Page 8 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

8

Julia, Tully, my maid, and I stood on the footpath opposite Mr. John Hatchard’s bookshop waiting for a break in the line of carts, carriages, and horses that processed along Piccadilly.

Hatchards had recently moved from its original premises farther down the road—to make way for the newly completed Bullocks Museum—and the new shop was much larger than the original. A double frontage with two huge display windows that curved elegantly in toward the entrance to show the latest literary offerings.

“Do you think Miss Grant has arrived yet?” Julia asked.

“I hope so,” I said. “If she has not, then something may have already gone wrong.”

Julia shot me a worried glance. “Do not say that.”

“What did you want me to say? That she is out the back in the carriage waiting for us as we have planned? It is impossible to know if she is or not.” My tone was oversharp, but I did not fully trust Miss Grant to follow my instructions. Still, that was not my sister’s fault. “The shop looks busy,” I added, softening my tone. “That must be to our favor.”

Indeed, the two benches set outside the shop for waiting servants were fully occupied by maids and footmen, and a number of carriages waited farther along the road.

“Tully, when we go in, see if you can find a seat on the bench,” I said.

“Yes, my lady.” Tully’s face had pinked with the excitement of being part of the plan. I had asked her to wear her scarlet cloak—unmissable among the drab livery of the footmen—and to make sure she was visible outside at all times.

“Look, we can cross now,” Julia said.

A gap had opened up between the vehicles. We picked up our hems and made our way across the wide road, evading the mounds of dung and churned mud. I refrained from looking over my shoulder, but I was sure the lanky, unkempt Runner was still trailing us. I knew him for one of the Bow Street agents who had stood outside our former home in Hanover Square a month ago. Was Mulholland watching us as well? Perhaps one of his “noses” was at this very minute darting back to inform him of our whereabouts.

We made the footpath outside Hatchards safely, our arrival prompting a wave of bobs and bows from the waiting servants.

I looked up at the dark green painted frontage. Our father had first taken us to Hatchards when we were ten. He had always bought his books there—as we did now—and from the first moment I stepped into its dim, book-lined quietude, I felt a particular kind of excitement. So much imagination and knowledge on the mahogany bookshelves waiting to be leafed open, that heady scent of glue and ink released from the pages. Although the shop of my memories no longer existed, I still felt that same thrill whenever I entered this new Hatchards.

“Wait for us here,” I instructed Tully, loudly and unnecessarily. “We will be some time.” An addition just in case one of the noses was among the waiting servants.

She curtsied. A footman immediately rose from the bench and offered her his seat.

“I hope this works,” Julia murmured as we passed over the bookshop’s threshold.

I did, too, for I was relying on the power of assumption and a little help from a friend. I knew my plan to leave London without detection was elaborate—perhaps overly so—but I could not bear the thought that we could inadvertently lead the Runners or Mulholland to Lord Evan. If the Runners caught him, it would be the gallows, and if Mulholland reached him first…No, I did not dare countenance such a possibility.

Inside, I drew a breath of warm air scented with book. Although most of the ton families had gone to their estates, the shop was abuzz, no doubt due to the arrival of the latest edition of Lord Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage . It was still the talk of society, as was his blatant affair with Lady Caroline Lamb. Neat stacks of the new pressing had been placed upon a table near the entrance, and two young women in pastel pelisses—one of them wearing a Lord Byron miniature upon her bodice—were reading small snippets of the poem to each other. I had heard of this new rage to carry an image of Byron around, but this was the first time I had seen one displayed so proudly. It seemed almost religious in its devotion. But then, I could remember the fervors of my own youth and how at fourteen I had drawn very bad likenesses of a young curate who had once smiled at me. In truth, my own imaginings about Lord Evan were probably not so far removed from this girl’s infatuation. If I had a miniature of Lord Evan, I would probably carry it too.

For a breathtaking second, our last moment together rushed through my body as if he still stood before me: outside the asylum, his mouth pressed upon my own, our farewell kiss running through every nerve in my body, locking us together forever. We had both thought it was the last time we would see each other for months, or perhaps even years.

“Lady Augusta?”

I blinked, wrenched back to the bookshop here and now.

Thomas Hatchard stood before me. He bowed elegantly, his sober garb a copy of his father’s well-known uniform of black frock coat and plain waistcoat buttoned to the throat. “A pleasure to see you again, and Lady Julia,” he said.

Thomas was John Hatchard’s second son, and as much a vehement abolitionist as his father. We had formed our acquaintanceship at Mr. Wilberforce’s meetings and, through mutual outrage and a similar wry sense of the world, had developed a friendship despite our age difference. It was, on occasion, a disquieting thought that I was old enough to be his mother.

“Did you receive my order, Mr. Hatchard?” I asked, lifting my brows. I had sent him a message to solicit his help, along with a package to aid our departure. But was he willing to help?

“I did, indeed, Lady Augusta, and I believe we can fulfill the entire order,” he said, with a small smile. Although an earnest young man, he was, I think, enjoying the intrigue. Besides, Hatchards was famed for exerting the utmost effort to satisfy its customers, whatever the request. “Please, come this way.”

“How delightful to see you, Lady Julia,” an all-too-familiar voice called across the shop. We both swung around abruptly to face Mrs. Ellis-Brant, my friend Charlotte’s cousin by marriage. She was already bustling toward us past the busy central counter, orange and blue feathers bobbing upon her neat cottage hat.

“Oh Lud, it is the Ermine,” Julia murmured. I stifled a snort. I had once mentioned to Julia that I thought Mrs. Ellis-Brant looked like the sleek, dissatisfied ermine in the Da Vinci painting, and the name had taken hold.

“And Lady Augusta, as hale and hearty as ever,” Mrs. Ellis-Brant said, approaching with her rodent smile. She curtsied, which we acknowledged with nods, then she leaned in and whispered, “Are you well again, Lady Julia? It was such a shock when you swooned at dear Charlotte’s dinner party.”

Julia’s polite smile stiffened. A few months ago, she had mistaken the dosage of her blue mass pills and had fainted in Charlotte’s drawing room. Although, in all truth, I feared it might have been more than that.

“As I said on the night, it was only the aftereffect of a migraine,” Julia said. “But thank you for your concern.”

“Of course, and I have not said a word to anyone about it, just as dear Charlotte asked,” the Ermine said, which meant she had told her intimates and anyone else in earshot. She turned her attention upon me, collusion in her eyes. “I remember you asking about Lady Hester Belford that evening.”

I had, indeed, shamefully exploited the woman’s love of gossip to discover the story around Lord Evan’s sister. And it seemed I was about to do so again. “Yes, you thought she had run off with a companion.”

“It seems I was right,” Mrs. Ellis-Brant said triumphantly. “Have you heard the latest?”

I glanced at Julia. This did not bode well. “No, we have not.”

“Well, it is said they are hiding somewhere in London. She and her companion. Here, would you believe it?”

“Really?” Julia managed. “Who told you that?”

She flapped a noncommittal hand. “I cannot recall. However, it is said Lord Deele thought…did you know Lady Deele has delivered a much-longed-for heir and son?” We both nodded vigorously, hoping to curtail the tangent. “Ah, you have heard. Well then, it is said Deele thought his sister and her companion had fled to Scotland and had been searching in that direction, but now he is set to search London once he has done his duty by his wife and new son. Some intrigue for those of us still left in the city.”

George Brummell had been right; Lord Deele was well on his way to finding Hester and Miss Grant, especially now that he had determined they were in London. And if he did, the law stood firmly on his side. As Hester’s guardian he had the right to forcibly remove her and do with her as he wished.

The Ermine held up her copy of Childe Harold . “Are you here for this too? I daresay I shall have to read it now, since no one will talk of aught else.”

“Actually, Mr. Hatchard has a special order for us,” I said, finding a chance to escape. “If you will excuse us…”

Thomas took the hint and gestured elegantly toward the back of the shop. “This way, my ladies.”

We nodded our good-byes to the Ermine and followed Thomas. I looked back through the huge front display window. Tully, in her red cloak, still sat upon the bench, chatting with another maid. To an onlooker—or a nose—a lady’s maid outside a shop was a certain indicator that her mistress was still inside. It would give us at least twenty minutes or perhaps even half an hour to slip out the back to Miss Grant and our waiting carriage—with John Driver and his blunderbuss at the ready—and head toward our rendezvous with Lord Evan before anyone noticed. I would have preferred to have Weatherly with us, too, but I needed him back at the house to ensure Lady Hester’s safety.

“If what she says is true, Deele will be in London soon,” Julia whispered to me as we passed the shelves devoted to the travelogue and the picturesque. “We can no longer wait. We must find a safer place for them.”

I nodded mutely. Clearly Hester and Miss Grant must escape London, but that meant Evan would most likely go too. It would hurt—oh, how it would hurt to have him so near, only to be gone again—but it was for the best, since everything pointed to the fact that Mulholland was trying to kill him.

···

The back entrance to Hatchards led to a space that was packed with crates on either side, leaving a narrow path through to a gate painted in the Hatchard green. At the back doorway, Thomas retrieved the large package that had been delivered with my note and handed it to me. I ripped open the brown paper and pulled out the two cloaks I had sent in preparation for this moment.

“One for you,” I said, offering the blue wool to Julia. I swirled the burgundy velvet over my shoulders. An easy way to change our apparel. I returned the packaging to Thomas. “Thank you, Mr. Hatchard.”

Thomas bowed. “I wish you well. Jermyn Street is up through there.”

His nod directed us to the laneway behind the shop. I drew the cloak close around my body—the crates had ragged edges just built for snagging cloth—and led the way through the gate and into the cobbled lane. So far, so good.

“I hope the Ermine does not note we have not returned. I would not put it past her to wait for us in the hope of an invitation,” Julia said as we negotiated the flagstones slicked with mud.

Ahead, two middling women raised upon wooden pattens walked past the laneway entrance, the clack of their shoe coverings ringing upon the stone. A scruffy tan dog trailed behind them, stopping to sniff the corner before running off as we approached. But no sign of our carriage. Damn, I had hoped it would be waiting for us.

“Even if she does, we will be well away,” I said as we stepped over the water-filled rut that separated the laneway from Jermyn Street. “Besides, Mr. Hatchard will deflect any interest.”

We both surveyed the street, searching for our transport. It was not overly busy: three delivery wagons making their slow way toward St. James’s Street, a man driving a bullock in the opposite direction, and a gentleman on a rather fine bay mare conversing with a man outside a shop.

“It is not here,” Julia said, stepping back as a beefy man barreled past, touching his cap. “Why is it not here?”

I searched the street again, as if the carriage would magically appear. “They are probably just held up. A turned cart or something.”

“I hope they are not too long. We are rather conspicuous standing here so close to St. James’s Street,” Julia said.

My sister was right; we were dangerously close to the notorious gentlemen’s clubs at the end of the street, but we could not go back.

“Perhaps we should start to walk toward Piccadilly,” I said.

“Wait! Look!” Julia pointed toward Duke Street. A familiar carriage had turned the corner. “That is ours, is it not? Thank heavens.”

I blew out a relieved breath. Yet something was not right. I narrowed my eyes, focusing upon the driving seat. Two sat upon it. Was that Weatherly beside John?

“Weatherly has come too,” Julia said, echoing my surprise. “That was not part of the plan.”

Indeed, it was not. Nor was it customary for Weatherly to disregard our instructions.

“Oh dear, this cannot be good,” Julia said.

As our carriage approached us, the expression upon Weatherly’s face became clearer. Our butler was perturbed. Good Lord, what had happened? It took a lot to perturb William Weatherly.

John Driver pulled up the horses and Weatherly swung down from the seat to stand at the carriage door, ready to open it. The curtains had been drawn across the windows to hide the occupant; at least Miss Grant had followed my instructions in that matter.

“What is wrong?” I asked Weatherly.

“I tried, my lady,” he said, and opened the door.

Inside the dim cabin, two pale countenances peered out: Miss Grant, stony-faced, and beside her, Lady Hester, mutinous.

What on earth was Miss Grant thinking, allowing her to come?

Behind me, Julia gave a sigh.

I glared at Miss Grant. “Why is she here?” I demanded, my irritation making me abrupt.

Lady Hester leaned forward, eyes overbright and gloved hands clenched tightly around her reticule. “I will see my brother, Lady Augusta. I will not allow you to stop me.” She glanced at her paramour with some reproach. “I will not allow anyone to stop me. It is imperative that I talk to him. He will listen to me!”

“You will make yourself even more ill; then where will we be?” Miss Grant muttered, folding her arms over the gold frogged trim upon her bodice. She met my glare with a worried frown: half apology, half defiance.

Weatherly leaned closer. “It is why we are late,” he murmured. “There was a…debate. But after what Lady Hester has been through, and thinking upon our earlier conversation, I did not think you would want me to stop her with physical force or lock her in her room.”

My turn to sigh. “Quite right, Weatherly.”

Lady Hester already looked burned to the socket, but if we took her back to the house—or even sent her back in a hackney, alone—the Runners might be tipped off and all my careful preparations ruined. Not to mention someone seeing her and reporting back to Deele.

“Get in, Gus,” Julia urged behind me. “We cannot stand here making a scene.”

Indeed, the last thing we needed was to garner attention. I took Weatherly’s hand and stepped into the cabin, taking the seat opposite Miss Grant. Julia followed close behind and sat beside me.

“We will go on as planned,” I said to Weatherly, who waited in the doorway.

He nodded and closed the carriage door.

Across the footwell, Lady Hester settled back into her seat.

“Do not think we will return if you faint,” I said crisply. A horrible thing to say, but I resented this flouting of my plan.

“I have no intention of fainting,” Lady Hester said, looking as if she would do so at any moment.

“The doctor said absolutely no unnecessary exertion, but, of course, you know better,” Miss Grant said under her breath. Lady Hester turned a little in her seat, away from the remark. A surprising discord—I had only ever seen them show a united front.

Julia touched my arm. “It is no great change to the plan, my dear,” she said softly, reading my expression. “We are still on schedule and your ruse seems to have worked perfectly.”

My sister, as ever, was right. Nothing had changed. Only one extra person within the carriage. And yet, as I studied Lady Hester—the prominent bones of her pale face testimony to the maltreatment she had suffered at the asylum—I knew that if she asked her brother to flee to another country, he would do so. How could he not?