Page 49 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)

Seventeen

Over a fortnight had passed since the attack on Sir Lancelot Briggs, and the surly proprietor of the Running Cat hoped that all questions regarding the doings in his tavern had finally ceased.

Since that fateful evening, Mr. George Nagle had been beleaguered by a succession of constables, Bow Street detectives, and even a magistrate.

Many of the activities at the Running Cat would not bear scrutiny by the minions of the law, and Mr. Nagle heartily wished that the Hook would be considerate enough to look elsewhere for his next victim.

As he swept out the taproom, he reflected it was the first peaceful afternoon he had known since that wretched night. The tavern was empty except for the sailor, old Tom, passed out beneath one of the benches as usual, and one other customer who stood sipping a pint of porter near the back door.

The quiet suited Nagle, who was in a bad humor, the lazy barmaid Jenny having neglected to clean up again.

The girl was only good for such occupation as involved her being flat on her back on one of the beds upstairs.

Nagle plied the broom with vigor, stirring up dust motes in the bright spring sunlight.

He did not feel up to greeting any customers, not even with his usual irritable growl.

But he straightened instinctively at the sight of the dark-haired gentleman who entered the tavern.

He was tall, the cut of his frock coat severe, his whipcord riding breeches immaculate.

Though the color was of a most somber hue, there was no mistaking the quality of the garments or the value of the signet ring the gentleman flashed on his lean aristocratic hand.

Nagle stared in momentary astonishment. His tavern was occasionally frequented by members of the nobility, but none like this gent, who looked mighty high in instep, his lip curling with distaste as he crossed the threshold.

Nagle had the odd feeling he had seen the man before. But he was discouraged from any further ogling by a pair of imperious dark eyes that stared him down, making Nagle feel it might be prudent to take shelter behind the bar.

“Afternoon, sir.” Nagle nodded, infusing his voice with more respect than he showed most of his customers. “How can I serve you? A pint of ale perhaps? Or I do have a tolerable brandy.”

“No.” A slight shudder appeared to course through the gentleman. “I am merely seeking information about something that happened two weeks ago.”

Dropping his respectful mien, Nagle bristled like a cat stroked the wrong way.

“I hope this is not about that bloody night that little fat fellow wandered out of here to get himself skewered, because I answered all the questions I’m going to on that score.

I am not going to be plagued with every constable this side of the river. ”

“Do I look like a constable?” the gentleman inquired icily with a lift of his brow. He drew an elegant calling card from his pocket and slid it across the counter.

Nagle squinted at this, his reading abilities none of the best. He was able to make out that he was dealing with a marquis of some sort, but that did little to ease Nagle’s belligerent stance.

“All I want to know,” his lordship continued, “is if you or any of your staff noticed when Sir Lancelot left the tavern and if he was alone.”

Nagle scowled, but gave a grudging reply.” I can only tell you, m’lord, the same as I told the magistrate. We cannot keep track of everybody’s comings and goings around here. I can hardly remember what happened last night, let alone two weeks ago.”

“But that night must have stood out in your memory. There was a fight, was there not?”

“That’s not such an unusual occurrence round here. Why must everyone keep bothering me about this business? Why not go ask your questions of the fellow best able to answer, that little Sir Whatsit that was attacked?”

“Because Sir Lancelot Briggs has never recovered full use of his faculties. He remains unable to speak of what happened to him.” The marquis’s hard stare did not waver, his haughty features, if anything, assuming a more rigid cast.

“Out of his wits, eh? Too bad,” Nagle grunted uneasily.

“But I cannot help you, m’lord. The most I recollect is that sometime after that brawl, the one gentleman as was fighting and that there Sir Briggs up and vanished.

And as for the blond-haired fellow that took the worst of the drubbing, when he managed to get to his feet, he left howling for blood and vengeance against the whole world.

Perhaps somebody ought to be asking that fine gentleman a question or two. ”

“I already tried. Sir Lucien has left London. Gone to Bath for the sake of his health, or so his butler says.”

“How convenient for him.” Nagle sneered. “I wish I was there myself.”

The marquis lowered his eves and Nagle found it a great relief to be spared any more of that piercing gaze.

But his tension returned as the marquis asked, “And what of this notorious footpad, the Hook? You must have heard something about him, some speculation as to his identity perhaps, some whisperings from your patrons?”

Nagle began to polish the mugs behind the counter with a scrupulous attention they had never received before. “I’ve only ever heard enough to know the Hook is one person I want to stay clear of, and if your lordship is wise, you’ll do the same.”

Nagle did not look up from his task, but he could feel the power of those dark eyes boring into him. He heard the marquis’s purse jangle as he laid it upon the counter. Nagle could not keep his eyes from straying to where his lordship fingered the soft leather in suggestive fashion.

“Are you certain you remember nothing else about the night Briggs was attacked?” the marquis purred.

Nagle licked his lips, but he had not entirely forgotten the presence of his other customer, the one who lingered in the shadows by the rear door.

Nagle said, “If I remembered anything, I would have said so.”

He could feel the weight of the marquis’s displeasure. But all his lordship did was to lay several pound notes by his calling card. “If your memory should improve, sir, I trust you will wait upon me. I could make it worth your trouble. My name and direction are written upon the card.”

Nagle nodded in jerky fashion. He did not feel able to breathe freely until the marquis had turned and strode back out of the tavern. Then Nagle pounced upon the card and the money, shoving them deep in the pocket of his dirty apron.

The customer who had been lounging at the back of the tavern now stepped up to the bar. Nagle tried not to give a nervous start.

“What was that all about, George?” the young man asked.

Nagle knew enough about Gideon Palmer not to be fooled by the deceptive pleasantry in Palmer’s voice.

The tavern host forced a shrug. “Only some high and mighty lordship with nothing better to do than bother an honest working man with a deal of questions he can’t answer.”

“Mandell,” Gideon muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Palmer stroked the scar that disfigured his chin. “So, what did his lordship wish to know?”

“Just a deal of nonsense about the night that Briggs fellow was attacked and about the Hook.”

“And what did you tell him my dear friend George?”

The question was soft, but Nagle felt the hairs prickle along the back of his neck.

“I had nothing to tell his lordship, did I?” Nagle blustered. “And I wouldn’t if I did. I have too much regard for my own skin and besides that, I have no patience for fellows as would squeak for a handful of coins.”

“At least that is one thing we have in common, George,” Gideon said with a silky smile. “Neither do I.”

Mandell urged his black gelding through the gates into St. James’s Park, the fresh smell of the grass and warm spring breeze dispelling the stench that clung to him from the Running Cat tavern, a noisome combination of sour spirits and stale smoke.

There was nothing so enlightening, Mandell thought wryly, as returning to the scene of one’s drunken revels when one was stone cold sober.

He had only returned to the tavern out of sheer frustration at Briggs’s continued silence.

Although Lancelot had recovered enough to sit up in bed, he seemed to retreat deeper into himself each day, shrinking from receiving any visitors, especially Mandell.

If Briggs’s assailant was to be apprehended, Mandell realized he would have to seek information from some other quarter.

Wheeling his horse into the leafy path that led toward the lake, Mandell grimaced at the image of himself visiting the tavern, playing at Bow Street Runner, a piece of pure foolishness that had gained him nothing.

He did not know why he had bothered. Briggs was obviously beyond caring whether the Hook was captured or not.

It would do little to aide his recovery or even assuage Mandell’s guilt to charge about acting like some heroic avenger.

What he needed to do was to forget the whole sad and frustrating affair and regain his aura of cool detachment, something that he strove to do as he drew back on the reins, checking both his own impatience and the gelding’s urge to break into a gallop.

Mandell focused his thoughts upon the rendezvous he had come to keep, in its own way a folly as great as his efforts to unmask the Hook. These visits to the park were a far sweeter pursuit, but equally as mad.

Since the weather had turned fine, Anne brought her daughter to St. James’s before the park became too crowded with young bucks showing off their flashy phaetons and ladies unfurling their parasols, determined to be seen abroad at the fashionable hour.

Mandell had taken to joining Anne and Norrie on their daily walk by the lake.