taking an innocent walk in a garden, the thought of garroting a man to death the furthest thing from her mind. As she approached the bust, she threw the ribbon over Shakespeare's head, jerking back quickly as the book said, only she had forgotten that the bust was not fixed to anything.

“Eek!” she shrieked as the bust flew backward past her directly toward the door, which opened at that moment to admit Thom.

The bust crashed into the wall beyond, fracturing into a dozen plaster pieces as it struck the hardwood floor.

“What on earth are you doing, Aunt Plum?”

Plum allowed herself a heartfelt sigh as she fluttered the ribbon toward the broken bust. “Trying to garrote Shakespeare, but it's no use, I am simply no good at all at strangulation. It will have to be something else, and I just don't think I'm up to shooting him.”

“Shooting who?” Thom asked as she stepped over the remains of Shakespeare, closing the door behind her.

“Charles,” Plum answered, then noticed her niece's gown was sopping wet. She put her hands on her hips and gave Thom her best scowl. “Didn't I tell you not to let the children swim in the lake?”

Thom waved that away, her cheeks bright with excitement. “It was the mice, the little devils smuggled the mice onboard the boats and didn't tell me until it was too late. You'll never guess what happened on our way home!”

“You received a good number of indecent proposals from gentlemen who thought you were practicing the dubious art of dampening your muslin?”

“No, the children were almost run over by runaway horses! It was very exciting, and I'm sure we would all have been killed if it had not been for Nick. Why are you trying to kill Shakespeare?”

Plum's knees gave out. She sank bonelessly to the chair, her heart beating widely. “It's not good for me to be excited or startled. I must be calm, for the babe's sake, I must be calm.”

“Are you carrying?” Thom asked, kneeling beside her aunt. “You must be thrilled. Have you told Harry?”

Visions of little coffins danced before her eyes. “The children—they're all right? All of them?”

“Oh, yes, didn't I say that? Nick saved them. He's very brave, even if he is a burglar. He walked us home, as a matter of fact. He wanted to see Harry, no doubt for a reward, but Harry's not home yet so I told him to come back later. Aunt Plum? Are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

“A burglar saved you?” Plum asked in a weak voice. Her head was spinning in such a way that she was sure she was going to swoon, but she was not the swooning type and made an effort to get a hold of her tumultuous emotions.

“Yes, he was walking us home. He really does have nice manners, especially for a ruffian.”

Then again, there was something to be said for a good swoon. “Thom?”

“Yes?”

“Why were you allowing a burglar to escort you home?”

“He's a very
nice
burglar,” Thom said, twisting her damp skirt between her fingers. “I'm sure if you were to meet him, you'd see that right away.”

Plum tried to think of something to say to that, but she was having a little difficulty putting her thoughts into words. “The children are all right?” she asked again, not being able to think of much else.

Thom nodded, smiling as she patted Plum's hands. “Yes, they're fine, a little wet, but no harm done. I sent them up to Gertie and George to change into dry clothing. Who is the Charles you want to kill?”

“Charles, my Charles, or the Charles who used to be mine, not that he ever really was, a fact I find myself profoundly grateful for now that I have Harry.” Plum's mind, a bit dazed, was beginning to return to her normal state of lucidity. She would have to tell Harry about the latest accident concerning the children. Perhaps if he thought they were too headstrong in town, he would send them all home, and then Charles wouldn't have the opportunity…oh, but that wouldn't work. Even if Harry did send them home, he would stay, and Charles would simply avoid him while spreading the news about Plum far and wide. No, she'd have to stay where she was and deal with him.

Thom sucked in her breath. “I thought he was dead.”

“So did I. He isn't. He's very much alive, and blackmailing me.”

Thom's jaw sagged. Knowing her secrets were safe with Thom, Plum filled her in on the morning's conversation with Charles, ending with her solution to the problem.

“You're going to kill him?” Thom asked, her eyes wide.

“I don't see any other way around it, do you?”

“Hmm.” Thom thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I think you're right, the only way you'll ever truly be free of him is if you silence him forever. How are you going to do it?”

“I have no idea,” Plum answered, somewhat pettishly she knew, but if anyone had a right to be pettish, surely she had. “The book I borrowed from Hookham's is about methods of execution, not how to eliminate a blackmailer. I don't suppose Charles would willingly put his head in a noose or allow himself to be drawn and quartered. There's shooting, but I don't own a pistol, let alone know how to shoot one.”

Thom rose to her feet and paced the length of the room. “How about setting his house on fire?”

Plum waved that offering away. “No, that would harm others, and no one else should suffer for Charles's sins.”

“Mmm. Well, there's drowning.”

“Difficult to arrange.”

“Bow and arrow?”

“My aim is very poor.”

Thom stopped in front of her. “What about poison?”

“I wouldn't know what to give him. Oh, this is ridiculous,” Plum said, getting to her feet to pace with Thom. “We are two intelligent, well-educated women. You would think we would be able to think of something so simple as the way to kill a man.”

“You're the one with literary skills,” Thom pointed out. “What would you do if you were writing this in a book?”

“Arrange for a convenient accident to eliminate him from the plot,” Plum snapped, then sat down and burst into tears. It was useless! As hard as she tried to justify to herself the act of killing Charles, she just couldn't condone the taking of his life. And now because she was so weak, Charles would tell everyone who she was, and Harry would leave her, and she would ruin the children's lives, and Thom's, and her poor babe's, and life would be horrible, and she would end up in the ditch with the earthworm, and why oh why didn't Charles drown when everyone said he did?

“I'm so sorry, Aunt Plum. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. It's hopeless. No one can help me now.” Despite her gloomy words, Plum gave herself a mental shake. She had to think her way out of this horrible situation. She would not allow Charles to ruin more lives. If she couldn't kill him, what would stop him from blackmailing her? A threat? Bribery? Or what about a scandal so horrible the threat of it being made public guaranteed his silence?

Thom wrung her hands and paced nervously, periodically stopping to pat Plum on the shoulder, murmuring little things about it being all right, but Plum was oblivious to it all as she turned over several ideas of manufactured scandals that might do the job of silencing Charles on the subject of her own past. “I think, perhaps, that is my only option,” she said softly, renewed determination flaring within her. “Yes, it is. But I will need help with the plan…someone to carry out my instructions. Someone unsavory who won't mind getting his hands dirty, so to speak.”

“Help? Instructions?” Thom's air of distress quickly dissipated. “With your plan for Charles, you mean?”

“Yes,” Plum answered, distracted by the sudden fertile fields of imagination that opened before her as she contemplated the many options of coercing Charles into holding his tongue. She was more than a little bit relieved that she wouldn't have to use threats or try to find the money to bribe him. Her way was much simpler. She would pay someone to create a potential scandal so hideous in its nature, Charles would be forced to give up his blackmail in order to stop her from enacting the plan.

“I know just the man to help you!” Thom clutched Plum's hands in hers, pulling her to her feet. “He will do anything you desire. He's bright and intelligent, and if you tell him what you want done, he'll do it!”

“What? Who?” Plum asked, wondering if a brainstorm could strike someone as young as Thom.

“Nick!”

“Who? Oh, your burglar?”

“Yes, him!” Thom hugged herself and spun around again. “Nick is very unsavory, in a savory polite sort of way. He wouldn't mind doing anything you asked of him, even…er…you know.”

Plum blinked at her niece in confusion.

“What you mentioned,” Thom said in an undertone. “You know, the unsavory things.”

“Ah.” She was referring to the scandal. Plum thought on that for a moment. Thom's burglar might just fit the role of scandalmonger very well. A man in his line of business certainly couldn't object to helping her with her righteous cause. “It has merit. I wouldn't have to effect the act myself, which I will admit has been causing me some worry. Very well, I will speak with this burglar of yours, but I make no promises! It behooves me to keep all avenues open. I will continue to investigate possible men I can employ until I know whether or not your burglar can do the job, or find someone to do it for me. Thank you, Thom! You might just have saved all our lives.”

***

Harry, returning home from a quick meeting with a couple of handpicked Bow Street Runners, was surprised to learn that there was a person of obviously low repute awaiting him in his study. He was even more surprised when that unsavory person turned out to be his godson.

“Nick! What the devil are you doing soaked to the skin, and in such repulsive clothes?” Objectionable garments notwithstanding, Harry hugged his godson, noting to himself that Nick—who had always resembled his father—was now the spitting image of Noble. They shared the same black hair, gray eyes, and big frame. “You've grown since I last saw you,” he added. “You've got one or two inches on me now.”

Nick didn't respond to the banter, although he did give Harry a bone-crushing hug. “Papa said you'd hung up your spy hat years ago. You're not doing another job, are you?”

Harry, mildly surprised by the serious look in Nick's eyes, shook his head and waved toward one of two calfskin chairs. Although he hadn't seen Nick for a few years, it wasn't hard to see that the young man had done a bit of growing up since last they'd met. He did a bit of arithmetic and was surprised to find that Nick was now twenty-three years of age. Had it really been so long? “No, not really. I'm doing a bit of looking into something that happened years ago, but not a job, not a real job. Why do you ask?”

“Someone tried to kill your children this afternoon.”

Harry shot up out of the chair and was halfway to the door before Nick's voice stopped him. “They're all right, Harry. Thom was there, as was I. No one was hurt. I escorted them home, just to be sure another attempt wasn't made.” Nick frowned and pulled at his lower lip. “I'm fairly certain it was an attempt on their lives, but I suppose it could have been just an accident…”

The word
accident
resonated in Harry's mind. Plum had been concerned about the number of accidents the children were having of late…but that was foolish. They were random accidents caused by the children's heedless determination to do whatever fool thought entered their collective heads.

Or were they?

“Tell me what happened,” Harry said slowly as he returned to his chair, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. “Tell me everything that happened.”

Nick narrated a story that sounded all too familiar—the children sending mice out to sail their wooden boats—but cold chills shivered down his neck at the retelling of the near miss with the runaway carriage.