Page 10 of Crimes, Conspiracies, and Courtship (Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 9

Late October

Gracechurch Street

“I ’d like to thank ye again for the opportunity,” Roger said, crumpling his cap in his hands, his gray-green eyes studying the pattern of the wool rug beneath his feet. The lanky young man seemed ill at ease in the O’Brien parlor. “First, ye save me hide, then ye give me proper work. It’s like bein’ waylaid was a miracle for Ma and me.”

Walters hid his grin. It turned out Roger Lynch was almost sixteen. The pouch he’d hidden in his boot was the rent money for the room he shared with his mother and two younger siblings. No wonder he’d have fought to the death. His family would have been evicted.

“You heal fast,” remarked Walters. The boy’s face was still bruised, but the swelling had receded, and scabs had formed over any scrapes. He moved his left arm gingerly but insisted it was fine.

“He’s young.” Paddy tousled the lad’s black hair and walked to the side table to pour a finger of whiskey. “Ain’t no favor, boyo. Ye work for it or get my foot up yer backside.”

“Yessir. When can I start?”

“Would you like to know your wage?” asked Harry. He’d asked around about the boy and found he was a hard worker and honest. The father had been run over by a hackney five years ago, and he’d been helping to take care of the family ever since. When he’d seen the boarding house Roger lived in, heard of the landlord’s reputation, Walters knew how easy it would be to make this family’s life better.

Roger blinked, then shrugged. “Any income Ma and me can depend on is good.”

“I’ll start ye at a shilling a day. You’ll be our gip, do whatever we need—running errands, hauling barrels, shopping with Mrs. O’Brien.” Paddy threw back the whiskey and smiled, peering down at Roger. “I may need ye five days a week or seven, depending on the week. Is dat acceptable?”

“Anything ye need, Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Walters. I’m yer man.” Roger’s eyes held hope. Hope for a decent wage, decent lodgings for his family, clothes, and food on the table. “Me ma does the best she can, washing clothes, mending, but ain’t never enough. And with winter comin’ on…”

“Well, ye work hard, boyo, and ye’ll get a wee raise when ye turn sixteen.” Paddy gave Harry a wink as he reached down to scratch his dog’s ears. “Let’s see what he’s made of, aye?”

“Aye,” agreed Walters. “Now go tell your mother to look for better lodgings.” He watched Roger back out of the parlor, murmuring more thanks. What was wrong with this world that the evil are able to thrive while the good must scrape to survive?

“He’ll be as handy as a skillet in da kitchen,” boomed Paddy, breaking into his thoughts. “We did a good t’ing, Harry. Saved more than just a lad today, saved an entire family.”

“Aye, but I wish we could do more.”

“We are. By going after men like da Duke of Colvin, we eliminate them who take advantage of da destitute.” Paddy clasped Harry’s shoulder. “’Tis a never-ending battle, ye know. We ain’t got da luxury o’ giving up.”

Walters shook his head. “No, we don’t. You taught me that a long time ago. Sometimes, though, it would be nice to see we’re making a mark.”

“You go to da Lynch’s new place when dey find it. Ye’ll see da mark we’re making.”

* * *

Early November

St. Giles, near Seven Dials

The fog was heavy tonight, soaking into his coat, covering any skin showing. The light breeze only served to move the mist around, so at times, Walters could see the door of the building, and then it was blurred. Paddy’s words echoed in his brain as he shivered. The cobblestones were slick, making it difficult to run if needed.

We ain’t got da luxury o’ giving up.

No, they didn’t. Colvin had moved his carnal desires out of Covent Garden and across Long Acre—closer to Seven Dials. The house the duke presently visited was known for catering to customers with special requests. An adventuress here charged extra for “exotic tastes.”

The man was courting the devil. Walters looked up at the weak light showing from some of the windows. This entire street was given up to “nunneries,” gaming hells, and gin houses. He pulled the collar of his wool coat more snugly around his neck and stomped his feet against the chill of the evening. He might blend in better wearing a working man’s dress, but he certainly wasn’t warmer.

A hackney turned onto the street, the horses’ hooves echoing against the stone, their breath sending puffy clouds to merge with the fog. It stopped in front of the house, and Colvin emerged. Walters moved quietly behind the conveyance, listening for the direction. He heard the duke give the address of his townhouse. His tone was jovial, so he must have gotten what he wanted. Nausea rolled through Walters, not wanting to think what the man considered enjoyable.

He’d report to Darby when the earl returned to Town. Tomorrow he would take his turn surveilling the earl’s house. And his sister. This little scheme of hers had blown into something much larger than he’d imagined. They had been meeting weekly at small museums or small parks off the main thoroughfares, but never any place where she would be easily recognized.

On their first visit to the Royal Menagerie, Lady Matilda had been stopped by a friend of her mother’s. Walters had wandered off and learned later that Miss Tilbot had claimed him as her beau. He didn’t like the deception but realized the necessity.

Another unhappy consequence was his growing attraction to Lady Matilda. It could lead nowhere except heartache for both of them. He recognized the desire, and often hope, in her clear blue eyes. They reflected his own. But he was glad he could help her.

Their meetings had indeed given her confidence with the opposite sex. She claimed to have entertained dinner guests at her home several times now. Lady Darby was pleased with her daughter’s progress, and Walters knew he must cut it off soon. The disappointment he would see on her face hurt his heart, but his hands were tied.

Just as he reached the corner, casting his gaze about the dark streets for a hackney to hail, he heard more voices coming out of the brothel. He looked over his shoulder and thought he recognized them. The man with the dark hair had been one of those involved in the insurance fraud. The scheme that had brought down his brother, Sampson’s, father. The other had attended the last few Spencean meetings on Cato Street.

Walters turned the corner and ducked inside an alcove smelling of urine. The men passed by him, continuing across the street. He waited a few moments, then followed them.

“They’ve got another shipment comin’ in next week to Mother Abby’s in Seven Dials. We’ll let the delivery get settled, then see ‘ow many we can pilfer. The Vicar wants us to sell ‘em to Molly’s in Whitechapel. If Abby gets ‘er usual half dozen, she’ll split ‘em up. We can sneak in through the alley and nab the ones kept off the kitchen.” The dark-haired man peered at his friend. “Ye ain’t thinkin’ of backin’ out, are ye?”

The other man shook his head. “No, Robert. I just don’t want to get caught. I got a family to support.”

“Like I don’t?”

Robert Dunn , that was his name. What was he up to? The evening was taking an interesting turn. Was the man working for Colvin? Could this be the link to connect the duke with the Spenceans?

“Sure, ye’ve got a wife,” said the other man. “But I got four tykes. They’ll starve if I get caught.”

“Ye’re workin’ for the Vicar, now. He pays high wages. That comes with risks. Ye knew this when I brought ye in. Don’t start whinin’ just because things get a little thick.” Dunn elbowed his friend before turning in another direction. “I’ll see ye next week. Give the missus my regards.”

Walters stopped following the men, going over what he’d heard. What were they up to? Stealing a shipment of goods and reselling them. But what would a brothel be ordering?

Liquor, of course.

But who was the vicar they worked for? He shook his head. A man of God making a profit from stolen alcohol. Unbelievable. He’d pass this on to his brother, Gus. Between Colvin and the Spenceans, Walters had little time left in a day. Gus had just finished a case and could take over Robert Dunn’s trail. He’d also give Sampson another update when they met for their weekly breakfast.

* * *

The next night, Walters walked along the crescent of townhouses. Made of pale-yellow limestone, they seemed like a beacon in the night, standing tall and wanting to be seen. He wore his old coat, his shoulders hunched, and cap pulled low over his eyes. He passed by Darby’s portico with its deep-red door flanked by pillars and a carved plaster pineapple above the entrance. It was a beautiful home with bow windows gracing each side of the structure.

He made his way around to the back lane, stopping at the mews behind the small garden of Darby’s townhouse. The earl was away, and though he’d begun training Roger for surveillance, Walters didn’t want the boy on his own for a while yet. It was an unusually warm night for early November. The moon was full, and a slight breeze rustled the leaves of the tree above him. A narrow alley laid the boundary for the end of the properties along this street, and several homes had built mews to house their carriages and horses.

“I will, Mama. It’s just so beautiful out tonight that I thought I’d sketch the garden in the moonlight.”

His heart pounded in his ears. Lady Matilda found a spot on a stone bench and opened the familiar drawing pad on her lap. She wore a dark gown with long sleeves but no bonnet or cap. A heavy shawl warmed her shoulders. Moonbeams danced across her pale hair. Spun gold, he thought. She was so beautiful, inside and out.

She volunteered at the hospital and treated Miss Tilbot and Mr. Jones more like friends rather than servants. Class divide did not affect her view of people. When she looked at him, he felt ten feet tall, as if he could do anything.

Down the narrow cobblestone path, he saw a group of men in front of the mews at the end of the lane. Probably footmen or stable boys, loud enough to indicate the young men weren’t sneaking about. He stepped behind a tree instead of his usual spot in the shadow of the small stable, dressed in his usual disguise for this duty in Hanover Square. Even if the group spotted him, he doubted they would make much of a harmless old man. He turned his attention back to Lady Matilda and admired the arch of her back, the curve of her slender neck. If they lived in a different world?—

Lady Matilda stopped sketching and sat up straight, her head moving back and forth. She shivered, a delicate movement that made him want to wrap his arms around her. He imagined coming up behind her, placing his lips on her ivory neck, kissing along her jaw, slowly making his way to her mouth. The only time he’d touched her—more than a hand on hers, tucked in his elbow as they walked—had been during their second visit to the Royal Menagerie.

“They are such beautiful beasts,” Lady Matilda said as they passed the lion.

“Though I hate to see them caged and teased.” Walters always hated seeing a wild animal contained, stolen from their natural habitat. “They are majestic beasts, kings of their homeland.”

Two women and a small boy approached the cage. Walters and Lady Matilda watched as the women chatted and ignored the youngster. He had pulled half a meat pie from his pocket. He held it toward the lion, who moved closer and began to sniff the air. As the animal approached, the boy dropped a stick from his sleeve, carved to a tip at one end.

As the lion came near the bars, the boy struck out with his stick. The lion let out a low rumble, attracting the attention of the women.

“I told you not to tease the animals,” scolded one woman, then returned to her conversation.

The boy grinned, saw the women were again distracted, and held out the meat pie again. When he lifted his hand with the stick, Lady Matilda stepped in front of the lad and snatched the boy’s weapon.

At the same time, the lion’s huge paw came through the bars above Lady Matilda’s head. Walters surged forward and pulled her away, just as the beast’s claws came down, ripping the shawl she wore.

She tumbled into his chest with a squeak, and his arms went around her by instinct. When she gazed at him, fear and… trust?… in her ocean-blue eyes, lips trembling, his heart surrendered. It took all his self-control not to press his mouth to hers.

“Is anyone there?” She stood now, walking toward the back of the garden.

Had she heard the men at the end of the lane? Or had she sensed his presence? The latter thrilled and terrified him at the same time.