Page 6 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

6

Mr. Bridge was somewhat surprised to see me arrive without an appointment, but as ever welcomed me into his elegant showroom, offered refreshment, and brought out the new turquoise parures that I shakily requested to see. His calm and gently jovial presence, along with two glasses of excellent canary, helped steady the trembling in my legs and dissipate the ice in my innards.

I ordered a turquoise set for Julia for Christmas and chose two neat silver boot daggers set with ruby cabochons: one for Lord Evan with his initials to be engraved upon the cartouche—an elaborately flourished E and B —and one for myself with an A and C upon it. After this morning’s events, a dagger of my own seemed a prudent idea.

By the time Mr. Bridge had engraved, boxed, and wrapped the daggers, the carriage had pulled up outside and Weatherly had swung down to open the carriage door. He gave a small nod through the jeweler’s window: the notice had gone in. The tension in my body eased.

Before long, I was back in the carriage with Weatherly in the seat opposite.

“So, all went well? No one was watching you?” I asked as we pulled away, the momentum jerking me back against the seat.

“No one, my lady. The notice will be in tomorrow’s paper and for the next week, saving Sunday, of course.” He paused. “Samuel told me what happened. The boy is shaken and mortified that he did not protect you adequately. Are you…?”

“Well enough,” I said quickly, ignoring the new pain in my shoulder. “Samuel had the worst of it. He kept to the Rundells’ story even under great duress.”

“I told him no one was to know our real destination. He’s a good lad,” Weatherly said.

“Indeed. As soon as we are home, send Thomas around to bid Dr. McLeod come see the boy.”

Weatherly nodded. He paused, his gaze gently assessing. “And perhaps for yourself, my lady,” he ventured.

I waved away the suggestion, trying to control an absurd rise of tears. “I am well enough,” I repeated and looked out the window, away from his concern. “It was an insult, but not much more. There is no need to speak of it again. To anyone.”

Weatherly kept his gaze steady upon me.

“Mulholland—” I stopped and swallowed the sourness that accompanied his name. “Mulholland said Mr. Kent divulged our connection to Lord Evan.”

“It may not be true,” Weatherly said. “Or perhaps it was said under pressure. I cannot see him placing Lady Julia in danger.”

“Perhaps. I hope not. The real worry is that Mulholland does not seem to fear any repercussions. In fact he challenged me to report his attack.”

Weatherly considered that information with a frown. “That can only mean one of two things.”

He was right: there were only two possibilities. His mind clearly worked along the same paths as my own.

He tapped one gloved forefinger against the other, counting off the first. “Mulholland is an overconfident fool who cannot foresee consequences.”

“He is no fool,” I said flatly.

“No, I do not think so either.” He tapped off the second. “He considers himself protected by someone of rank.”

“I think it is even worse than that,” I said.

“Indeed,” Weatherly said softly. “He is not only protected by someone of rank but, considering his notoriety, he is protected by someone who may have ordered him to kill Lord Evan, not bring him in alive.”

“Yes.” I looked out the window at the passing shop fronts. The rain had started again, a few umbrellas opening above the well dressed, but most people hunching their shoulders and quickening their pace along the mud-tracked footpaths. “So who wants Lord Evan dead and why?” I looked back at Weatherly. “And more to the point, can we stop them?”

Weatherly eyed me with a wry smile. “I do not know, my lady, but I gather you are going to try.”

···

The carriage pulled up outside our house in Grosvenor Square. I rubbed my shoulder; the ache had not shifted during the ride home. Perhaps it would be prudent to see Dr. McLeod, after all.

As Weatherly alighted in readiness to hand me down, I gathered the Rundell box and glanced out the other window at the large fenced garden that stood at the center of our square. A black horse stood tethered to the iron railings. A familiar black horse, with an equally familiar Elliott saddle.

Caesar, Mr. Kent’s mount.

So, how long had Mr. Kent been here? And what was I to say to him now that it was likely he had betrayed us to Mulholland?

“We have a caller,” I said as I took Weatherly’s hand and descended the carriage step.

“Yes, I saw.” Weatherly closed the door. “Is there anything you wish me to do?”

I looked up at our drawing room window. “No, I will handle it.”

Inside, Weatherly divested me of the box, then my gloves, cap, and pelisse. Mr. Kent’s hat had been placed on the side table, but I did not see his coat. A short call, then. Perhaps even shorter than he expected.

“Tell me when Dr. McLeod arrives,” I said. “I will see him, after all.”

“Of course, my lady.” I heard the relief in Weatherly’s voice.

In all truth, etiquette and common sense demanded that I change my damp carriage gown and muddied boots and see to my shoulder, but this confrontation could not be delayed. I smoothed my side curls, shook out my damp hem, and focused beyond the pain.

Ready for battle.

I climbed the stairs at a sedate pace, for it was more than possible that I brought distress to my dear sister, and, for all the seriousness of the situation, I could not hurry toward that outcome.

No footman outside the drawing room door. Unusual.

I raised my closed hand to knock and stopped. Voices inside. And my sister’s laugh. Bright and carefree. I had not heard it so full of delight for a long time. I stood a little longer listening through the closed door, ignoring the wagging finger of my conscience. The muffled voices held the quick rhythm of lively conversation—perhaps even coquetry—punctuated by both my sister’s laugh again, and the lower register of Mr. Kent’s amusement.

I did not want to end Julia’s enjoyment, but I had to know if we had been betrayed.

I rapped upon the wood and opened the door.

“Augusta!” Julia said. She and Mr. Kent stood in front of the Lawrence portrait of us in our youth. My sister’s eyes were alight and her mouth still held the shape of a laugh. Mr. Kent, whose arm was in a sling as a result of our last adventure, had been standing rather close. Julia took a nonchalant step away. “You are back.”

Clearly.

“Mr. Kent and I were studying Mr. Lawrence’s brushstrokes,” she added as I entered the room.

“Lady Augusta, how good to see you again.” Mr. Kent bowed.

As was his custom, he wore a very well-tailored ensemble: a blue wool jacket that made the most of his broad shoulders, a scarlet satin waistcoat—often worn by the Runners, which had earned them the nickname Robin Redbreasts—and extremely well-fitted pantaloons. Even his sling was well fashioned in crisp white muslin. His face, like my sister’s, also held the remnants of laughter, hardly the expression of a man who harbored a secret betrayal.

“What is wrong?” Julia said, for she had finally set aside the moment I had interrupted and looked squarely at me. She crossed the floor, took my hands, and peered closely at my face. I could not hide much from my twin. “You are hurt!”

“Mulholland,” I said, and looked across at Mr. Kent. “He attacked me and said you had informed him of our connection with Lord Evan.”

“Attacked you?” he and my sister said in unison.

“We must send for Dr. McLeod,” my sister said, clasping my hands more tightly. But her eyes were upon Mr. Kent again, this time in reproach.

Mr. Kent came forward. His concern seemed genuine, as did the stricken expression upon his face.

“Samuel was hurt. I was merely insulted,” I said. “Dr. McLeod is on his way for both of us.” I was certainly not going to detail the attack in front of a man. Julia eyed me, unconvinced. I hurriedly moved on, glaring at Mr. Kent. “Did you inform Mulholland? He knew that I had been with Lord Evan in King’s Lynn!”

“I assure you I did not inform him.” He half turned to Julia. “Upon my honor, I did not. I have not spoken to the man.”

I had seen Mr. Kent’s honor—staunchly upheld even when it did him no good service. It would seem he spoke the truth.

“I believe you,” Julia said, laying her hand briefly upon his uninjured arm. I saw him note the intimacy. As I did. Julia glanced at me—an anxious check upon my thoughts. So be it. I inclined my head. “We believe you,” she added firmly.

He bowed.

“But, that being the case, how does he know Lord Evan and I were in King’s Lynn?” I demanded.

“I submitted my report about the asylum to Bow Street,” Mr. Kent said. “It was a confidential report since it held information about members of noble families, and I assure you it did not mention Lord Evan or you by your real names.”

“Then someone has discovered we were involved.”

“Mulholland may have worked it out himself if he has seen the reports,” Mr. Kent said. “He is a clever man and he has resources to go to King’s Lynn and question people. Even so, confidential reports are for magistrates only. If it is the case that Mulholland has seen it, then someone within the upper sphere of the Magistrates’ Court may be assisting him.”

Or commanding him, I thought, but did not voice it. “A magistrate within Bow Street?” I asked. That could limit the possibilities.

“It could be any of the courts. And it could be any number of magistrates, or indeed any of those who may have access to them, officially or otherwise.” He stared into the distance for a moment. “Or the Home Office or, indeed, the Alien Office.”

“That is a lot of people,” I said, deflated.

“I am shocked that Mulholland attacked you,” Julia said. “Surely he knows there will be reprisals.”

I hesitated. Did I wish to draw Mr. Kent into it all?

He eyed me narrowly. “He does not fear reprisal, does he?”

The Runner was far too astute. “He does not. Instead he invited a report.”

“Ah.” Mr. Kent rubbed his chin. “High indeed,” he murmured.

Our eyes met in a moment of shared comprehension.

“Be wary when you leave the house,” Mr. Kent added. “Mulholland has noses everywhere in London.”

“Noses?” Julia echoed.

“My apologies, Lady Julia. It means informers in the thieves’ tongue.” Mr. Kent’s weathered skin colored slightly at his use of such base cant. “He pays well or extracts loyalty through coercion.”

Was that how he suddenly appeared in Pilgrim Street behind me? Noses keeping an eye upon our travel route?

“I assume Lord Evan is well gone, as was his plan?” Mr. Kent asked.

“Yes,” I said quickly, to forestall any unfortunate candor from Julia. “I told Mulholland the same, although I think he chooses not to believe me.” I glanced at my sister. Thankfully, she showed no inclination to tell Mr. Kent the truth.

“It may be that now Mulholland has confronted you, he will leave you alone,” Mr. Kent said. “I will take my leave and endeavor to find out as much as I can about his plans and his intent toward you.” He bowed, his eyes upon Julia.

“But surely that will put you and your position at risk,” Julia said.

“An agent is always at risk, whether it be from inside the court or out,” he said dryly. “But do not fear, I am not altogether dispensable.”

“Thank you,” Julia said, and smiled at him.

I murmured my own gratitude but I was plainly extraneous to the exchange.

The door closed behind him. It occurred to me that I did not know why he had called in the first place.

“Did he give you any particular reason for the visit?” I asked Julia.

“No.” Then she smiled again. “Which of course is a particular reason in itself.”

“Are you sure this friendship is wise?” I asked.

Julia lifted her brows. “I rather think you should look to your own friendships before you question mine,” she said crisply.

Touché.

A loud knock startled us both. Was he back?

“Yes?” I called.

Weatherly opened the door. A young man stood behind him, dressed in sober black and wearing a wide-brimmed Clericus.

Dr. McLeod had arrived.