Page 19 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

19

The hackney I hailed outside the meat market had, unlike the one I had taken to Covent Garden, retained its stained upholstery but still reeked of the sweaty humanity that had passed through it. Perhaps it was a characteristic of such travel in London—I did not know since I usually took my own carriage.

Evan took the bodkin seat, opposite me, and shut the carriage door, muffling the morning cacophony of Giltspur Street and the free surgery queue outside Bart’s. I thumped my fist on the wall to let the driver—who, on seeing our shabbiness, had insisted on being paid in advance—know that he could leave. We jolted forward, finally on our way back to Grosvenor Square.

Evan took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “You are sending undertakers?”

“The same who dealt with my father. They are discreet. I will instruct them to take Miss Hollis back to her family in Whixley once Mr. Kent has viewed her body as evidence. I thought it prudent not to scare Reginald by announcing an imminent visit from a Bow Street Runner.”

“Indeed, he is a skittish one.” Evan scrubbed at his eyes, then replaced his hat. “Sending her back to her family is a great kindness and one that will hopefully give them some solace. Even so, I think it must be done anonymously. They may wish to find their benefactor and demand more answers than we can afford to supply.”

I had planned to do so anyway but gave a nod. We both looked out the window, a few silent seconds of memorial for Miss Hollis.

“So, Sally Lawrence may have been pregnant,” Evan said, drawing us back to the situation at hand.

“If the dissection entry is actually Sally Lawrence—we have no way of knowing if that is the case,” I said. And as the reality of that sank in, I added more gloomily, “Or proving it. Or even if she was related to the doctor who attended the duel.”

“Speaking of proof, what if Mr. Kent is not waiting with your sister? What if she did not get the message from the flower seller or he refused her summons?”

“If Dorothy delivered my message, then Julia will have done everything to bring Mr. Kent to her side. He will be there.” Of course, I could not be certain of him, but nor could I allow the possibility that he would not answer my sister’s call for help. But would he listen to our evidence with an open mind? Mr. Kent was a man of duty, but was that duty to the Runners or to the truth? And if he refused to help, then I was not sure where next to turn.

“If he tries to arrest me, I must warn you I will not allow it. I know your sister holds him in some regard, but I will fight my way out and I will not hold back. I cannot leave Hester to Deele’s piety again, and I certainly do not wish to hang.”

“If he does try, I will fight beside you,” I said. “And so will Julia.”

“Well, let’s hope she has her blunderbuss ready,” he said with a glimmer of his droll humor, but I could see the prospect of relying upon Mr. Kent did not sit easily. And I had to admit, now that the moment was almost upon us, I did not feel particularly confident either.

“Perhaps I should go in alone and speak to him,” I suggested.

“I am not afraid of him,” Evan said stiffly. “Besides, I need to see Hester. Things are not right between us. I need to remedy that.”

Clearly, this peacemaking visit was important to him, but I feared the only way he could appease his sister’s anger would be to spirit her away to another country or take back his title and become her guardian. And neither of those remedies was currently possible. Still, I did not voice my pessimism. Instead, I said, “I expect to hear back from Lady Davenport soon, and if she agrees to our visit—which I believe she will—we will travel to her estate once Hester is able.”

We subsided into silence again as the hackney crossed morning London, both of us lost in our thoughts and the anticipation of what lay ahead. Finally we pulled up in Mount Street, outside St. George’s workhouse, as I had requested.

“I figured we would not stand out here as much as we would in the middle of Grosvenor Square,” I said, opening the door. We would also be able to creep up Charles Street and enter the house the back way, via the mews.

We alighted, the hackney clattering away as soon as we both made the footpath. Some of the inmates of the workhouse were already outside chopping wood, the thud of the axes a counterpoint to the sound of children chanting their catechism in the airing grounds beyond. The gates were open, ready for visitors, for it was not a prison, or so the authorities insisted. Still, it was possible I had made a mistake fetching up outside a workhouse where so many had links to the criminal world. Any one of the people milling around the entrance could be in the pay of Mulholland or the Runners.

“Come on,” I said to Evan.

We crossed the road and made our way up Charles Street to the mews.

“Wait here,” I said, and jogged along to the entrance to Grosvenor Square. A quick look around the corner of the last terrace confirmed what I half hoped and half feared to see: a black horse tied to the rails of the central garden opposite our house.

I returned to Evan.

“Kent is here,” I said.

···

I ripped off my side whiskers—a somewhat painful process—and took off my hat as we entered the house via the kitchen yard. I did not want Cook and her scullery maids to think they were being invaded by ruffians. Although to be honest, I would pity any ruffian who tried to enter Cook’s domain without a pass.

“Good morning, my lady. Good morning, sir,” that formidable individual said, curtsying alongside her girls as we entered the steamy kitchen. “Lady Julia has ordered a full breakfast to be served at eight o’clock, but would you like me to send up something beforehand?”

A full breakfast so early? Unusual, but the smell of frying bacon, fragrant kedgeree, and freshly baked bread was welcome. Lord, I was hungry.

“Yes, excellent,” I said. “As soon as possible.”

We made our way along the hallway, its warmth, the smell of wax polish and newly lit hearths, and Julia’s huge vases of flowers a welcoming order that I had not realized I needed. Weatherly met us in the hallway at the foot of the stairs, our arrival heralded, no doubt, by one of the maids who had heard us enter the kitchen. He bowed, patently relieved to see me safe, for his mouth was almost curled into a smile.

“Good morning, my lady, good morning, Lord Evan,” he said. “Lady Julia is in the drawing room with Mr. Kent.”

“Good,” I said. I handed him my hat and my side-whiskers, which he took with equanimity. “Lord Evan will need a loaded firearm and may require a quick exit. Can you organize that, please?”

“Of course, my lady.”

“I wish to see my sister first,” Evan said, handing over his own battered hat. “In case Mr. Kent does not look favorably upon our proof and I need to make that quick exit.”

“I am sorry, my lord, Lady Hester is not yet awake,” Weatherly said. “From the report of Miss Grant, her ladyship had a very bad night and was given some laudanum only an hour past.”

The look upon Evan’s face clutched at my heart.

“We could try to wake her if you wish,” I said.

He shook his head. “No, she needs to rest. We will see Mr. Kent first.”

Weatherly cleared his throat. “Lady Julia also wished you to know that she received a note from Lord Duffield last night. He intends to call this morning for breakfast.”

Duffy? What on earth did he want at such an early hour? Certainly nothing good. But that explained the full breakfast. It also meant I must go upstairs and change into a gown before he arrived. Although, I had to admit, it would have been entertaining to see his reaction to my masculine attire.

“If Lord Duffield arrives before we come down, show him to the dining room, not the drawing room.” It would be irregular, but I did not want Duffy meeting Evan in such a manner. Or, indeed, Mr. Kent. I glanced at Evan. “Go with Weatherly; he will provide you with a weapon. I must change and then we will go into the drawing room unannounced.”

Unannounced, but not unprepared.

With Tully’s help, I changed into a gown in ten minutes, all the while giving her a brief update of the night, her gasps of shock not interrupting her deft buttoning of my sleeves. I then instructed her to choose one of my plain white gowns as a shroud for Miss Hollis while I took a few minutes to write a note to Messrs. France and Banting, Undertakers, to retrieve Miss Hollis at six o’clock and await further instructions. I closed it with my wax seal and handed it to Tully, along with the additional guinea for Reginald.

“Deliver these and the gown into the hands of Mr. France and make sure he understands that this is to be strictly confidential. Tell him he and his partner will be amply compensated for their discretion.”

“You said you found Miss Hollis without any clothes, my lady,” Tully said, her face uncharacteristically grim. “Should I choose a chemise and hose too? For her family.”

I smiled at such thoughtfulness. “Take whatever you think would be suitable. I trust you to choose well.”

With Tully set on her task, I drew a steadying breath and made my way down the staircase with the Rundell box in hand.

Evan stood waiting in the hallway, holding the gun that Weatherly had given him.

“I have something else for you,” I said, offering him the box.

“A gift?” I nodded as he carefully placed the gun upon the sideboard and took the box. He opened it, a smile announcing his pleasure. “Ah, now, that is beautiful.” He picked up the dagger and rested the blade across two fingers, the ruby set in the handle gleaming in the morning light. “And you have had my initials engraved upon the cartouche.” He traced his fingertip around the EB etched into the silver.

“It is only a knife,” I said, and added a little self-consciously, “I have the same with my own initials. A pair.” I patted my sleeve, where I had hidden my sheathed dagger.

“It is far more than just a knife. The balance is superb.” He looked up from admiring the blade. “It is a long time since I have owned such a beautiful thing. The one I have is little more than an eating knife.”

“I meant to keep it for a Twelfth Night gift, but I think, under the circumstances, it would be more useful now,” I said.

“Quite.” He set down the box and slid the knife into its accompanying leather sheath. In one swift, practiced movement, he removed the blade already secreted in his boot and replaced it with my gift. “There, I am armed and ready.” He placed the old knife in the box and picked up the gun again. “Gus, if this does not go our way…”

I took his hand. The one that was not holding the loaded gun. “I know. Whatever happens, we will rally.”

“And you must tell Hester I am sorry.”

“I will.”

He bent and kissed me upon the lips—a swift token, for Julia and Mr. Kent awaited us upstairs.

“Thank you,” he said, and I knew he meant it for far more than the knife.