9. Slugs
SLUGS
Portman Square was a tranquil place early on a Wednesday morn. No hawkers or milkmaids tarried and solely a few carriages trundled abroad, most residents still in slumber.
Miles smacked his gloves against his thigh, nodded to Fairfax his butler and then stormed from the door of his townhouse, marched his way down the steps, across the road, through the iron gate and into the elegant central garden.
His visit to the Regiment Office had ceded the information that Cecil bloody Webb lived but a stone’s throw from himself – in George Street, a single terraced row further into Marylebone, if one ignored the mews to the rear of his house.
Over the past weeks, Cecil Webb could easily have caught sight of Miles taking up residence in his Portman Square townhouse.
So could Webb have accessed the mews in order to nobble the carriage?
Bide his time and push Miles into the path of that stagecoach?
Or pay those thugs to waylay him on Pall Mall?
Miles’ step slowed then paused as the scents of autumn calmed him, the path littered with leaves that had melded to a carpet of gold.
It had been a while since he’d last set eyes on Webb but he could recall his aspect as though yesterday – a little slovenly, a lot shifty and with a weak chin.
From the court-martial proceedings, Miles recalled he was a third son to an army colonel but had been involved in some Town scandal and so been offloaded to the army.
Strings had been pulled and a lieutenancy within the dragoons had been purchased by his father.
Webb had not been under Miles’ direct command but that of another captain, though the hearsay on him was: fairly useless but fairly harmless.
Though not quite so harmless when Miles, departing his tent late one night to answer a call of nature, had caught a glimpse through trees of Webb handing over woollen cloaks and bayonets to Spanish mercenaries in exchange for a bag of coin.
Miles had bellowed, the mercenaries had fled and the whoreson had been caught in the act.
On another occasion, he might just have cautioned Webb but the icy Spanish Meseta winter had been upon them, a blockade had prevented new supplies and his men were bloody freezing. The loss of cloaks had been of more concern than the bayonets.
Webb could have been more in the suds but his father had intervened and he’d been lucky to be court-martialled and cashiered out, departing the army in disgrace.
Not much of a stretch to conclude Webb would bear a grudge.
A flurry of bronze leaves skittered across the path and Miles resumed his step, departed the central garden and made for Baker Street.
Here, on the main thoroughfare, London had awoken with a vengeance and he was forced to dodge doormat vendors, baskets of hot loaves, carts filled with sand and a bellows mender, before turning into George Street.
Miles debated tactics.
He could just keep watch, but in his view, action brought quicker results, and furthermore, Miles felt he’d discern more if he confronted this fellow face-to-face and gauged his reaction. Perchance he’d slotted back into civilian life with ease, found a profession that suited.
Halting on the pavement, he looked up at Number Five George Street.
Converted into lodgings for gentlemen bachelors, six shillings secured a reasonably sized bedchamber, parlour, and dressing room, along with the shared services of a valet and a maid.
Similar to the Albany where Alasdair lived but cheaper.
A terraced abode of smart brickwork, it had windowed attics that must be quite a climb for some poor devil.
A weary maid answered the door and gave the room number of Webb.
Needless to say, it was the attics.
After four flights of stairs, Miles raised his fist to knock on the doo–
It opened before his knuckles could so much as graze the wood and a hatted figure nigh clattered into him.
“What the…” The hat rose to reveal a man, still a little slovenly and a lot shifty but his weak chin had been corrected by a starched cravat and high shirt points.
“Webb.”
Grey eyes the colour of thruppence widened, skin blanching. “Firth.”
“I hoped to have a word? If you’ve time.”
“I’ve n-nothing to say to you.” He endeavoured a sidestep.
Miles countered. “Nothing for a former captain?”
His eye twitched. “Not my captain,” he mumbled, before attempting a step to the other side.
Countering once more, Miles watched as Webb’s cravat bobbed with his rapid swallows. “It will take but a moment.”
Webb’s head swung back and forth, eyes darting like a greyhound after a rabbit. “Can’t… In a rush.” And he abruptly swerved to head for the stairs.
“Another time then?” called Miles.
Webb halted, twisted, hands swiping on his breeches.
“Not a h-hell’s chance,” he finally stuttered. “T-thanks to you, Firth, I’m ruined. My family keep me on such a t-tight leash, I can’t wipe my arse without them knowing of it, let alone…” He slammed his lips shut before twisting back to rush down the stairs, boots clattering on the treads.
Well, he certainly bore a grudg–
“Sir! Sir! You’ve forgotten your…” A pale man with black hair and spectacles appeared at the door of the apartment, a square of green cotton flapping in the air. “Handkerchief,” he finished rather limply.
“I’m afraid he’s left,” said Miles.
“Oh, and this matched the enamel of his tie pin so perfectly.” The pale man sighed and peered up, the spectacles magnifying his eyes to lumps of coal. “I expect Brummel’s valet is not treated thus.”
“I expect not. How many gentlemen do you serve here?”
“Seven in all. Two per floor but for the attics where there is only Mr Webb. Though I’m not sure I can last much longer.
Been here eight months, four weeks and two days and for what?
Tidying strewn clothes. Cleaning muddied boots.
No one here cares that I can tie a barrel cravat knot so tight it would still look immaculate after a duel.
” A sob caught him and Miles handed over his own white handkerchief.
“Oh, so starched! Look at the folds. Your valet must be a craftsman, Sir.” And he smothered his face with it.
Miles winced but reached into his pocket to produce a half-crown. “I don’t suppose you could answer some questions about Webb.”
Spectacles peeked over the handkerchief. “I must protest, Sir! The honour of a valet is above reproach or any form of inducement.”
With a sigh, Miles produced a crown as well.
“Although I’m sure a respectable gentleman such as yourself has good reason.” And the crowns were pocketed with swift rapacity. “Ever so pleased to make your acquaintance. The name’s Cluny.”
“Well, Cluny, does your Webb have any visitors?”
“Only his mother. A rather…” The valet cricked his neck. “Officious lady. She never tips Kitty the maid and she called me little.”
“Hmm. Letters?”
He sniffed. “Some invitations to lower-class events.”
“Do you know his clubs? Anywhere he favours?”
“Only the usual, Sir. He’s a member of Boodles, Fanlows and that gambling establishment on Pall Mall.”
“The Prince’s?”
Another sniff. “Our beloved Regent is the only Prince of London. Not that…imposter.”
“I wouldn’t tell him that face-to-face, if I were you.”
His pale features paled further. “You know him?”
“Not as such. Anything else you can tell me? There’s another crown in it for you.”
“Oh no, Sir, I couldn’t possibly…”
Miles held out a palm.
The valet pursed his lips. “Well, put like that…” The crown was pocketed.
“Mr Webb does have one odd appointment on rather irregular days, Sir. But always departs his rooms exactly on the chime of the quarter to nine evening bell. And he never takes a hackney but…walks. I’ve made known an imperative of the Gentleman’s Code that feet should never be used unless no alternative but…
Well, the response was quite vulgar. And quite unnecessary. ”
Miles hid a smile. “I thank you for the information.” And withdrew a card from his inner breast pocket. “I don’t suppose you could…send word when he next prepares to attend this appointment.”
The card and another crown were pocketed. “My pleasure to be of service to a true gentleman.” And he thrust Miles’ handkerchief back.
“Why don’t you keep it.”
“But it must have cost a pretty penny! And your valet will bemoan its loss.”
“I’ll tell him I offered it to a damsel in distress.”
A nod and click of heels. “I am ever in your debt.” Which was rich. And he twisted into the apartment, muttering while he compared the white and green handkerchiefs side by side.
Miles shook his head and turned for the stairs.
Webb, he decided, would require watching. And he knew just the man for the job. While Lynch might have grumbled about trailing Miss Seymour around London, Miles had a feeling this would prove a damn sight more interesting.
He descended to the lodgings’ hall and stepped through the front door into weak sunshine whilst mulling on the other disgruntled soldier that he and Lynch had come up with.
But Dempster was proving to be a needle in a haystack of the London hospitals, each ward an ever-changing cast of patients.
And perhaps it would also be sensible to call upon Cousin Jeremy and Aunt Mildred as Miles had been avoiding them since his arrival in London.
Mind you, the Michaelmas Fair was solely three days hence so perhaps he’d defer that reckoning until after.
Solely three days.
Three days until Miss Verity Seymour would be caught on open ground.
Defenceless to his interrogation.