Page 35

If St. John’s attentions had once seemed flattering, they now felt weighted with enigmas.

In her swimming vision she sought a steady shape, and found only the steadfast pressure of Freddy’s fingers twined with hers—only familiar strength.

She held to it, desperate, as the carriage rumbled towards Berkley Square.

She surrendered again to darkness, convinced of only one certainty: she was now blind.

Freddy paced anxiously in Westwood’s drawing room while Dr. Harvey examined Joy in her chambers.

The sisters were all present with Joy upstairs, while Freddy, Rotham, Carew, Montford, and Stuart waited in the drawing room.

All the sisters had been sent for and had come as quickly as possible with their husbands.

When at last Dr. Harvey emerged with careful composure to pronounce that Miss Whitford had sustained no fracture of skull or limb, that a concussion must be allowed its course, and that, most troublesome to the patient, an abrupt disturbance of her vision had asserted itself.

She was now resting quietly, and should do so for a least a week.

He took his leave, promising to call again in the morning.

Joy’s sisters soon followed.

“Joy is resting with cats strewn all about her,” Lady Westwood said, dropping into a chair between Lady Rotham and Mrs. Stuart. “Grace is sitting with her for now.”

Freddy, who had been pacing up and down by the window, turned. “How is the pain?”

“Eased, thank Heaven. She claims it is chiefly annoyance now—at being unseated before half of London Society.”

Joy would say something like that.

Stuart, standing behind his wife, shook his head. “That is what puzzles me. Joy has as good a seat as anyone I know. Something had to have happened.”

Freddy echoed the sentiment.

Before conjecture could ferment, the door opened and Westwood strode in and Colonel St. John followed close behind. Freddy felt his nerves tighten like a jockey’s reins before the start.

“We have tramped the length of where they were riding and the woods thereabout,” Westwood announced, “but found no spent shot, no wadding, no powder scorch on branch or rail. It appears no firearm was discharged.”

“Joy said someone was lodging stones,” Freddy said.

“Something did fly by us and agitate her mount,” St. John concurred.

“A catapult? Perhaps young boys up to mischief?” Rotham questioned the unlikely behaviour with a deep frown.

No one said anything, since there would be little chance of tracking anyone launching stones. Someone was causing mischief, then. But was it related to the man tracking Joy?

Lady Westwood thanked St. John for his care. He bowed, murmuring hopes for Miss Whitford’s speedy recovery, and excused himself upon business at Horse Guards. Freddy watched St. John depart yet thought again of the man Joy had mentioned.

The ladies went back upstairs to see how the patient went on.

When the door closed, Westwood exhaled. “St. John was genuinely distressed, say what you will.”

“I do not doubt his distress,” Freddy replied, unable to smother the edge in his tone. “I question its cause.”

Westwood crossed to the window. “If he serves Joy’s happiness, we cannot censure him for this misfortune.”

“If we can rule him out as the cause of it,” Rotham added. “Would that today’s mishap is an awful coincidence, and that is all there is to be said about it.”

“It seems something has occurred since Ascot for which someone is keen to have their pound of St. John’s flesh.

He is unlikely to confess it or he would have done so today.

If it has reached the point where they are willing to harm Joy over the matter, then he bears watching and Joy protecting,” Stuart said.

“They might not have been aiming for Joy, but she was nevertheless caught in the crossfire.”

“If he is not in debt, then what could this be about?” Rotham asked.

“I expect a report from the Runners momentarily. They would not approach if St. John were here.”

No sooner had Stuart uttered the prediction than the butler reappeared, as grave as a funeral, and announced Mr. Hamble of Bow Street.

The Runner entered—a spare, sandy-haired, florid-complexioned man in plain coat and serviceable boots—carrying his hat respectfully beneath one arm and a folded sheet in the other.

“Beg pardon, my lords, gentlemen.” He inclined his head before turning to Stuart. “We have followed the person you described—the tall fellow in the shabby greatcoat—from Hyde Park to the Rookery at St. Giles. I’m afraid we lost him in the maze of courts and alleyways, nigh half an hour ago.”

Stuart motioned Hamble to continue. “Give particulars, please.”

“Aye, sir.” Hamble laid out his report: the suspect had loitered in the Park until the accident, then trudged east, hugging the mews on Oxford Street.

Two men had followed. The quarry cut through a print shop—“Bold as brass, sir, straight through the rear door,”—and melted into Charing Cross.

One Runner had circled, another had kept at heel.

They had shadowed him as far as Dyott Street, where he slipped into the labyrinth behind the Rookery.

“No constable dares venture far in there after dark without a troop,” Hamble added dryly.

“We posted men at the visible exits, but the cove must know bolt-holes the size of mouse-runs. ’E vanished. ”

Freddy clenched a fist.

“Did you see any badge of trade? Did they approach gaming dens or pawnshops?” Stuart asked.

“Not yet, sir. So far, we only tracked him to a nearby tavern called the Nag’s Head—kept to a corner table, drank small ale, paid from a purse with ready coin.” Hamble hesitated. “Beggin’ your pardon, but when he settled the score he used a Portuguese coin. A ducat, I think.”

“A soldier’s pay from their time on the Peninsula?” Stuart’s eyes narrowed. “Did he meet any companion?”

“No, sir—sat alone for twenty minutes, watching the door,” Hamble answered. “I questioned the tapster. Man gave the name of Silva.”

“Our bookmaker?” Carew queried of Freddy.

“Could be.”

Hamble continued. “’Tis nay much to go on, but my men will continue to hunt.”

Freddy paced to the window and stared at the flare of a lamplighter beyond the pane. “If Silva is pressing St. John for payment he cannot lay hands on, he must have hoped to speed matters by frightening Joy. That dowry would clear every note twice over.”

Westwood drew a sharp breath. “You think he meant to injure her deliberately?”

“Not necessarily,” Freddy answered, turning, “but a stone hurled to make the mare shy, a message to St. John was risk enough.” His voice roughened. “Joy paid the price for another man’s obligations.”

Westwood drummed fingers on the mantel. “We must bring St. John face to face with this and demand explanation.”

“Carefully,” Stuart warned. “Rush a desperate debtor and he may flee—or strike first.”

Hamble cleared his throat. “We can set four men at the Rookery lanes, but t’would be better to take him where streets are broader and the watch within whistle.”

“Do what you must,” Stuart ordered. “I fear we will not get answers without questioning him.”

“Aye, sir.” The Runner made a bow and left.

“Perhaps Silva serves as go-between for gentlemen too wary to approach the public hells. There may be someone else he does the dirty work for,” Rotham prophesied.

Freddy’s gaze drifted to the half-open door at the far end of the hall—the staircase lay beyond, up which Joy slept. A wave of fierce protectiveness surged within him. “Regardless of St. John’s motives, Joy shall not see him again.”

If anyone was surprised by Freddy’s cold claim, no one mentioned it.

Carew offered a practical amendment. “We might persuade Maeve to insist that Joy accompany her to Thornhill Place—fresh air and a duke’s security in the country—until this spectre is laid.”

Westwood approved. “An admirable retreat—provided the journey is slow.”

“My mother intends to hold a small gathering of close acquaintances at Gresham Park. I had intended to invite you all there. It might be more restful for Joy.” Freddy did not mention he’d like very much for Joy to visit his home as his intended.

“Very likely. We will put the question to Joy when she feels more the thing,” Westwood agreed, then clapped Freddy’s shoulder.

“Ashley and I will confront the Colonel after breakfast. If he means honourably, he will speak plainly with explanation. If not—” He let the threat hang. “—we shall know how to protect Joy.”

Freddy inclined his head, his voice rough when he spoke. “Thank you, Dom.”

Rotham and Montford gathered their wives and took their leave. Stuart lingered only long enough to scribble fresh instructions on thin paper before departing into the night, a shadow among shadows, every inch the army’s old intelligence chief.

Freddy wanted to ask to see Joy if only to put his mind at ease.

A week of rest, Hartley had said. Freddy vowed Joy would not know a moment’s distress—whatever cost it laid upon his own conscience.

Tomorrow, St. John would have to answer for his part in this.

The debt, the danger, and the truth would be dragged into the daylight.

He reached the stairs as Grace descended.

“She sleeps,” Grace whispered. “Faith and Patience keep vigil.”

Freddy exhaled, relief sharp. “Thank you. I shall call in the morning.”

Grace paused two steps above him, candlelight gilding her calm features. “She asked, before the laudanum took hold, whether you were still below. I told her you would remain until all was safe.”

A lump rose in his throat, but he swallowed it.

She placed a knowing hand on his arm. “I will reassure her.”

He nodded, knowing he should leave, though it was the last thing he wished to do. But as nothing was yet settled, he did not have the right. “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Freddy.”