Page 5 of Crimes, Conspiracies, and Courtship (Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 4

The next day

Gracechurch Street, Cheapside

H arry tried to hurry through his breakfast before anyone joined him. His left jaw was now a lovely bluish-purple, and his right hand still tender from the bite. Being right-handed, he hoped there would be no need to plant anyone a facer in the near future.

“What in heaven’s name happened to ye?” asked Margaret O’Brien, shattering Harry’s plan of escaping unseen. Her auburn hair, streaked with silver that she blamed on her brood of seven, was tucked into a white mobcap. She wore a simple pale-rose muslin day dress which fit snugly about her rounded hips.

With a sigh of resignation, he set down his fork and looked at the woman who had raised him. A quiet growl escaped when he saw Paddy right behind her. Nearing sixty, the Irishman still towered over most men, his body large and solid with fists like anvils. His face was creased from both laugh lines and years, and his red hair had faded, but he could still make a younger man quake if pushed.

“Seems our boyo has been in a wee scrape,” his father said with a smirk. “Business or pleasure?”

“Neither.”

“’Tis a shame, it is.” Paddy moaned with a shake of his head. He sat down at the head of the table, Aonarach lying down next to him. “Did ye get jumped?”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. He couldn’t tell them what really happened. He’d be ridiculed for years to come.

“He tangled with a swan at St. James’s Park.” Honora O’Brien, the only daughter—and the only child raised from infancy by the O’Briens—stood in the doorway, her glorious red curls spilling over her shoulders and down her back. “Guess who won?”

“You can wipe the grin off your face, Sister. And how did you come by that story?” Harry knew, of course, but needed a moment to explain the incident in the best light.

“You were with Jack when it happened,” she said, meaning the stage manager of the theater where she was presently working. Nora Diamond, her stage name, was a vital part of the Peelers’ team. As a female, she could play a barmaid or flower seller or damsel in distress and eavesdrop on conversations the men could never get close to. “He told me all the details.”

“A bird got da best o’ ye?” Paddy’s ruddy face split with a husky guffaw. His blue eyes shone as he took stock of his eldest son. “Tell me it was a big one at least.”

Harry tossed a glare over his shoulder at his sister, shoveling in the last of black pudding so he could get away before he lost what little dignity he had left. “Little saucepot,” he mumbled.

Nora snorted, poured a cup of tea, and sat down next to him, squinting as she inspected his jaw. “Let me see the hand,” she demanded, holding out her hand for his.

He moved his right hand across his chest to show her. She held his fingers, then poked at the bite.

“Ouch, what the devil are you doing?” Harry snatched his hand back, sending another glower at his amused sister.

“Just wanted to see if it hurt,” Nora said innocently, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “Don’t be such a hen.”

Margaret pursed her lips, most likely to hide her own grin, and scolded her and her husband. “Da poor man is injured and ye ridicule him. I taught ye both better’n dat.”

“Thanks, Maggie,” Harry said with a smirk at Nora. Good lord, why did his sister bring out the boy in him with every argument? No matter, he loved them all.

“Correct me if I get anything wrong, dear Brother.” Nora turned to her parents. “According to Jack, he met Harry at St. James’s to give him some information on a patron. A woman screamed. Her boy had run off while she’d been speaking with a friend, and she panicked, not knowing where he was. Our dear Harry”—she paused to pat his bruised jaw—“saw the lad running for the lake and the mute swans. Knowing how vicious those creatures are, he took off running to intercept the toddler.

“He then proceeded to throw himself in front of the boy just as another swan joined the first in an attempt to peck the young boy to death.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, I think,” interrupted Harry.

“I’m an actress,” she reminded him. “Anyway, he did one of those athletic rolls, then popped up like he was on wagon springs?—”

“I did no such thing. It makes me sound like some odd children’s toy.”

Nora ignored his protest and continued, “I’m just repeating Jack’s version. Anyway, the mother had come around by this time and relieved him of her child, but the swan still wanted vengeance against poor Harry.” She pouted her lips and batted her eyes. “Now who will save the hero?”

Harry groaned, Maggie giggled, and Paddy slammed the flat of his hand on the table, rattling the teacups.

“Dis tale must get even better, boyo, for ye’re turning as red as yer sister’s hair.” Paddy slammed the table again.

“This brave man continued to back away from the swans, not wanting any trouble, but not realizing he was moving in the direction of their precious cygnets. One reached out and grabbed his hand, making Harry lose his balance and fall into the lake.”

“They didn’t follow him in?” asked Maggie. “Da fowl don’t usually give up so easily.”

Harry pushed his plate away, crossed his forearms on the table, and hid his head in them.

“Oh, they would have but a courageous, wisp of a lady ran to his defense and fought them off with her parasol.”

Oh the humiliation. Harry wanted to crawl under the table.

When Paddy finally took a breath, a tear leaking from his eye, he said, “We can’t let dis get around, boyo. It’d be bad for business.”

More laughter.

“Get yer head up, Son, and face it like a man. No hiding from things in dis family.” Paddy stood and went to the sideboard to fill a plate. “I’d like to meet da lass who saved ye from da wicked fowl.”

“That’s the interesting part,” added Nora, slipping the hound a bite of toast. “It seems he joined the young lady and her maid afterwards. The lady bandaged his hand.”

“A savior and a nurse? What does she look like?” asked Maggie, a glint in her dark-brown eyes.

“Very pretty,” admitted Harry.

“And her name?”

He shook his head.

“Ye didn’t ask? Where were yer manners?” Maggie crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Or ye don’t want to tell us?”

Paddy joined them, his plate piled with eggs, meat, pudding, and toast. “Ye know I can find out easy enough. Hard to keep a secret when ye’re living with detectives.”

“Lady Matilda Bancroft.” Harry sipped his coffee and focused on the tablecloth, waiting for the thunder.

“Titled. Interesting…” mused Maggie.

“She’s da sister of a client!” Bellowed Paddy. “Have ye lost yer bloody mind?”

“Language,” scolded Maggie.

“She insisted on tending to my injury and allowing my clothes to dry in the sun. Her maid and driver were there, and nothing inappropriate happened.”

“Does she know who ye are?” demanded Paddy.

“I couldn’t very well give her a false name. But no,” Harry said, “she doesn’t know what I do for a living or that I’m on a case for her brother.”

Paddy grunted. “Since ye won’t be seeing her again, I suppose no harm’s been done.”

“I have to return her handkerchief.”

“Have someone else do it,” Paddy ordered around a mouthful of sausage. He pointed his fork at Harry. “We don’t need da wrath of an earl upon us because ye’re flirtin’ with his sister.”

“We were only talking,” Harry said between gritted teeth.

“And now ye’re done talking.”

It irked Harry to be told what to do. He was nine and twenty, almost thirty. But Paddy was right, and Harry had attempted to walk away.

“Talk to him like a man, not da boy ye brought home,” Margaret reminded her husband gently.

Paddy had the decency to look sheepish. “She’s right. I know ye’ll do da right t’ing, Harry. I t’ink I get a wee jealous sometimes because I can’t join ye as much as I’d like now.”

It was Harry’s turn to be embarrassed. This couple had given him so much.

Life. He’d have been dead in that alley if Paddy hadn’t found him. Maggie doctored him back to good health, then taught him to read and write. He’d been unable to learn at the orphanage, but Maggie’s patience and gentle insistence he could learn had proved a magical combination.

While she had educated him with books, Paddy had taught him life skills: how to deal with people, the difference between right and wrong, how one’s word made the man. Harry had been used to physical labor, but the O’Briens rewarded him for it, making him want to work even harder. Every night when he’d gone to bed, he’d pray, If I do my best, better than my best, let me stay. Let them keep me. Sure, the couple had said their home was his home now, but he knew all shelter came with a condition.

It took over a year to believe he was part of a family. He began to enjoy the attention they lavished on him. The kisses and hugs were uncomfortable at first, considering the only affection he’d witnessed had been between the doxies and the men who paid for it. He didn’t dislike it; he had nothing to compare it to, no past experience to relate it to.

It took another year to return the tenderness shown to him. He had nightmares until he was twelve about waking up in a cold, damp alley to find Paddy and Maggie and his new life had only been a dream.

“I can’t argue with the logic,” acknowledged Harry, bringing his thoughts back to the conversation. “I agree, but I gave her my word I would return the handkerchief next week. I’ll keep my word, and that will be the end of it.”

Paddy gave a nod, smeared his toast with marmalade, and winked at his wife. “We raised him good, eh?”

“Indeed. We raised them all good.” Maggie beamed at Nora and Harry. “And they’ve given back two-fold.”

* * *

Walters had one last stop before he went home. It had been a long day, gleaning information about the Spenceans from sources the Home Office or the spy Edwards didn’t have. Now he would meet Sampson at the Dog’s Bone and see how another case was progressing, one close to his brother’s heart.

The tavern was busy as always. It smelled of sweat, stale alcohol, fresh bread, and fish. The latter obviously was part of the ingredients bubbling in the giant kettle over the fire. To his left was a long wood counter, scuffed but highly polished, where a half dozen men leaned against it, drinking and arguing good-naturedly. The rest of the large room was filled with tables and booths, mostly occupied by neighborhood patrons. Bess, the barmaid, squeezed past him with several bumpers gripped in one hand, acknowledging him with a smile.

“Eating or just drinking?” she asked, pushing a stray brown lock back under her mobcap.

“Drinking, the usual, please.” He returned her smile and waved to Leo, the barkeep and owner, who nodded toward the back room.

“It’s already waiting for you,” Bess threw over her shoulder as she disappeared into the crowd.

Sam must have already arrived. Walters moved past the brawny, bald man, murmuring a thank-you for generously offering the space for the Peelers to use when they needed privacy. He greeted several familiar faces with a grin or bob of his head.

Walters ducked under the original doorjamb and entered a small room that transported him back two hundred years. Shelves had been added to the stone walls, and overhead, the low charred timbers from years of smoke silently told how long this building had been a part of London. This was Leo’s storeroom, doubling as his office.

In the center was a scarred table where Sampson sat studying a paper, a plate with bread and cheese in front of him. Leo’s wife always made sure they had a “little something” when they were back here. The Peelers often met here to discuss progress on their present cases. The only “office” Paddy had was the parlor at the house. Cases were mostly referred by Bow Street or past clients, and appointments usually took place at the client’s home or a neutral location. Maggie had put her foot down long ago, demanding at least a minimal separation of domestic and professional lives.

Walters had always thought it best not to have a particular address where someone could see potential clients come and go.

“Harry, it’s good to see you,” said Sam, standing and stretching out his hand. “I hated missing Sunday dinner, but I had an emergency.”