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She looked at the worn-leather violin case. Thank God she’d had it with her the afternoon Papa had sold her books and music. He’d been furious that the violin had not been there to sell as well.
Luckily he had won that night and had forgotten about selling the instrument the next day. Now she either took it with her or hid it. And she hadn’t told her father the truth—that, courtesy of Fitch, she had found a way to earn enough money to feed herself.
Chapter Two (#ulink_c85ef0a5-867a-5752-a240-4abd0de37c28)
Jig waited as Kilby’s pen scratched across the big ledger. Wonderful it were, how the man could write so quick an’ all. Not that Jig had any use for book learning—he did all right. Too much book learning could make a fellow soft. But there was no doubt that Kilby had kept his edge, right enough.
The pen slowed and sand was sprinkled across the page.
Kilby looked up. ‘Your report, Jig.’
Jig, so named because he’d narrowly escaped dancing a hempen jig as a boy, shifted under Kilby’s flat stare.
‘Found ’is nest, guv.’
Kilby stretched his arms and set his hands to either side of the ledger. His smile, to Jig’s way of thinking, weren’t real encouraging. Nor his fingers, drumming on the desk. Jig watched, narrow-eyed. The left hand it were—the one near the knife. Word was that Kilby drumming his fingers meant he was annoyed. Further word said that the first a man knew of Kilby reaching for the knife was the realisation that his difficulty breathing had to do with the knife buried in his windpipe. Nor a smart cove didn’t discount the pistol near Kilby’s right hand neither.
‘Two days since I set you on to find Hensleigh, Jig,’ Kilby said. ‘Two whole days. I note you only say you’ve found his nest. But perhaps that’s just your roundabout way of saying you have found the man himself?’
Jig swallowed. ‘As to that, guv, I ain’t found ’im as such. Seemin’ly ’e’s away. No one ain’t seen ’im.’
The fingers stopped drumming and Jig breathed a mort easier. Kilby was usually open to reason.
‘Away?’
‘That’s it, guv. Can’t find a cove who ain’t there, but I got ’is hole.’
Kilby nodded. ‘But if he’s left his hole, Jig, then it is no longer his hole. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Reckon ’e’s comin’ back, guv.’ Cold sweat trickled down his spine. ‘Got a girl there.’
This time the fingers of Kilby’s right hand—the one near the pistol—started drumming. ‘Jig, men abandon women all the time. What makes you—?’
‘Reckon this is different, guv.’ Jig cleared his throat. ‘Seems the wench is ’is daughter.’
Kilby’s fingers stilled. ‘A daughter? He’s kept that very quiet.’
Jig relaxed a little. ‘Yeah. An’ it ain’t hard to see why, neither.’ Remembering the tasty-looking little redhead, he licked his lips.
‘Ah. Pretty, is she?’
‘Ripe as a plum ready for pluckin’,’ Jig assured him. He’d been tempted to do a bit of plucking himself, but he knew better than that. More than his life was worth if the wench turned out to be of interest to Kilby.
‘Hmm.’ Kilby leaned back, frowning. ‘The question will be, has someone plucked the plum already?’
Jig said nothing. For himself he didn’t much care if a wench were already broke to saddle. But an unbroken ride was worth a mint in some quarters.
‘Well, never mind.’ Kilby said. ‘Since Hensleigh has a saleable asset I’ll get back the money he bilked me of with the Moresby boy’s vowels. You can go now, Jig.’
Jig hesitated. The rest of his information might not be so welcome, but information was information. Kilby liked to know everything. ‘Got a bit more, guv.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a gent sniffin’ around.’
Kilby sat up slowly. ‘Sniffing where? Not here?’
‘Nah.’ Jig shook his head. ‘Heard him askin’ around about Hensleigh. That’s how I tracked Hensleigh.’
‘After the girl?’
Jig scowled. ‘Could be. But he found out Hensleigh mighta gone to Bath.’
Kilby raised his brows and Jig expanded. ‘The gent asked some lads. Got told Hensleigh’d been down the Bolt. So I follered ’im and sure enough ’e goes down there an’ starts askin’ round. Seems Hensleigh or a bloke like ’im took a ticket for Bath.’
Kilby let out a breath. ‘The odds are high Hensleigh owes him money, too.’ He considered. ‘Or he might just be after the girl.’
‘Might be both,’ offered Jig.
Kilby nodded. ‘Yes. He might have come looking for his money and now be wondering if he should just take his winnings out of the girl’s hide.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Check at the Cockpit who Hensleigh lost to recently. And watch his lodgings. If the same gentleman shows up again, find out where he lives, or get a name.’
‘Aye, guv.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Asked about you, he did.’
Kilby’s hands clenched to fists. ‘Did he now?’ His voice was very soft and Jig tensed. ‘Did he get an answer?’
Jig shook his head. ‘Nah. No one said nothin’.’
Kilby nodded. ‘Very wise. Anything else?’
Jig hesitated. This went against the grain, so it did, but he valued his life and folks that held out on Kilby tended to find that their lives ended unexpectedly. ‘The boy—Fitch.’
‘What about Fitch?’
Jig shuffled. ‘Seemin’ly ’e’s hangin’ around the wench, too. Heard one of they lads say as how ’e gives ’er money.’
Kilby’s fist clenched. ‘Is he now? Isn’t that interesting? It might be an idea to keep an eye on him, as well. His earnings have been down recently. Find out why.’
‘Aye, guv.’
‘You’ve done quite well, Jig,’ Kilby said. ‘I’m impressed.’
* * *
It was probably a waste of time to call at Hensleigh’s lodgings again. James told himself that as he strolled along the north side of the Strand the next day. His visit to the Bolt-in-Tun had netted the information that Hensleigh had bought a ticket for Bath. James had discarded the notion of driving down himself. Tracking Hensleigh would take time and might alert him. The last thing he wanted was for the fellow to run altogether.
The man had to return sooner or later to his daughter. But he wouldn’t wager a farthing against Hensleigh finding another bolt hole, so keeping a close eye on said daughter made complete sense.
Lucy.
He lengthened his stride. Her name was no concern of his. Nor was she, or her soft coppery curls, any concern of his. Except that she was damnably inconvenient. She might not be any concern of his, but he couldn’t quite put aside the niggling question of her fate if he brought her father to utter ruin.
Fitch’s real friendly with Lu. Gives ’er money sometimes, ’e does.
He gritted his teeth. It was highly likely that Lucy Hensleigh had already guarded against being tangled in her father’s fate in the form of the friendly Fitch. Not hard to imagine what a man would give her money for.
You could do better for her than the sort of protector she’ll have picked up around here...
He pushed the thought aside. It would be tantamount to blackmail. ‘I’m going to ruin your father. Bed with me and you won’t go down with him.’ Charming, and he was damned if he wanted an unwilling mistress. He doubted Miss Lucy Hensleigh liked him above half, anyway. There was no reason why she should like him and she would like him even less if she uncovered his deception. He didn’t much like himself for having done that.
She’d like you well enough if you were getting her out of the gutter...
As it was...the merry, dancing sweep of a violin scattered his thoughts. He slowed, glanced around and spotted the fiddler on the other side of the narrow street near a corner. And frowned. It was a lad. But the sound of that particular fiddle, and the dancing, jigging tune seemed familiar. He looked more closely at the lad.
A mere stripling, barely breeched from the look of him, he wore an ill-fitting shabby coat and a cap hid his hair. A pale cheek was tucked lovingly against the mellow timber of the instrument as he stroked magic from it. Another cap lay at his feet. As James watched several people tossed in coins. Another, smaller boy hovered nearby.
Dodging between the traffic, James crossed to the south side of the street. He felt in his pocket and found a coin. Not seeming so much as to glance at the fiddler and his companion, James dropped the coin in the cap as he passed.
* * *
Lucy watched Mr Remington go as she continued to play. Her stomach had tied itself in knots. Why, she had no idea. It was no bread and butter of his if she kept herself from starving by playing in the street. Although, since he already owed Papa money, she supposed he might be annoyed if he’d realised whose cap he’d dropped money into. She glanced down and her playing faltered. A crown gleamed fatly amongst the pennies and farthings—more than she’d earn in a week.
‘Fitch—’
He was already scooping it up. It disappeared safely into some fastness in his clothing. Sometimes people would pretend to lean down to put money in, but actually take money out. Fitch’s watchful eye prevented that, for which she gave him a share of the take. The crown meant money for the rent and a hearty meal for both of them tonight.
‘Generous cove,’ he said.
‘He’s the one I told you about.’ Lucy kept playing.
‘Right.’ He stepped back, leaning against the wall again.
Lucy changed the tune, sliding into a sentimental ballad she’d heard someone singing the week before. She played with the melody, embellishing it here, tweaking it there. A few people stopped to listen and more coins tinkled in the open case. She smiled, nodding thanks as they moved on, and slipped back into a dance tune.
‘Bloke’s comin’ back,’ Fitch muttered.
Her breath caught as she played, watching from the corner of her eye as Mr Remington passed on the other side of the street. This time he didn’t glance their way and the twisting knot in her belly loosened. Clearly he’d gone to her lodgings, found her not there and left.
She played on, smiling as people left coins, keeping a watchful eye on the weather, trying not to think about Mr Remington. He meant nothing to her. She had to think of important things—such as how to climb out of the hole her father was digging for them.
You could write to Uncle Bertram—Aunt Caroline might write you a reference. She might know someone who needs a governess, or a companion.
Four years ago, after Grandmama died, they had forced Papa to take her away, since they had not wished to house her. A reference would not cost them anything. Except of course they would probably refuse to pay for the letter she sent them.
A chilly breeze skittered along the pavement, fluttering skirts and awnings, bringing with it the steely scent of rain. Thunder rumbled a warning in the distance. She looked up at the sky; heavy clouds threatened.
‘Reckon it’s time to pack up.’ Fitch was watching the sky, too. ‘No folks’ll be willing to part with a groat if ’n it comes on to rain like it’s makin’ to.’
Lucy was already loosening her violin strings. She wouldn’t risk a drenching for her elderly instrument. She slid the violin and bow back into the case propped against the wall behind her and fastened the hinged end.
She looked at Fitch. ‘Are you hungry? I am.’ A slight understatement, that. She was starving. Last night’s dinner had been scanty and there’d been nothing for breakfast either this morning or yesterday.
‘Yeah.’ Fitch scooped up the day’s take.
‘Well,’ Lucy said, ‘we could break that crown buying dinner and split the remainder.’
The boy nodded. ‘No one won’t notice you in them clothes if we go to the Maid an’ Magpie. Not if you don’t speak too much.’
Lucy’s stomach flipped. No one ever seemed to notice that the ‘lad’ playing fiddle was in fact a lass, but she’d never gone into a tavern.
‘Walk into the Maid in yer own clothes an’ you’ll get yer bum pinched or worse,’ Fitch said. ‘An’ if you do go back an’ change there’ll be more folks in there. Come on,’ he urged. ‘Be raining frogs in a coupla minutes.’
She dragged in a deep breath. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
He gave her a cheeky grin. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ll see. The Maid does a bang-up steak-an’-kidney pie.’
* * *
The bang-up steak-and-kidney pie warmed Lucy as she hurried home along the rain-slicked street. As well as her fiddle, she had more food tucked under her arm. She had taken off her coat and swathed the violin case in it and she broke into a run as the tunnel leading into Frenchman’s Yard came in view. In addition to the bread and cheese she had bought for breakfast, and the treat of a bag of jellied eels for supper, there was a whole shilling left over for the rent. Tomorrow she could earn more money, although she couldn’t hope for such luck as had favoured her today.
She ducked into the shelter of the tunnel and eased back to a walk, catching her breath. For once no one was snoring off a pint of gin in the putrid passageway. She held her breath and hurried through, coming out blinking into the relatively fresh air of the yard.
Although the rain had eased, the wind had turned bitter, slicing to the bone, and she dashed across the yard and into the lodging house. Her landlady did not look out from the kitchen door at the back of the dingy hall and Lucy hurried up the stairs, ignoring the ominous creaks.
She dug into the pocket of her breeches for the key and pulled it out, juggling her fiddle and the package of food. Her cold fingers fumbled the key into the lock and turned it. Lord, she’d be glad to get out of these icy, sodden clothes. Perhaps when she gave Mrs Beattie the extra shilling, the woman would let her dry them, or even herself, by the kitchen fire. Sometimes Mrs Beattie could be obliging about things like that. And sometimes not. Although an extra shilling was an excellent sweetener for the woman’s uncertain moods.
Closing the door, she breathed a sigh of relief. Home. Such as it was. With a shilling and supper.
‘A profitable day, Miss Hensleigh?’
Her breath jerked in on a startled gasp as she dropped the key and whipped around, bobbling her belongings. Somehow she saved the violin, grabbing it frantically as it slipped, but the food scattered on the floor.
Back pressed to the door, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, she saw Mr Remington rise frowning from the chair by the empty grate. Sick fear swooped through her with understanding. He’d recognised her. Known she was out and deliberately let her see him leave. Then he’d circled around to wait, realising that she’d never come home alone knowing he was here.
She found her voice through the choking fright. ‘Mrs Beattie will come up if I scream.’ She hoped. Mrs Beattie ought not to have let him in.
Mr Remington’s frown deepened as he came towards her. ‘Why would you scream now, if you didn’t when I startled you?’
Was he an idiot? Or simply so arrogant he thought she’d welcome his attentions? She reached behind her for the door knob just as he bent to pick up the fallen loaf of bread. She stared.
‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was barely a squeak.
‘Picking up your—ah, bread.’ He straightened. ‘Where should I throw this?’
‘Throw it? Just put it on the table, please.’
