Page 5 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

5

The Times office was near Bridewell hospital prison, just up from the wharves around Blackfriars Bridge—not an area usually frequented by women of the ton.

I peered out the rain-smeared window of our town carriage, seeing only the grimy gray brick frontage of a brush maker’s shop and a man hurrying along the narrow footpath, head down and broad-brimmed hat sagging wet. The morning had turned very gloomy indeed.

We had come to a standstill on Union Street, one of the routes leading to Printing House Square. I let down the window with a clatter and poked my head out, ignoring the cold sweep of mizzle across my face. From the shouts and curses ahead, it appeared a cart blocked the way and the driver was nowhere to be found. We were two equipages back from the obstruction. I turned to look behind. Had anyone followed us from Grosvenor Square? This was the moment when such an intrusion might become apparent. I could not, however, see past the wagon at our rear. Samuel peered around from the back footman’s step, inquiry upon his wet face. I shook my head and turned my attention to the front of the carriage again.

“Weatherly,” I called. No response. I increased my volume. “Weatherly!”

“Yes, my lady. Coming.”

The carriage rocked—Weatherly descending from his lookout next to John Driver. I drew back inside the carriage and closed the window, brushing the sprinkle of rain off my velvet cap. From the limp feel of the feathers and silk flowers, it had not fared well.

Weatherly opened the carriage door, his greatcoat collar up and his hat dripping from the brim.

“Did you see anyone following us?” I asked. I had entrusted the task to Weatherly, since Samuel was not the most observant of young men.

“Perhaps, my lady,” he said. “Three back, there is a hackney that has kept up with us from Grosvenor Square.”

My heart quickened. It could, of course, be a coincidence.

“Are you sure it is the same?”

He nodded, wiping an errant drip from his eye. “I recognize the horse’s blaze. And the driver wears a red kerchief.”

So, a good chance we were being followed. But by whom?

“Can you see who it is? Would it be Mr. Kent, by chance?” It stood to reason that it was my sister’s swain or if not him, then one of his colleagues.

Weatherly shook his head, sending a spray of water from his hat. “I cannot make out the passenger.”

“How far are we from the Times office?”

“Three turns and we will be there, my lady.”

Should I go back? I did not want to lead a Runner to The Times and more or less hand him the information that I was placing an advertisement. But I had to submit the notice today so that it went into the next paper.

Or someone had to submit it and not be followed.

I frowned, orienting our position on the map of London I held in my mind.

We were, by my calculation, very close to Ludgate Hill and Hatton Garden, the center of the London jewelry trade. And thus near my favored jeweler, Rundell, Bridge and Rundell. I opened my reticule and drew out the notice I had written.

“Weatherly, I want you to place the advertisement.” I gestured for him to lean farther into the cabin, away from any interested eyes, and handed him the folded piece of paper. “Keep it hidden. We cannot have the Runners knowing our plans. I will walk up to Ludgate Hill, with Samuel, to draw the Runner’s attention. Hopefully he will follow me. If he does, then take the carriage and proceed to the Times office and place the notice. Or go by foot, if the cart takes too long to clear. Once you are done, pick me up at Rundell, Bridge and Rundell. It will be as if I was heading there all the time and did not wish to wait for this cart to be cleared. If he does not follow me, then go straight to Rundell’s and we will try again later.”

Weatherly took the note, but his face was troubled. “I do not like this plan, my lady. Even with Samuel, this is not the place for a lady to walk. And what if this Runner approaches you?”

“It is only a short distance,” I said. “And I doubt he will approach me. Especially when I go into the jewelers.”

“Allow me to accompany you instead of Samuel,” Weatherly said.

I placed my hand upon his arm—a liberty I would not usually take, but he had to understand the importance of the notice being placed safely. “No, my friend. I entrust this to you. No one else.”

His mouth quirked—he still did not like the plan—but he nodded and drew back out of the cabin with the slip of paper secreted under his greatcoat.

I collected my reticule and umbrella and took his offered hand, alighting from the carriage onto the wet road.

“Samuel,” I called.

My footman swung down from the rear step, landing with the sure bounce of youth. “Yes, my lady.”

“I will not wait any longer. I am going to walk to Rundell’s,” I said loudly.

It had finally ceased to rain, so I handed my umbrella to him. With a last pointed glance at Weatherly, I started along the muddy footpath. At the corner of my vision, I saw Weatherly halt Samuel for a moment to murmur something in his ear. Samuel nodded at the instruction and with a few long-legged strides caught up to walk behind me.

It took all my self-discipline to refrain from looking over my shoulder to see if the occupant of the hackney alighted too.

I walked sedately to the corner of Union Street and Water Lane. If I was correct, the lane would take me up into Ludgate Hill, very near Rundell, Bridge and Rundell. I surveyed my route. Water Lane was a collection of soot-dark buildings standing cheek by jowl that ended in a crooked intersection with two other streets. Would it actually take me to Ludgate Hill? I had thought it would be teeming with people, but only two soberly clad men, deep in conversation, were climbing the lane’s incline.

My self-discipline, it seemed, was far more limited than I thought: I could not help turning as if to address Samuel to swiftly scan the road and footpath behind his large figure.

Someone had, indeed, alighted from the hackney. It was what I had wanted and yet the sight of the man brought a prickle of alarm across my skin. He was not well-dressed enough to be Mr. Kent, nor did he have the Runner’s height. Even so, he had a broad build and an athletic way of moving that reminded me of a middleweight prizefighter. Was that a flash of red whiskers? Hard to ascertain: his hat was pulled down low and he wore a muffler high around his face. He slouched, too, rather like the man at Hyde Park. Was this the infamous Mulholland?

“We will go up Water Lane,” I said unnecessarily to Samuel.

The two soberly clad men were no longer in sight, the lane now empty. I picked up the hems of my pelisse and gown and started up the narrow pathway alongside the road, the prickle of alarm resolving into an itch of danger between my shoulder blades.

It took some concentration to pick my way along the pavement. The excess of rain—rather appropriate given the lane’s name—had sent rivulets cascading down the flags, the water picking up clumps of foul excrement and dirt along the way. About halfway up, I stopped outside a hatmaker and feigned fatigue, taking a moment to survey my surroundings.

The man had followed us up the lane. Weatherly would now be able to place the notice without being watched, but I had not counted upon the sense of threat I felt.

The stranger stopped about fifty feet away, hands thrust in the pockets of his greatcoat, watching us. No pretense of going about his own business. His stare, above the folds of his muffler, was flat and cold, and his slouching posture did not appear to be one of hunched self-doubt but rather of insolent confidence.

Samuel had finally seen him too. “Is that man following us, my lady?” he asked under his breath.

“Perhaps.”

Samuel squared up, his fair skin flushed with battle.

“No. Do not acknowledge him,” I added quickly. “We will continue.”

I started walking again. Samuel, in the periphery of my vision, clutched the umbrella like a weapon. We reached the crooked corner. I read the street signs: to our right, Pilgrim Street; to the left, Little Bridge. Both with a curve that obscured their end. Where now?

“He is still behind us, my lady,” Samuel reported.

Either way was a blind choice. Pilgrim Street, then, but only because the Bunyan book was one of Julia’s favorites. I quickened my pace, Samuel adjusting his own to stay a step behind. We continued past a furrier—the window full of pelts in shades of brown—and a wine merchant, arriving at some speed at the curve in the road.

Ah, ahead was Ludgate Hill. I looked over my shoulder. The man was less than thirty feet behind us now. Enough was enough: I would not be cowed by this ruffian. Besides, Weatherly would have either taken the coach past the cart by now or continued on foot.

I stopped and turned to face our shadow. Samuel took up a position at my side, glaring at the man.

“Are you following me?” I demanded.

The man stared belligerently at me.

The answer came from behind us. “I am, indeed, Lady Augusta.”

I swung around to face another man. Where had he come from?

I took in sandy hair, red whiskers, and no slouch in sight, but rather the bearing of a man who knew his own power. If his comrade was a middleweight, then this man was a heavyweight with the imposing height to match. It seemed Mulholland had finally made his appearance.

The street behind him was empty of pedestrians, but up ahead another man blocked the way of a lady and gentleman attempting to enter the street from Ludgate Hill. Indistinguishable words were exchanged and the couple scurried away, alarm in every line of their bodies. Dear God, the man was stopping anyone from entering.

We were trapped.

The realization made me step back.

“I do not believe we are acquainted. Who are you?” I demanded. At least my voice did not quaver.

The man inclined his head, an ironic gesture of courtesy. “I am James Mulholland, but I think you know that.”

“What do you want?”

“I think you know that too.” It was said with a smile that showed yellowed teeth. His features held the heaviness of his body: large chin, broad cheekbones—oddly sprinkled with pale gold freckles like a child—and thick sandy brows.

“I have no idea what you mean,” I said.

He jerked that heavy chin at his comrade, and I heard Samuel yelp. I whirled around. The other man had shoved my footman up against the wall, his hand around the boy’s throat. Samuel thrashed in the brutal hold using the umbrella as a club. The larger man plucked it out of his hand and threw it to the ground, then drove a fist into his gut. Samuel gasped.

I lunged forward. “Stop that! Let him go!”

Mulholland stepped across my path, blocking my momentum. “Are you on your way to meet Lord Evan Belford?” he demanded.

I drew myself up, mustering as much frostiness as I could manage. “I have no idea what you mean. I am on the way to my jewelers.” He stood far too close—I could smell the mustiness of his clothes and body—but I refused to step back. He must not see the fear beneath my rage.

Mulholland nodded to his underling. The man drove his fist into Samuel again. The boy wheezed, his tricorn dropping from his head into the mud. He struck out wildly and landed a blow on the side of his attacker’s head, but it did not seem to even register with the heavier man.

“Where is your mistress going?” Mulholland called to Samuel. “Tell me, and Pritchard will let you go.”

“The jewelers, I swear it!”

Brave boy.

“Sure about that?” Mulholland asked. Another nod sent Pritchard’s fist even harder into my footman’s side with a dull thud. Samuel moaned.

I glared at Mulholland. “He has told you the truth. Let him go.”

“I know for sure it ain’t the truth because our mutual friend Mr. Kent told me that you and Belford were hand in glove up round King’s Lynn way. So Pritchard here will keep serving your man until you tell me where Belford is situated now.”

Mulholland knew about King’s Lynn. And if what he said was true, Mr. Kent had betrayed us. Could I blame Kent? He was a Runner, after all, and he had made it clear he had fulfilled his obligation to Lord Evan. But surely he must realize he had placed Julia and me in peril. Perhaps his regard was not as strong as Julia hoped.

Whatever the case, it was clear that I, and more to the point Samuel, could no longer afford the pretense of ignorance. It would have to be the truth now. Or at least a version of the truth. “I have not seen Lord Evan Belford in three weeks. As far as I know, he is on his way to Jamaica. That is all I know. Now, release my man and step out of my way.”

Mulholland tilted his head, assessing me with keen eyes. “I think there is more.”

“My lady does not have to answer to the likes of you,” Samuel threw out valiantly, earning himself another blow. I winced at his pained grunt.

“There is no more,” I said crisply.

Mulholland lunged, his hand closing around my forearm, the pain of it shooting through flesh and bone. I was suddenly off-balance, wrenched forward, my injured shoulder slamming into the hard muscle of Mulholland’s chest. The old ache shuddered through me into new agony. Something torn? I gasped, my breath a staccato of panting pain.

“Like it rough, do you, my lady?” He held me tightly to the length of his body, his mouth close to my ear, his breath a fetid mix of bad teeth and beer. “Where is Belford, you old cat?” he whispered, the soft question more threatening than if he had shouted it.

I wrenched my arm in his grasp but could not shift his brutal hold. “Do not touch me!” I rammed my body weight against his chest, making no impact upon his immovable bulk. “You cannot touch me in this way!”

He laughed. “Seems I can.” He grabbed my breast, pushing the bones of my stays hard against the soft flesh. I strained back as he dug in his fingers. “Is this what Belford does? Knead your saggy dugs for yer? Where is he, woman?”

For a second my mind roared, an icy vise of horror and disgust that held me frozen. A man had never touched me in this manner.

Never!

“He is gone,” I hissed and slammed my bootheel down onto the top of his foot. He flinched, enough for me to haul my arm from his grip and stumble back, out of reach. I crouched, ready to strike, scratch, even spit, but he did not follow, merely watching me with a curl of disdain upon his thin lips.

“I shall report you to Bow Street!” I said, pressing my hand against my abused chest. “You may be hired by them, but they will not stand for this violence against someone of rank.”

Mulholland sniffed. “Go ahead. Report me. Nothin’ will come of it.” He gave an elaborate bow. “Even for someone of your rank.” He turned his attention to his man. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”

Pritchard released Samuel, giving him one last vicious gut punch. My footman sagged against the wall, gulping for breath.

The two men strode toward their comrade at the top of Pilgrim Street. They did not look back. As they turned the corner out of sight, I realized I was still crouched. Still pressing my hand against my chest. I straightened, steadying my breath.

“Forgive me, my lady. I should have stopped him,” Samuel said, using the wall to haul himself upright. “Mr. Weatherly will have my guts for garters.”

“We were ambushed, Samuel. No fault of yours. Can you walk?” I was not entirely sure I could; my legs were trembling.

“Of course, my lady.” He tugged his waistcoat into order and bent to pick up his sodden tricorn, wincing at the movement. A shake of the felt hat and it was back upon his head. He crossed the cobbles—the youthful bounce gone—and offered me his arm. “I’ve had worse from my brothers.”

Clearly a lie, but I let it pass. I would send for Dr. McLeod when we got home, make sure the boy was in one piece.

I took his arm and together we limped up toward the busy thoroughfare of Ludgate Hill.