Page 26 of The Lady and the Secret Lord (The Duke’s Men #3)

T hey were admitted to Marchmont House by an elderly butler in his dressing gown, cap askew on his gray head, the hall ablaze with light.

“Your mistress is not in bed?” Robin asked.

“She is in the kitchen with the… young person,” the man replied.

Robin left Wenlocke in the hall to soothe the offended butler’s sensibilities and went in search of Phoebe. In the kitchen he was met by a mad scene of Trajan running in circles around a small, steaming copper bath before the fire, and Aggie wedged in a corner at the edge of the tall kitchen cupboard. Andrew stood, barefoot and scrubbed, in a nightshirt, pleading with her, and Mrs. K sat at the table, leaning on her elbows, her lace-capped head in her hands, laughing. A grinning servant girl looked on in amusement. It was so far from the peril he imagined that he simply stood for a moment taking it in.

“You came.” Phoebe stepped forward, offering her gauze-wrapped hands.

He knew he would take those hands. He had not the strength to resist. She was safe and warm and surrounded by friends. Bolton, wherever he had gone, had not disturbed their peace, if it could be called peace.

“You can see,” Phoebe said, “that we are, that is Mrs. K is, in negotiation with Aggie about a bath.”

“Negotiations appear to have broken down,” he said.

“A temporary setback,” she said. A little frown gathered on her brow as she looked at him. “But what brings you here at this hour?”

“I will tell you in a minute.”

He called Trajan and ordered the dog to lie down at the kitchen door.

“Andrew,” he told the boy, “your friend Aggie is not going to take a bath with you hanging about giving instructions.”

“She’s afraid. She thinks Mrs. K will drown her and take her clothes and sell them. I told her she would have a nice nightgown to wear.” He held up a pristine item, of the finest lawn. Robin could see that the thin gown must look scandalous to the girl. Wearing it would be little better than being naked. A girl could not run away in such a gown or keep herself warm in such a gown or fend off an attacker in such a gown. Aggie did not yet know about the sheets and coverlets and downy quilts that waited for her in a place like Marchmont House. She probably could not imagine sleeping secure.

Robin took the lawn gown and handed it to Mrs. K. “Is there a housemaid’s old dress you can lend her, Mrs. K? Something gray or brown? I think she has a horror of finery.”

“Of course, and there are far too many people in this kitchen.” Mrs. K rose. “Come along, Peggy,” she said to the hovering servant girl. “Let us go find something comfortable for Agnes.”

Robin turned to Andrew. “Can you wait upstairs, too, Andrew, with your sister?”

The boy nodded. “Here’s some soap, Aggie.” He offered her a golden-yellow round. “Smells like lemon cake, but mind you, don’t eat it.” The girl accepted the soap, and Andrew went to Phoebe and the two of them started up the stairs.

Robin turned to the girl huddled in the corner. She clutched the soap, staring after her disappearing friend. The room had gone quiet, except for the snap and sputter of the fire. “Turn your good ear to me, Aggie,” Robin said. When she did, he offered a smile. He didn’t know which fear was uppermost in the girl’s mind, but he thought his own long-ago fears might guide him. “You took Andrew in, didn’t you? Found him a place to bed down at the Green Man. Now it’s his turn. He’s found a place for you here away from the bad man who hurt your ear.”

The tilt of her head told him she was listening.

“Smell the soap, Aggie,” he said. “Does it smell like cake?”

The girl hesitated, then lifted the bar to her small, dirty nose. She sniffed tentatively, then nodded.

“Good,” he said. “The bath is there. I’ll leave you to it. You do as much or as little as you can. But, Aggie, people, and even dogs, take baths in this house.”

With sudden decision, the girl clomped across the kitchen in the heavy boots. At the tub, she kicked them off. She gave the shimmering water a fierce glare, then she climbed in with her clothes on, and plopped down. A surprised “oh” escaped her lips, and she grinned up at Robin.

“Well done, Aggie,” he said. “Mrs. K will bring you something warm and dry when you’re ready.”

*

Phoebe’s gaze found his when he returned to the hall. “She’s in the tub in her clothes,” he said. “It’s a start.”

“You are not a detective,” she said. “You are a miracle worker. Thank you. Mrs. K’s instinct was to burn those clothes, but we will do better to preserve them.” Her gaze sobered. “You didn’t come to rescue us from another difficulty. What did you come to tell me?”

He tugged her a gently away from where Andrew sat on a bench, eyelids drooping, leaning against Mrs. K. “Bolton has escaped,” he said.

She gasped and jerked in his hands. “How? When? Where has he gone?”

Robin squeezed her hands tighter in his. “His hirelings impersonated two officers. The officers were found drugged and bound and are being questioned. We will know more soon. But you aren’t alone here,” he assured her. “Wenlocke is with me, and I’ve sent for the C Division night man, Haynes, and another constable.”

“And Mary?” she asked. Her eyes searched his face.

“We will know soon.”

“Bolton was shot. Can he have got clean away so easily?”

“If it’s only a flesh wound, he will have it tended in France. We do think he will go to France, at least for now.”

“Will we never be safe then?” Her eyes searched his.

He wanted to reassure her. “I should have been more thorough. I rushed in without proper backup.” He had done it because he had been unable to think beyond the immediate need to free her from Bolton’s power. “In the morning we will have more information. We won’t let him come after you again.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You thought you were finished with us.”

I can never be finished with you. It was the truth. He believed he had let her go, not an hour earlier. He was not sure he could do it again.

“Jones.”

Robin turned. Aggie stood in the hall, a gray dress hitched up around her waist, her face scrubbed pink. “Oy know ew the bad man is that came lookin’ for Andrew.”

“You know him?”

She nodded. “Oy saw ’im.”

Phoebe went to the girl and knelt down. “Is that why you came with the coin and the message?”

“An old runner came round ’ayward’s shop askin’ about Andrew. ’e brought the man with the red tie. The red ties is bad news, so we knew we ’ad to stop yer search.”

“Thank you, you acted wisely,” said Phoebe.

Robin, too, thanked Aggie. “In the morning, Aggie, can you tell us what you know?”

The girl nodded solemnly.

“Good,” Robin said. “Time for sleep then.”

*

Two days later, Mayne summoned Robin to his office at the end of a long day of gathering witness statements and collecting documents and information about Bolton’s network of hired criminals. Robin had enlisted Finch’s aid in going after more records.

“Jones, extraordinary result with the recovery of young Lord Grafton. You are to be congratulated.” From Mayne it was high praise. He invited Robin to take a seat in his office, and offered him a glass of the pale gold Macallan whiskey he favored.

“We didn’t get Bolton, sir.” Robin put the drink aside.

“Do not trouble yourself about Bolton. We have alerted the French authorities. They will be most watchful of him. I should hear from Inspector Girard within the week.”

“I may say so, sir. I don’t like Bolton at large. He may return to London. He’s a different sort of criminal than we’ve seen in the past.”

“Then,” said Mayne, “we will develop different methods of finding men like him and holding them accountable to the law. Your approach through the ratepayer rolls was a good one.” He gave Robin a considering stare. “It would be useful if Bolton no longer had any claim on properties here.”

Robin faced the commissioner’s scrutiny. “You’ve heard from Wenlocke then.”

“I have. Will you consider seeking your title? The Lords’ Privileges Committee is keen to restore rightful heirs and remove any fraudulent claimants.”

“If the committee and the courts found in my favor, would I have to give up my place on the force?”

Mayne looked startled. “You wish to remain on the force?”

“I wish to be a detective, sir.” Above Mayne’s head was the framed statement of a fiery MP, saying he preferred dead bodies in Bethnal Green to live detectives in London streets.

“Very well, but do not expect your colleagues to bow and scrape.”

“Never, sir.” In fact, the duchess had given him a line to remember about his name, a line to keep him clear about who he was no matter what name he went by. She told him it was from a play about a pair of star-crossed lovers. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. It made sense to him. He might be called St. Albans or Somerton, but he would be himself still.

“That’s not all, sir.”

“Not all, Jones?” Mayne’s frown was severe. It was his role to end a conversation with and underling.

“I wish to go to France. May I have a brief leave, sir? Say four days.”

Mayne gave an exasperated sigh. “We have no power in France, Jones. Let Inspector Girard handle Bolton. I do not want to hear from the Prefect of Paris, that one of my men interfered with a French citizen by trying to bring him back to London.”

“I won’t bring him back, sir. The opposite, in fact. I will make sure that he stays in Paris, forever.”

Mayne gave Robin a long considering look, as if at last he saw who Robin was. “I don’t want to know what you have in mind, Jones. But, go. You’ve earned a holiday.”

“Thank you, sir.”