Chapter Seven
Gabriel relished the idea of going to the theater tonight.
He wasn’t interested in the play—fiction rarely intrigued him—but the opportunity to study his quarry made it invaluable.
Gathering intelligence was the first step in any endeavor, and tonight he was going to watch Miss Caddick interact with her friends, her former suitors, and any number of other interesting people.
With all the possibilities, he’d be able to see a pattern in her lies.
Was she a twitcher? Or did she freeze her body instead? What was the woman’s tell? If he couldn’t figure it out by the end of the evening, then he was not the asset to Lord Benedict that a good aide-de-camp should be.
Diplomacy was about guessing people’s intentions, recognizing their lies, and knowing when to trust that someone was telling the truth.
If Gabriel intended to advance alongside Lord Benedict, then he needed to excel at these things.
And if he couldn’t figure out a debutante’s lies, he’d be useless among the professional liars in international politics.
He stabled his horse nearby, leaving his evening clothes in a satchel there.
What he wore now were the casual clothes of a laborer, complete with a dirty hat pulled down over his ears.
He didn’t bother with a gun, but he had his knives.
No reason to keep them close except that it was crazy to walk around London unarmed, especially in the areas he sometimes wandered.
Miss Caddick lived in a respectable neighborhood. Nothing like the exalted homes to which she no doubt aspired, but it probably served her purpose. The area was busy enough that a woman could slip in and out without anyone noticing. All sorts of mischief available to a curious miss.
He walked to the servants’ entrance and saw exactly what he expected—something odd for a typical London household.
There seemed to be several people loitering about the back door, more than should be expected for a household of two.
Even with a large staff, what possible need could the baron and Miss Caddick have for a fruit seller, a couple laborers, and two footmen in the livery of Lord Gardner?
Since they seemed to stand in a loose line, he slipped quietly in behind the footmen, listening for whatever he could hear.
It was all general talk, especially when people stood in a queue.
The footmen griped about moving furniture around for the perpetually redecorating Lady Gardner who lived two blocks away.
They’d both been injured while trying to maneuver a massive wardrobe.
One had his hand sliced from an exposed nail.
The other had been crushed—or so he claimed—when the wardrobe toppled onto him.
There was much grumbling and teasing between the two, though the bloody gash did look deep.
Neither man said a thing when Gabe fell in behind them. They were more interested in making eyes at the young female fruit seller who was just now exiting the house. She was all smiles and saucy hips as she sauntered away, but nothing about her stood out.
What the hell was everyone doing here?
The first of the two laborers went in, pulling his hat off his greasy head in respect.
It was only the luck of the light that Gabe saw that his hair wasn’t dirty as much as bloody.
Lord, what had sliced his head open? His friend followed, clearly there as support for the first man.
Then the door closed leaving the two footmen still waiting and Gabe behind them.
What was going on in there?
Cleaning apparently, because ten minutes later, the housekeeper popped open the door. She had a bucket of bloody water to dump.
“Move aside or get yer boots wet.”
The two footmen jumped sideways barely fast enough to avoid the splash.
Luckily, Gabe wasn’t in the line of fire, so he watched the woman’s expression.
It was bland despite her bloody work, as if she were accustomed to cleaning a man’s head wound.
He’d only seen the like on the faces of doctors on the battlefield.
The housekeeper wasn’t as world weary, of course, but she wasn’t discomforted either.
Odd and odder, but he couldn’t figure out a way to ask what was going on.
She went back in and then a moment later, the two laborers came out, both nodding their thanks.
The one with the head wound wasn’t bandaged up, as Gabe expected, but cleaned such that a pink flush appeared on his cheeks.
When he turned, Gabe saw that a thick unguent had been applied to his gash.
Medical care? Why were they coming here for that?
Meanwhile, the housekeeper came back out to address the two footmen. “It’s you two again, is it? What now?”
The one with the cut hand held it up. The housekeeper scanned the wound, then stepped aside such that he could enter the kitchen. But when his companion stepped forward, the woman held out her hand to stop him.
“An’ what of you?”
“I got crushed ’ard,” he said. “My arm.”
She frowned at him, then quick as a wink, punched his forearm. He pulled it back with a sharp cry, not of pain but surprise. That was enough for the housekeeper. “Off with you.”
“But it’s hurt!”
“What’s hurt is your nether regions. Miss Betty’s not got time for you.”
“Are you sure?” The man pressed. “She can’t work all the time.”
“She can and she does. And if she didn’t, she wouldn’t be wasting time with you.” She stepped closer, forcing him to retreat. Except the footman was determined. Rather than move backwards, he sidestepped and tried to sidle past.
He failed. The woman gripped the man’s ear and hauled him away.
Gabe winced in sympathy. There’d been a few good years during his childhood when he’d had a nanny of sorts.
She was a retired whore who was quick with those pincher fingers, and his left ear was a quarter inch larger because of how many times she’d grabbed it.
The footman took his discipline with a good-natured shrug. “Just tell her Freddie Morgan was here. Just tell her—”
“Out!” the housekeeper ordered. “Or I’ll be having a word with Mrs. Wallace about you.”
Gabe guessed that Mrs. Wallace was the housekeeper at Lord and Lady Gardner’s residence because Mr. Morgan ducked his head and rushed away.
“Impertinent dog,” the woman muttered as she watched him run off. Then she focused hard eyes on Gabe. “And what about you? What ails you, an’ who brought you?”
“Freddie said to come,” he lied quickly.
“Freddie says a lot of things. So?” She looked him up and down. “You don’t look hurt.”
Good because he wasn’t one to advertise his injuries.
Fortunately for him, he had one that would likely get him inside.
Three nights ago, he’d gone to help an old friend and gotten beaten with a poker for his troubles.
Fortunately, he’d managed to dodge or blunt most of the impacts.
All except the first which had landed hard on his ribs.
He lifted his shirt and angled his torso so that the woman could see the mottled bruise.
She frowned, but didn’t gasp at the sight, which was none too pretty. “Very well. Did Freddie tell you the rules?”
“Naw,” he said. “Just that I should come.”
“Course not,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Not a word about this to anyone. If I find out you talked, Miss Betty can poison as well as heal, so keep that in mind. Now what exactly did Freddie say to you?”
He tucked his shirt back in place. “Nothing. I followed him. Wanted to see.”
“Come to gawk at the witch woman?” He didn’t think she could grow harder, but her temper showed in the low fury in her voice.
“No, ma’am. I just thought I could get help.”
She frowned. “Does it pain you much?”
Nothing compared to some of his injuries. “Like the devil himself gripped me in his fist.”
“Hm,” she said, clearly not believing him. “Very well. You’ll keep track of everything for a week. What you did, when, and how it looked. Everything, you understand? And ye’ll come back to tell us.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t forget. And don’t tell. She may not curse you, but I will.
” She shook her head. “And I’m going to start with Freddie Mason,” she grumbled as she turned around and headed into the kitchen.
“Stupid boy.” Then she glanced back over her shoulder.
“Well, come on then. She’s got a minute for you now. ”
He followed obediently, pausing as the first footman waved his newly bandaged hand and headed out.
Then Gabe was ushered to a small room originally meant for storage.
It was a stillroom now with jars and bottles along the walls, a scarred wooden table in the middle, a basin of water, and a stoop-shouldered woman with a large bum.
She had her back to him as she hunched over a ledger scribbling down something and muttering to herself.
Clearly Freddie was attracted to dowdy, maternal women because the dress and demeanor reminded him of the matron at Eaton. To his child’s mind, she’d been a hundred years old as she talked about retiring to mind her garden and never seeing an impudent boy again.
“All right then,” came a raspy voice. “Let’s see it, hmmm?” The woman turned around and Gabe was shocked by her liquid brown eyes and the elegant sweep to her cheekbones.
Then he looked deeper.
It was a good disguise, he admitted. Her dress, her raspy voice, and the awkward way she moved would all lead him to think she was someone else.
But those liquid brown eyes were hard to disguise, not to mention the overall bone structure beneath her dirty face.
Miss Betty was none other than Miss Caddick indulging herself by playing doctor with the neighboring servants.