Chapter Four
London
J ake and Captain Harraway managed to find homes for most of the envelopes the following day. Some recipients burst into tears of relief. Some demanded to know whether the captain was the blackmailer, and what his game was now. People came in all kinds.
There were two envelopes left by evening, and the captain knew both addressees. “They will be at the Lyon’s Den this evening, Jake,” he said. “We’ll wrap these in plain paper and hand them over tonight.”
The flaw in the plan was the presence of Lieutenant Waterford, but Captain Harraway didn’t care. “Let him see us, Jake. What is he going to do?”
The captain’s nonchalance had nearly been the death of them both more than a few times during their army years.
To be sure, his courage and his flair for strategy and combat had prevented disaster every time, but surely a few sensible precautions would keep them from walking into trouble in the first place?
Waterford was a coward, which the captain said when Jake pointed out the risks, but even a rat will bite when cornered.
Despite Jake’s low-voiced objections, the captain hailed one of the men publicly and handed over his package. Then he did the same with the other. Waterford watched both exchanges, and Jake watched Waterford.
He was unsurprised when, on the way home, he and the captain were attacked by a gang of footpads.
Jake called the alarm, the captain shook off the effects of the alcohol he had downed and drew the hidden blade from his walking stick, and the pair of them made such a good account of themselves, that the encounter was soon over.
The four men still standing fled into a dark alley, and Jake and the captain walked away, leaving the other two in the street, one groaning and one unconscious.
“That was fun,” said Captain Harraway.
“That was Waterford,” said Jake. “Six men with clubs and knives to attack two? Waterford, I’ll lay you odds.”
“Probably.” The captain shrugged. “He always was a poor loser. And cheap, too. Those men had no idea how to fight. We can cope with anything he hurls at us, Jake.”
Jake hoped so. He sincerely hoped so.
The village of Ealing on the Uxbridge Road
Carr Abbas was a fine manor set in the center of a well-established park and surrounded by healthy and productive tenant farms. Walking up the path from the village, Kat noticed that the woods showed signs of inadequate management, with undergrowth that should have been cleared, hazels and willows overdue for coppicing, and several fallen trees left where they lay instead of being sawn and cleared away.
The house showed the same faded grandeur. Ivy had almost covered several windows, paint was faded and flaking, and weeds were overtaking the cobbles in the corners of the yard .
Kat knocked on the kitchen door and, when it was answered, told the little maid, “Kat Fivepence to see Mrs. Kirby.”
She waited on the doorstep while the maid took the message to Mrs. Kirby. It could not have been more than a minute before Mrs. Kirby herself emerged into the passage that led from the door. “Fivepence?” She peered at Kat, frowning. “Kat Fivepence?”
Kat removed her cap. “Yes, Mrs. Kirby. It is I. I bring news of Miss Ellen.” That should convince the housekeeper of her identity, despite her masculine apparel. She hoped.
“Come in and tell me all about it,” commanded Mrs. Kirby. “Maudie, a pot of tea with two cups and whatever Cook can spare. This way, Fivepence.”
The maid disappeared through a door to the right, and Mrs. Kirby led Kat further along the passage, and into a room on the left. It was the housekeeper’s sitting room from its furnishings—a couch and two easy chairs, a table and chairs, and a well-used desk in the corner.
The room, like the house and park, showed signs of fading glory. All the upholstery needed to be replaced, and the thin carpet over the flagstone floor had been darned in several places.
“Now, Kat,” said Mrs. Kirby. “Tell me why you are here, and in men’s clothing. And how is Miss Ellen?”
Kat explained with a bald outline of the situation. “Miss Ellen is well, and staying at The Feathers. Lady Miller died, and there was no place for Miss Ellen with either of her sisters. I’m traveling as a man because Miss Ellen is safer with a footman than with a maid.”
“I see. What are your plans, you scamp? For I am certain you have some.”
“I plan to see Miss Ellen settled with a good husband, Mrs. Kirby. And I am hoping you will help. Let me tell you what I need.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. If Mrs. Kirby would agree, they would have accommodation and an appearance of authenticity. It would be enough. Kat would make it enough.
London
Jake had taken one evening for himself. Just one evening in which he did not have to feel like a nanny to a particularly obstreperous toddler! And now Captain Harraway faced potential disaster and wouldn’t listen to any of Jake’s suggestions for getting out of it.
“We could take ship for the Caribbean, captain,” he said, as he handed the man a towel and began tidying up the shaving gear.
He had already suggested sending a polite note of withdrawal.
Other options were to not send such a note, but immediately retreat to the thus-far ignored country estate, or go to visit the captain’s sister in Yorkshire.
“No, Jake,” said the captain. “I gave my word.”
“But Captain…” Jake trailed off as his master held up a hand.
He finished the sentence in his own thoughts.
A man shouldn’t be held to a promise given when he is falling-down drunk.
Especially when he’d been plied with drink to inveigle him into making the promise.
Jake had seen it happened to others and had, on several occasions, intervened to protect the captain.
The proprietor of the Lyon’s Den had a reputation as a matchmaker for unmarriageable females, and some of the methods she used to find grooms for the women could not bear close scrutiny.
“I honestly thought I would lose,” said the captain. “I mean, how often do I win, after all?”
“If you can call it winning ,” Jake muttered. The three men still standing at the end of twelve rounds of drinking were to be inspected this morning by a prospective wife.
The captain must have heard him but chose to ignore his comment. “Maybe it is for the best I was one of the three winners. By all I’ve heard, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s matches all work out well for the couple. Perhaps a wife is what I need.”
Perhaps a kick in his pants is what the silly duffer needs .
“Your waistcoat, sir,” Jake said.
A wife would change everything. Looking on the positive side, the lady in question might give Captain Harraway something to do apart from drinking and gambling. She might even persuade him to open the country house.
On the negative side, Jake didn’t give much for the chance that she’d let her husband keep a manservant like him, whose origins were scandalous, education patchy, morals fluid, and manners lacking.
Perhaps it was the shove he needed, he reflected, as he followed Captain Harraway to the district of Whitehall, where the captain was meeting the matchmaker and his prospective bride.
If the captain married, Jake could leave him to try to find Kat Fivepence.
Easy enough if she was still at the Millers’.
And perhaps, even if she had left, someone there might be able to give him a direction.
She was probably married. Jake couldn’t imagine that a girl like Kat had had no admirers since he’d left.
Indeed, he knew part of the reason he had not gone to look for her was that he feared she had forgotten him, or had—at the very least—relegated him to a fond memory.
Some part of him thought it was better to be ignorant about what had become of her than to find she didn’t want him.
In the early afternoon, the Lyon’s Den was quiet in a busy sort of way. No hum of voices filling the atmosphere, punctuated by loud shouts of triumph or groans of despair. No soft music from the musicians’ gallery. No slap of cards or rattle of dice.
Instead, maids ran around with mops and buckets, dusters, brooms, and polishing cloths.
Menservants hurried past Jake and the captain with bottles, boxes of cigars, packs of cards, and other, more mysterious burdens.
A couple of women were replenishing vases, removing spent blooms and replacing them with flowers from overflowing baskets.
Jake and the captain followed the footman who was their guide up two flights of stairs and down a passage to a closed door. The man knocked, but when the door was opened and Jake went to follow Captain Harraway inside, he was stopped.
“Just the candidates,” the footman said.
“I am his man,” said Jake, but the man shook his head and the captain waved Jake away.
“I’ll show you where you can wait, mate,” the footman offered, “and someone will come to get you when Captain Harraway is leaving.”
So, Jake followed the footman along another passage until they came to a small balcony that looked out over the gaming room. “Can I get you a drink, Flynn?” the man offered. “They might be a while.”
How does he know my name? Jake took a second look at the man. Light brown hair, brown eyes, medium height. I know that face, but where from? The army, probably. He had that lean and dangerous look seen in so many old soldiers.
The footman seemed to read his thoughts and held out his hand. “Arthur Skipton from the seventy-second.”
“Skippy!” Jake remembered. “We played cards the night before Salamanca. I’m sorry. I couldn’t place you for a moment.”
“No problem,” Skippy grinned. “I’ve had weeks to figure out who you were, though when I heard Captain Harraway’s name, it fell into place quickly enough. You’re still with him, then?”
Jake shrugged. “No place else to be. Though that could change if he takes himself a wife.”
“About that drink,” Skippy prompted. “An ale? Or something stronger?”
“Thanks. An ale would hit the spot nicely,” Jake said.
He leaned against the balustrade, watching the bustle below as the gambling hell’s servants prepared for the coming night. It wasn’t long before Skippy returned with a jug and two tankards.
He must have noticed Jake was anxious, for he said, “I asked about this meeting your captain is attending. The word in the kitchen is that he isn’t Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s favorite for the lady.
And she has a way of picking good matches and making certain they happen.
So, if you’re worried about your position, you’re probably safe this time. ”
He was pouring the ale as he spoke, and he passed one of the tankards to Jake. “Mind you, Jake, you should know that once Mrs. Dove-Lyon has her eye on a gent, his days as a single man are numbered. But if it is a good match, it should be better for you and the captain both.”
He leaned on the balustrade next to Jake and took a sip from his tankard. “Hey, I saw Corporal Jackson the other week. He’s back working with his brother as a butcher, and he has his Spanish wife and their daughter with him.”
They spent a pleasant half hour chatting about people they both knew from the army, and what they were doing now.
Then a footman came to let Jake know his master was ready to leave, so Skippy and Jake shook hands, and Jake promised to look Skippy up next time he accompanied Captain Harraway to the Lyon’s Den.
“I’m generally on duty protecting the second-floor ladies,” Skippy confided as he showed Jake the passage that would take him back to where the captain was waiting. “There’d be no problem with you coming up for a gab, if you want.”
“I might just do that,” Jake promised. There was the captain, bumping his hat against his knee, a sure sign of impatience. “Good to see you, Skippy.”
“Likewise.”
Captain Harraway looked up at the sound of their voices and gave Jake a nod of greeting. “Well, Jake. You’ll be pleased, no doubt, to know that you are not to wish me happy.”
Not yet, at least . As he fell into step after his master, Jake resolved to keep a closer eye on the silly duffer from now on.
Mind you, Skippy had a point. The right woman—one who would give the captain purpose and direction—wouldn’t be a bad idea.
Even if it did end with Jake out on his ear, with no place to go except the former home of the only woman he could imagine marrying.