Chapter 5
Isadore had few illusions about her chances of leaving her own home without the notice of George Fitz-Wilton's servant spies taking note.
She doubted a maid emptied her chamber pot without someone in the house writing it down to report back to the gaoler her husband had left her to in his will.
Gregory had been a trial as a husband, but he'd never been deliberately cruel.
Or so she'd believed until the day his will was read, and her finances and her son had been handed over to the man she despised above all others.
Gregory knew how she felt about his brother, George, about her distrust of the man. What had he been thinking?
"I don't like this one bit, missus," Whip Anders, her grizzled coachman said as he handed her into her carriage. Whip was the only ally she had left after George had let go all of her servants in favor of his loyal band of informants.
"Which part, Whip? The part where I am meeting with a notorious crime lord at a dockside tavern? Or the part where I am seeking to leave my own home without alerting George's watchdogs?"
"All of it, if you don't mind my saying. 'Tis a miracle you weren't caught out last night." He stepped back and closed the door. "You know that scheming footman, Braxton, will follow us."
"Let us try for another miracle, shall we, Whip?" Isadore settled back onto the cushioned squabs of the front facing bench. "Up on the box with you and spring 'em. Make Braxton work for his coin."
Whip tapped his hat and grinned. "Aye, missus."
In spite of her request Isadore still nearly fell from her seat when Whip sent the horses flying down the mews lane and out onto Grosvenor Street.
In moments they were nearly cantering down Bond Street.
Pall Mall and The Strand went past her window in a blur.
Whip Anders was well into his sixties, but few young coachmen knew London as well as he did.
Not to mention his talent with horses was without peer.
His age and his position had allowed George to dismiss him as no threat.
What possible help could an old coachman be to her? If only he knew.
Fairly certain Whip would have her safely at the Prospect of Whitby in time for her meeting with Mister Dyer without Braxton right behind her, she took the time to consider what she planned to do.
When she'd held her pistol on him and blackmailed the enigmatic criminal the idea to use him to find Jeremy had flashed into her mind like a bolt of lightning.
The trouble with lightning was it didn't last long and usually left one in the dark.
After her trip home last night with Dyer's silent hulk of a coachman, she'd lain awake half the night.
She'd wavered between absolute terror at what she'd done and a fire born of desperation to find some way to turn her folly into purpose.
Jeremy was being kept in one of the twelve houses in London owned by Gregory's estate.
She'd come upon that scrap of information during one of her clandestine searches of George's St. James Square residence.
She had no hope of entering any of those other houses unnoticed at this point.
Not without causing a scandal. However, a practiced thief like Ban Dyer?
His message had arrived this morning by way of a Jewish fishmonger making a delivery.
The old man had caused quite a scene at the back entrance to the kitchens when he'd demanded Missus Fitz-Wilton herself sign for the delivery.
It wasn't until Isadore had retreated to her private sitting room that she'd read the note the fishmonger had slipped into her hand.
Missus Fitz-Wilton,
Meet me at the Prospect of Whitby at noon today.
Ban Dyer
Written by a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. He'd discovered her name. How much more did he know about her? That was the question.
The carriage slowed and drew to a halt. Isadore peered out and immediately sneezed.
The smell of the Thames was far stronger here than in Mayfair.
That much was certain. The noise of raised voices, heavy wagons, and sounds from the docks with which she was not familiar startled her for a moment.
She had no time for that. She steeled herself as Whip came to open the door and let down the steps.
"Still don't like you going into a place like this, missus.
" Whip glared at the door to the Prospect of Whitby as if it were hell itself.
He wasn't too far wrong at that. Isadore prayed the man she had come to meet looked less like the Devil himself in the light of day.
She didn't hold out much hope though. "You're likely to find every sort of villain in London in there. "
"I'm only hoping to find one sort, Whip.
" She patted his arm as she stepped down onto the wet cobblestones.
The air weighed heavy in this part of Town, laden with the scents of fish, the river, smoke, and sweat.
She took a deep breath nonetheless. "Stay with the horses and keep an eye out for Braxton. "
Once inside the tavern, Isadore tried to ignore the press of bodies, the clatter of dishes, and the butchering of the King's English that rushed around her like the sea as the tide came to shore.
She pulled her cloak more tightly to her and tried to believe the raised hood afforded her at least a little anonymity.
"This way, Missus Fitz-Wilton," a vaguely familiar voice at her elbow said.
She turned to find a young lad, perhaps thirteen at best. She knew him from somewhere.
He took her arm and led her through the writhing mass of dock workers and sailors to a table set back in a small alcove with a large window overlooking the Thames.
"Thank you, Dickie." Mister Dyer sat slouched comfortably in a chair next to the window. "Ask Annie to fetch us some stew and some ale on your way out." He dropped a small leather pouch into the boy's outstretched hand.
"I left your laundry in your carriage with Benny," the boy said, as he hefted the pouch in his hand a few times.
Isadore suddenly realized how she knew the boy, though he was not dressed as he had been the last time she'd seen him.
His clothes were dirty and ragged as any boy of the streets now, but when she'd last seen him. ..
"You're Dickie Jones," she said as she sat in the chair he held for her. "You're Mister Carrington-Bowles' ward. What are you doing here?" She lowered her voice. "Working for him?"
Mister Dyer laughed. "Dickie works for the highest bidder, Missus Fitz-Wilton, despite Carrington-Bowles' efforts to civilize him. Give your sister my thanks for the laundry, Dickie."
"She says you'd be easier to work for if you sent her shirts with less bloodstains on them."
"I'll try to bleed less in future."
"It ain't your blood she's worried about, now is it?"
"Off with you before Carrington-Bowles comes looking for you. Give him my regards."
"Will do. G'day Missus Fitz-Wilton." Dickie tipped the ragged cap he wore. "Steer clear of trouble, Dyer."
"I will if you will," the crime lord called after the lad as he wound his way through the crowd, spoke to a young tavern maid, and then went out the door.
"You might have chosen a more savory place for us to meet, sir. Discretion is all well and good but--"
"Discretion has nothing to do with it, Missus Fitz-Wilton.
You showed me you don't give a fig for your reputation when you broke into my home and held me at gunpoint.
I don't venture into Mayfair in daylight hours under any circumstances.
" He paused when the tavern maid arrived and set a bowl of stew, a plate of bread and two mugs of ale on the table.
Dyer tossed her half a crown which she caught with a grin and tucked into her bodice.
The look she gave the man told Isadore she'd likely done more than serve him food or drink.
Not that such things mattered to Isadore.
She had business to do with Ban Dyer, nothing more.
"About my proposal," she said. He waved a dismissive spoon at her as he dug into the bowl of stew.
"Eat, woman. Judging by the size of your ankles you need some meat on your bones. 'Specially if you intend to take on George Fitz-Wilton and Horace Sutton."
"The size of my ankles?" Isadore raised a hand to the side of her neck where the heat had already begun to creep toward her face. "How would you know anything about my ankles?"
"Gave 'em a good feel when I put Daisy's boots on your feet last night. Your ankles are boney, but your calves are--"
"Cease," she hissed, as she slammed her fist onto the table. "You're lying and being deliberately crude to try and frighten me away." A piece of thick bread fell from the plate between them.
He scooped the buttered slice up and bit into it, his surprisingly bright even teeth making quick work of the job.
"I'm not surprised you didn't notice my hands on your legs.
Married at sixteen to a man twice your age.
It's a wonder you've even got a son. You won't be getting any off Horace Sutton.
He's seventy if he's a day and prefers men in his bed.
" He tucked back into his stew, his eyes fixed on her face the entire time.
The miserable wretch had the audacity to grin at her as he ate.
Isadore opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it.
She tasted the stew, which was actually quite good and took a sip of the ale that was decidedly not.
With small neat motions she tore a slice of the bread into dainty bite-sized pieces.
The notorious crime lord was full of surprises.
He didn't need to know that. She had no intention of allowing him to gain the upper hand.
There was too much at stake for her to take that chance.
She was done with allowing men the whip-hand over her.
"What else do you know about me, Mister Dyer?" she asked and popped a piece of bread into her mouth.
He finished off his stew, pushed the bowl away and belched. Isadore rolled her eyes. She'd raised a son until nearly a year ago. Dyer would have to try harder than that to shock her.
"What else do I know? Apparently, congratulations are in order as Sutton has put the word out that you and he will marry in a few weeks.
You have a son named Jeremy, your husband stuck his spoon in the wall nearly a year ago, and your brother-in-law, one George Fitz-Wilton, has control of all of your assets.
" He gave her a slow, suggestive perusal.
Even in her best wool walking dress and covered with her full-length hooded cloak she shivered under his gaze even has a hot rage rushed through her.
"Your informant has led you astray. George has control of the estates and my finances, but he does not have control of the one thing he wants.
The Fitz-Wilton bank reverted back to me the minute my husband died.
I maintain control unless I marry in which case control goes to my husband.
Hence George's efforts to marry me off to Horace Sutton.
And whilst I am a little surprised at Horace's choice of bed partners, it is certainly of no concern to me.
" Isadore sucked in a desperate breath. Her words had spilled faster and faster as she leaned across the table and raged at the man who continued to slouch in his chair like some sated creature as if she were reciting the weather rather than the disaster that had become her life.
She had become the very thing she despised, a hysterical woman. Somehow Isadore knew this crude, hardened man was her last chance to save her son and salvage some sort of life for the two of them out from under the dark shadows she's always seen in George.
"And I don't have my son. George has custody of my son, and he has kept him hidden from me since the day after we buried my husband.
Because if I had my son, I would have taken what money I could from the bank and fled to the Continent without looking back and damn the bank, the estates, and George Fitz-Wilton to bloody hell.
" Her lungs seized. Her breath came in tiny sips.
She blinked furiously against the stinging tears as they spilled from the corners of her eyes.
Damn him. He simply sat there and stared at her, his dark eyes unreadable and his face void of expression.
"Do you love your son so much you would leave your riches behind and cast your life into the hands of fate, madam.?" He tossed a handkerchief across the table. She plucked it up and swiped roughly at her face.
"Jeremy is my riches, Mister Dyer. I would walk through hell barefoot to find him."
"Or blackmail a villainous thief into helping you at gunpoint." This time when he smiled, she believed him to be truly amused, or perhaps intrigued.
"I would crawl into bed with the Devil himself to save Jermey from George Fitz-Wilton."
"Well," he rumbled in a thick dark voice that sent darts of heats into places that had lain long dormant. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, shall we?"
She forced herself to look away. The noise and crush of the tavern had faded to nothing as she'd raged at him.
A quick glance about and she knew that silence had been an illusion.
Not a soul looked at them. They all went about their drinking, eating, swearing, and shouting as if she had not just poured out her heart to a man she'd known less than a day.
A man who had a reputation for ruthless deeds and no law save that he and his brothers wielded themselves.
She made use of his handkerchief once more and plucked at the pieces of bread on her plate.
Without a word, the man she'd held at gunpoint mere hours ago covered her hand with his own.
His palm was rough, scarred, but warm and fairly humming with strength.
She finally raised her head and met his eyes, still so dark as to appear nearly black but somehow more alive as if she'd roused some sleeping beast.
"I will help you find your son, Missus Fitz-Wilton."
His voice was so different, she tilted her head as if that might help her to discern who he truly was. "Isadore," she said and then cleared her throat. "I am Isadore."
"Ban," he said as he turned his palm to shake her hand. "Give me the list of houses. I'll find your boy."
"We will," she replied as she shook his hand. "You're taking me with you."
Still holding her hand, he blinked. His brow slowly furrowed. "I'm doing what?"
"You're taking me with you when you break into these houses."
"Bloody buggering hell."