Page 21 of The Lady and the Secret Lord (The Duke’s Men #3)

A stiff breeze blew, clearing away the last clouds of the previous evening’s deluge when Phoebe’s cousins descended upon her. They sat in the drawing room in the terra-cotta velvet chairs, waiting for the tea to steep.

“You made a spectacle of yourself last night with Mr. Jones,” Mary said with very little preamble, shifting to avoid a reflected beam of sunlight. Her face looked a little drawn, the eyes puffy under the frowning brows, her cheeks wan. Perhaps it was only the sharp maroon of her gown against her complexion.

Even Henry looked a bit severe in a dark green coat. “A policeman, no less,” he added. “Eldridge was put out by the way the man cut in on your dance.”

“A policeman?” Phoebe hoped that she gave a credible appearance of surprise. She began to pour tea into the blue cups.

“You didn’t know?” Henry’s brows went up.

“I understood that Mr. Jones was part of the Duke of Wenlocke’s family through his mother. Currant cake, Henry?”

Henry took the offered cake.

“That may be,” said Mary, “but I, that is we, have it on good authority that he is a common policeman. Certainly, his manner was uncouth, singling you out and coming across the ballroom with that great stride of his.”

“He’s a copper,” Henry said. “The count told us.”

“Oh dear,” Phoebe said. “I think I’ve been misled. You’re right his manner is quite abrupt. Of course, I thought it was his connection with the duke that brought him into society.”

“The count thought he was there to arrest someone,” Henry confided.

“Don’t be silly, Henry. Nevertheless, you must see, Phoebe dear,” Mary said, lifting her teacup, “why you are so desperately in need of a companion to give you respectability. You do not want to be thought fast .”

“I do see, Mary, and you’ll be glad to know that I looked at Mrs. Walker’s papers this morning as I promised. Everything seems in order. Should I contact the agency to reach her?”

There was an ever-so-slight hesitation in the hand that directed Mary’s teacup to her lips.

“No, not the agency. Let me arrange for you to meet her.” Mary sipped her tea.

“That would be helpful. I do feel it is necessary to conduct an interview, for I must know if your Lucy Walker will suit.”

“Well, that was easier than expected,” said Henry, taking a bite of cake and drawing a sharp glance from his sister.

Phoebe laughed.

“Seriously, cousin,” Henry asked, “would you come for a ride with us in the park this afternoon?”

It was Phoebe’s turn to hesitate. She wanted to be at home to receive Jones’s message when it came, but with Mary’s gaze on her, she smiled and accepted.

*

At Moody’s, Robin chose a bench along the wall. An enclosed place would not do for skittish visitors. From that bench his guests could see at least two doors. If they came as far as Moody’s, there could be no collaring, no holding, no restraints of any kind. Only trust would get them to take the next step and go with him to Wenlocke. He sent a message alerting the duke to his plan. He would not send word to Phoebe until her brother was well and truly safe.

Robin paced in front of the bench. Bolton’s next move troubled him. The man had remained concealed behind the league’s work, presumably for years, and now worked to blot out the league’s very existence with a cover-up that was as chilling as it was thorough. To possess any knowledge of the league was dangerous. Leary feared for his life. Shattuck was dead. Lucy Walker might be in danger. If Bolton had any suspicion of the knowledge Phoebe possessed, she was in danger. And Robin could not go to her until Andrew was safe.

He did not think Bolton would act directly in the matter, but rely on his underlings. Bolton, as far as Robin knew, had not killed, other than in a duel, but Bolton’s hirelings had. At least two men who had worn the red tie were at large, one of them, a murderer. The question was whether they had orders to go on killing or to stand down while Shattuck’s murder was under investigation. Robin weighed his choices. He wanted to go after Bolton, but might have to begin with the lesser members of the league. Mayne wouldn’t like it, but maybe there was a way that Leary’s evidence could come to light at the inquest.

Robin had formed no clear strategy when his guests arrived. The cake was visible on a napkin provided by Moody. The girl’s eyes darted warily from Robin to the doors. She was rail thin with pale sticks of legs and a pinched white face, her dark hair knotted at her nape. Her arms were crossed over a black wool shawl around her chest. Andrew, clinging to her short dark skirts, drew her forward. The boy’s own gaze took in the cake and the men sparring in the ring with equal interest.

“See,” he told his partner, “cake.”

“Hello Agnes. I’m Jones. Will you sit and have some cake and coffee?”

The girl frowned and turned her right ear to Andrew. “Cawfey?” she asked.

Andrew nodded. “C’mon, Aggie,” he urged. He sat down, and after another glance at the nearest door, she joined him. He started in on the cake, and she followed. As she chewed the first bite, her eyes closed briefly, then opened again in wary alertness.

“There can be more cake,” Robin said. He took the coin out of his pocket and held it in his palm. Both children stared. “As much cake as you want, if you come with me to a safe place.”

“Our things is at the Green Man,” said the girl firmly, that right ear slanted toward Robin. “No one bothers us there.”

“No one will bother you at this new place.”

“It has to be a good hiding place,” said Andrew, his gaze fixed on the coin.

“It’s a place where children have food and beds and toys and no bad men hurt them,” Robin said.

“How do we get there?” Andrew asked.

“In a grand coach with a coachman on the box.” The answer pleased the boy, but not his companion, who shook her head.

Robin lowered himself to speak to them eye to eye. Up close Robin could see their dirty fingernails and grubby knees. The pair of them smelled of fried fish and soot. “Agnes, I’m here because you brought the coin and message to Andrew’s other sister. Maybe Andrew told you about her. Her name is Phoebe, and she thanks you for that message. She wants to see her brother more than anything.”

Agnes did not appear to look at him, but she turned her good ear to hear his words. “Bad men are lookin’ for ’im.”

“I know. You kept him safe, didn’t you?”

She nodded. There was weariness in the lines of her young face and the slope of her shoulders. Independence like hers had to be fought for every day. He wanted to tell her that the bad men had been captured, but he could not make that assurance. He could only promise them a safe house.

Andrew moved next to Agnes on the bench and took hold of her hand.

“Listen,” Robin told them. “The house belongs to a man named Wenlocke. As a boy, when he was Aggie’s age, he hid on the rooftops of London from a bad man who wished to kill him. He found other boys and kept them safe, too. Now he will keep you safe at his house.”

“How do you know?” Andrew asked.

Robin turned his full attention to the boy. “I was one of those boys,” he said. “Wenlocke was my Agnes.” That earned him a skeptical, assessing look from the girl.

The boy pleaded, “Can we go, Aggie?”

“You go. Leave me behind,” she said.

Andrew shook his head. “I won’t. You have to come, Aggie. You have to meet Phoebe. Phoebe is… kind.”

Robin didn’t move. The girl faced a terrible risk. She had been to Marchmont House. She had glimpsed the other world that had a claim on Andrew, that could take him back, swallow him up, and leave her with nothing.

At last, she nodded to the boy. He turned with a big grin to Robin. “Can we have another piece of cake now, Jones?” he asked.

Robin stood. “Cake it is,” he said.

He had a message to send to Phoebe, and his two new charges had an appointment with food and warmth, and love and soap.

*

In Great-Aunt’s cumbersome old barouche, Phoebe and Mary faced front, while Henry faced rear. They were well-bundled up against the cold with carriage rugs and muffs and scarves. A stiff breeze tugged at their wraps and threatened to carry off Henry’s hat. Phoebe had had no word yet from Jones, but Mrs. K was empowered to open any message that came and make arrangements for the Marchmont coach to be ready if needed when Phoebe returned.

It seemed to Phoebe that only the most devoted of London’s fashionable had turned out for the promenade. Mary, herself, looked grimly determined to be part of the scene rather than taking pleasure in it. Surely, in the wind, they would not linger in the park.

“There’s Countess Blessington.” Mary nudged Phoebe. “Wave.”

Phoebe did as Mary instructed, and exchanged an amused glance with Henry.

“Mary,” he said. “If this blasted wind snatches my hat, you owe me.”

“Henry, don’t be tiresome. We must establish Phoebe’s credit after her display of impropriety last night. Everyone must see that we support our cousin.”

“Mary,” Phoebe protested. “Henry does not have to suffer because I danced twice with an awkward partner.”

“A policeman, Phoebe, is not merely an awkward partner,” Mary snapped. “You could not have made more of a spectacle of yourself had you danced with one of Her Grace’s footmen.”

“I doubt anyone remarked Mr. Jones’s profession. He was as gentlemanly in appearance as any other man there. The duchess plainly found him an acceptable guest.”

“You have no idea how you were talked about to me. That dress and those dances.”

“By Great-Aunt’s friends, Lady Alton and Mrs. Hawksley, who will no doubt report to her if they haven’t already.”

Mary had the grace to look chagrined. Henry laughed.

“Her first visitors today,” he said.

“I will recover, Mary.”

“You may, but you will always be your mother’s daughter. You really need to exercise more care in how you present yourself. You can’t wear… red and flaunt yourself with questionable partners.” Her voice was pleading.

Phoebe stiffened. She could not help it. “My mother’s daughter? What do you mean by that?” If Jones was right, it was Mary’s mistaken opinion of Phoebe’s mother that led to Andrew’s disappearance.

Mary didn’t blink. “The daughter of an obscure country parson. She never had a place in London society, so if you want to take advantage of the position your father’s title gives you, you must rise above your origins. If only you had accepted Lucy Walker as a companion.”

“But I agreed to the interview. Has Mrs. Walker accepted another position?” Phoebe was confused. There was something odd in Mary’s if only .

“Of course. Now nod to Lord Rutland.”

In spite of the wind and the thinness of the company, they had gone but a short way into the park when a messenger boy ran up to their carriage and trotted alongside. He lifted up his message, thrusting it toward Mary. “Lady Phoebe Marchmont?” he asked.

“I am Lady Phoebe.” Phoebe took the message and tore it open. A cab waits to take you to Andrew.

She pressed the message to her heart. Jones had done it. He had found her brother alive. Her cousins stared. It was most inconvenient that the message had reached her in their presence. What to tell them?

“I must go,” she said. “I’ve had a message from… Tanner. Please excuse me.”

“Go where?” Henry asked.

Phoebe threw off the carriage rug and opened the carriage door. “There’s a cab. The driver will know. Can we stop?”

“Wait, cousin.” Henry signaled their coachman to stop and climbed down to assist her.

Phoebe scrambled down. “Thank you, Henry. I will… send word later.”

“Let me walk you to the cab,” he said.

“No need, I’ll follow the boy.” She waved the messenger on.

“Henry, let her go,” urged Mary. “We must finish our drive.”

“You keep going, Mary. I will catch up.” He turned his back on the barouche and offered Phoebe his arm. With the wind in their faces and Henry holding onto his hat, they followed the messenger to the park entrance. He pointed to a cab. Henry tossed him a coin and the boy ran off.

“For Lady Phoebe?” Henry asked the driver. The fellow nodded, muffled to his eyes against the wind. “Where are you taking her?”

“I ’as me orders,” the driver said.

“Damn your orders,” said Henry, laying hold of the horse’s harness pole. “Where are you taking my cousin?”

Phoebe leaned forward to stop the argument. “Henry, could you tell Mrs. Kendall that I got the message?”

“I don’t like this Phoebe. Should I come with you?”

“Really, Henry, I must go quickly. But do tell Mrs. Kendall.”

Henry nodded and let go of the harness pole. She heard him exchange words with the driver one more time, and the cab went into motion. In an hour or perhaps sooner, she would hold her brother in her arms.

*

The Wenlocke coach quite awed Agnes, who refused to climb in until Robin borrowed a coarse blanket from Moody’s and covered the velvet squabs with it. After the girl’s reaction to the coach, Robin decided to bring his charges into the house through the mews and the kitchen rather than the grand front entry. The kitchen might be larger than any one Agnes had seen, but he trusted to the smell of good food to counter her uneasiness.

The strategy paid off. From the kitchen he led the children to a small anteroom with a decent fire, and no alarming grandeur, and sent for the duke and duchess and more cake. Once again, he got down to the children’s eye level. “You have been brave,” he said. “You need only be brave a short while more. Here you will meet Wenlocke and the princess.” Agnes gasped.

Robin retrieved the coin from his pocket and offered it to her. “Can you be the keeper of the coin?” he asked. “Andrew trusts you.”

She looked surprised, but accepted it.

“Andrew, I sent a message to Lady Phoebe to meet you here as soon as she can. Remember, Agnes, you are the big sister, the keeper of the coin.”

Agnes closed her eyes, the coin tight in her fist, but she didn’t run. Andrew moved to sit beside her. They had a warm fire and cake to spare, and Robin smiled to himself. Phoebe’s long search was over.