Текст книги "The Thames River Murders"

Автор книги: Ashley Gardner

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Something flashed in his eyes, a darkness, a grief—only a flash, but I’d seen it.

I could not very well ask him if long ago, one of his daughters had broken her arm, and was she still alive without it being awkward. I saw Grenville’s gaze flick to me and away. He was also trying to think of a means to introduce the topic.

I had an idea, though. Not very kind of me, but thinking of the young woman, dead and forgotten, made me impatient and angry. If this watch seller had absolutely nothing to do with the woman, then he would only be puzzled and curious, and we’d go away, having brought him some business.

Gautier had returned the necklace to Grenville, along with his list, in careful handwriting, of the shops that might sell similar pieces or repair old necklaces like this one. Grenville had handed the necklace to me, so I could take it back to Thompson to return to the boxes of evidence in the cold cellar.

I removed the necklace, which I’d wrapped in a handkerchief, from inside my pocket, laid it on the table, and opened the folds of linen.

“I know you sell watches, but perhaps you can help,” I said to Hartman. “Have you ever seen a piece such as this? Or know what jeweler would be able to tell me about it?”

I had been studying the necklace, its simple gold chain and smooth locket as I spoke. I looked up into heavy silence as I finished.

Hartman was staring at the locket, his gaze fixed, his face so white I thought he would fall into a dead faint. His dark eyes blazed like obsidian among the stark white, his lips bloodless.

“Where …” Hartman reached a hand forward, his fingers stiff, movements slow. He stopped shy of touching the locket, as though he feared it would sting him. “Where did you come by this?”

The words barely came out of him. I lifted the necklace and laid it across his fingers.

“It was around the neck of a young woman found in the river,” I said. “She died, nearly fifteen years ago.”

Hartman stared at the necklace on his hand, his chest lifting in a tight breath. Grenville was on the edge of his chair, poised to catch Hartman, who surely would fall.

Just as I reached for him, Hartman collapsed back into his seat. He brought his hands, clutching the necklace, to his face, and began to weep in long, gut-wrenching, wordless sobs.

Chapter Eleven

Grenville and I exchanged surprised looks. I felt a touch a remorse—Hartman was weeping with abandon, his self-assurance gone.

“Mr. Hartman,” I said gently.

“Perhaps some brandy for him, Lacey.” Grenville removed a flask from his pocket and handed it to me. His was silver, beautifully engraved, a contrast to Coombs’s rather battered, plain one.

I did not think Hartman would be able to hold the flask himself, so I tipped a good measure of brandy into his coffee and lifted the cup to him. “Drink.”

He would not take his hands from his face. Hartman’s entire body shook, sobs catching in his throat, choking him. He began to cough, couldn’t catch his breath.

I thumped his back. Grenville rose in alarm. I hit Hartman’s spine with the heel of my hand, and finally, he gave a gasp and began to breathe again.

“Drink,” I repeated firmly.

This time, Hartman took the cup in his shaking hands and poured the lukewarm liquid into his mouth.

More coughing, but his color grew better, and finally he drew a long, ragged breath.

“She is dead, then?” he whispered.

Grenville returned to the table. He pulled a chair close to Hartman’s and sat, taking Hartman’s gnarled hand.

“We are not sure who she is,” he said gently.

Hartman’s look was one of terrible despair. “My … daughter. Judith. She’s been missing for fifteen years.”

Grenville and I exchanged a glance. Hartman took another gulp of coffee, this time without choking. He held the necklace tightly, not wishing to relinquish it.

“Your pardon, sir,” I said. “It is possible the woman who wore it stole it from your daughter. As Mr. Grenville says, we are not certain.”

Hartman stretched the chain between his hands. “It was joined around her neck when her mother gave it to her. It has only been cut once.” He pointed to a broken link. “When it came off her.”

“The young woman who was found had broken her arm at one point,” Grenville said.

Hartman nodded. “Yes.” His eyes screwed up, more tears pouring down his face.

Grenville continued in his gentlest tone. “We’ve visited Mr. Coombs, the surgeon. He said he set the arm of a young lady about that time, but he claims she is alive and well.”

“No.” Hartman pulled a handkerchief from his coat sleeve and buried his face in it. “We told him, when we went to him, that she was her sister. They look much alike. We decided to do so to let no one know her shame.”

Her shame? A broken limb was no cause for shame, not that mine didn’t embarrass me. I sensed Hartman meant something deeper.

Hartman mopped his face. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I must close the shop.”

He rose, tottered to the door and locked it, then pulled the curtain across the front window. When he turned back, his breathing was better, but the utter grief in his eyes smote me.

Grenville had risen. “We will go, then. We are so sorry to have caused you distress.”

Hartman stopped, looking at us in some bewilderment. “How … how did you gentlemen come to know of this? You are not Runners—well, I know Mr. Grenville is not.”

“Mr. Thompson of the Thames River Police asked me to help him,” I said. “He had never been able to discover who she was. I have found people before, and so he confided in me.” I was puzzled. “You did not know she was dead before we told you—did you never report her disappearance to the Watch? The Runners? There would have been a hue and cry …”

“No.” Hartman shook his head emphatically. “We looked for her, of course, did our best. But we did not want the Runners. They are dear, in any case. We searched …”

He’d not wanted to give up, I saw. He’d clung to hope all this time, forcing himself to go on with his life.

“By reporting her, you might have discovered the truth long ago,” I said.

Another shake of the head. “No, Captain. We did not want the Watch or Runners blundering into our business. They could not have helped in any case. Not if she were dead already.” He hesitated. “Where is … she?”

I hid a flinch. At the moment, Judith Hartman was a jumble of bones in a crate sitting inside Grenville’s carriage.

Grenville said, “We’ll see that she is returned to you, sir.”

Hartman stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “For the first time, I am glad her mother is gone. Judith’s vanishing already killed her once.” He let out a long breath. “Now, gentlemen, if I can ask you to leave. I must …”

He glanced about the shop as though not certain what he needed to do. I took up my hat and walking stick and gave him a bow.

“Of course,” I said. “I am terribly sorry to have upset you, sir. If I had known, I would have broken it more gently.”

Hartman shook his head. “No, no. I am grateful to you for this knowledge. For this.” He held up the necklace he still clutched.

“If you would like to speak to Mr. Thompson,” I said, “and tell him what you know, it might assist him to find who killed her.”

“No,” Hartman said abruptly. Deep anger flashed in his eyes. “I do not want inquiries into our private affairs. She is gone. Nothing to be done. Please go, Captain.”

I bowed again. “If you need any help, Mr. Hartman, any at all, please feel free to call on me.”

I removed a card from my pocket and laid it on the table. Donata had caused new calling cards to be made for me, ivory rectangles smooth and clean, with my name in fine black script. I took out the small, silver pencil that went with a silver-backed writing book she’d also given me—to help me make notes when I solved things, she’d said. I’d been grateful, but also reflected I had much more in my pockets now to steal.

I quickly wrote my Grimpen Lane address on the back—if this man craved privacy, I doubted he’d want to arrive at the large and well-populated South Audley Street house.

I pushed the card across to him with my gloved finger. Hartman made no move to take it. I gave the man another nod and departed quietly with Grenville.

Not until we were in his coach, and Jackson had headed us along the Strand toward St. Paul’s Churchyard and the long journey to Wapping, did Grenville let out a breath.

“So,” he said.

“So, indeed.” I studied the tall and rather drab houses we passed, the throng of humanity wafting down this busy thoroughfare. “The poor man.”

I’d watched Hartman’s reaction with sharp pain in my heart. For years, I’d not known the fate of my daughter, and I know some of what he felt.

I’d looked for Gabriella, but been unable to afford a long search. The war with France hadn’t helped—Carlotta had left with a French officer, and I’d not been able to scour that country for her. By the time the war had ended, thirteen years after Carlotta had fled with Gabriella, I had given up all hope of finding her.

My only comfort had been that she’d gone off with Carlotta. If Carlotta had intended to desert her child, she would have left Gabriella with me in the first place. This gave me some assurance that Gabriella would be looked after.

As it turned out, Carlotta’s French lover, Major Auberge, had cared for my daughter and raised her as his own. He’d taken care of her, I hated to admit, better than I had been able to.

Even so, Gabriella had been my child, the love of my existence, and not knowing where she was had torn a hole through me.

“I want to discover who killed her,” I said. “Hartman should not have had to suffer like that. She shouldn’t have been killed.”

“I know, old man. I agree with you.” Grenville rested his hands on his walking stick. “But where to start?”

“Hartman and his family. They must know why Miss Hartman was walking along the Thames docks, or where she’d gone the day or night she’d disappeared. Had she been meeting someone? Running away from someone? Why on earth would Judith want to pretend to be her sister when taken to a surgeon to have her arm set? Why did Hartman call it her shame?”

“All very good questions. All the same, I am not sure Hartman will embrace you into his family and let you interrogate them.”

“I had no intention of interrogating,” I said stiffly.

“You do become zealous, Lacey. Hartman, as you must have surmised, is a Hebrew. Such men do not welcome outsiders into the bosom of their families. While the Rothschilds, Goldsmids, and Montefiores attend my soirees and invite me to theirs, they would not wish me to delve too much into their private lives and their personal business.”

“Not many families would,” I said. “No matter what their origin.”

“Yes, but …” Grenville searched for words. “In my experience, Hebrew fathers are particularly guarded about their daughters. More so even than Englishmen. If you wish to discover the truth, you might have to do it without the assistance of Mr. Hartman. Might have to fight him for it, even.”

“Surely he would want to know. And bring the man—or woman—to justice. I certainly would, were it my daughter.”

Grenville gave me a deprecating look. “If it were your daughter, my dear Lacey, you would hunt the man down and wring his neck yourself. You know this.”

True, I’d be too impatient to let the wheels of justice turn in their course. When Gabriella had been endangered a year ago, I’d gone after the man who’d hurt her—Auberge and I had given him a good beating. Hartman, I thought, might feel the same.

“I will find the culprit, beat him black and blue, and drag him to the Runners,” I said. “I will leave it up to Hartman whether he wishes to prosecute.”

Grenville looked doubtful. I did not finish that if Hartman didn’t want to prosecute, I’d happily bring suit against the killer. And, if that didn’t work, dispatch him myself. Pomeroy might object, but at this point, I did not care.

At last Grenville gave me a nod. “Very well,” he said. “You know I will do all I can to help. Where do we begin?”

***

We started by journeying to Thompson in Wapping and returning the crate. I’d left the necklace with Hartman—I did not have the heart to take it from his hands to sit in a box in a cellar.

Thompson was out when we arrived, but he came in as a patroller ushered Grenville and I, and Bartholomew and Matthias, the two brothers carrying the box, into his tiny office.

Brewster had followed us, I’d seen as we’d climbed from the coach. How he found me wherever I was in the city I had no idea. He might have jumped onto the back of the carriage as he’d done when I’d gone searching for Donata. However he’d done it, he now leaned against a crumbling brick wall opposite the magistrate’s house, folded his arms against the rain, and waited.

“Good Lord,” Thompson said after I had told him what we discovered. “I knew you were the man for this. And Mr. Grenville.”

“All too glad to help,” Grenville answered.

Thompson rested his hands on top of the crate. “Indeed, I will send her back to her family to be given a decent burial. I’m afraid the magistrate here cannot help with any sort of coffin, or …”

“I will take care of that,” Grenville said smoothly. “I will contact my funeral furnisher and give him instructions.”

Thompson looked grateful but at the same time wary. A middle-class man like Hartman might not welcome the ostentation of an expensive funeral master—who provided coffins, bearers, horses, mourning decor for the home, and many other services. A funeral for a man of Grenville’s class and a shopkeeper would be widely different.

“Instructions, I said,” Grenville went on. “All will be in good taste. He will send a coffin here, and a conveyance for the young lady to be returned home.”

Thompson conceded. “As to finding her killer …” He sighed, his bony shoulders sagging. “If Mr. Hartman has no wish to prosecute, little can be done even if we discover who killed her. If that killer is still alive. It was a long time ago.”

“I will prosecute,” I said. “Too often I have seen men ruin others, either by outright murder or in a roundabout way. I’ve had to stand by and do nothing.”

I tasted my anger, remembering Jane Thornton, the first young woman whose circumstances I’d investigated; Lady Clifford, whose husband had made her miserable; and the death of one of Denis’s men at the Sudbury School, where Grenville had been nearly murdered himself. I’d found out many things, but had been too poor, or the circumstances had been too complex, for me to bring the ones who should have paid, to justice.

Now, thanks to Donata, I had money of my own. I disliked spending much beyond what I needed, but I believed she’d have no objection to me funding a prosecution for the murder of Judith Hartman. She’d been moved by the young woman’s death as well.

Thompson only observed me with his dry intelligence. “As you wish, Captain. I will not tell you the road might not be easy. I have the feeling you’d bypass any objections.”

We took our leave then. I touched the top of the crate before I went, and made a silent vow to the sleeping girl inside to find her killer.

I swallowed on sorrow, bowed to Thompson, and followed Grenville out into the rain.

***

It was not done for a gentleman to call on his funeral furnisher. They called on the gentleman instead, at his home. In this instance, however, Grenville was impatient and wanted it done. I had no objection.

Grenville’s family used a man whose premises were in a lane off Houndsditch in the City.

Houndsditch did a thriving trade in clothing of all kinds, from secondhand clothiers to tailors for the middle class, to rag men in their constant search for castoffs. Many of these ragmen and secondhand clothiers were Hebrews, and I studied them as I passed them by with more interest. I was suddenly being thrust into their world, which I had scarcely noticed before.

Any man I’d met of the Hebrew religion had been no different than I was, I’d observed—in fact, many came from circumstances far better than mine and blended into London life more seamlessly than I did. True, I was able to vote or stand for Parliament, had I been reckless enough to do so, and they were not—but how did that make me a superior man?

It did not, in my opinion. A man’s character and honor made him stand above others, not his religion or strata in life.

Grenville, far superior to many on all counts, descended in the turnoff between Houndsditch and Aldgate with as much poise as he did alighting from a carriage at Carlton House.

A young man sitting in the yard, working on a black headstall in his lap, dropped his tools with a clang and bolted into the house as Grenville strolled toward the door.

“Sir?” The funeral furnisher emerged, settling his coat, and fixing a gaze of great surprise at Grenville. “It is not time for you to partake of my services yet, surely. You’re in fine fettle, Mr. Grenville.”

Chapter Twelve

The funeral furnisher was not what I expected. The idea of a man who made a living burying people gave me the picture of a thin, rather cadaverous person, with gray hair and dry, papery skin. Instead, this furnisher was stout from good meals, had black hair and long side whiskers, and a twinkle in his blue eyes that spoke of a merry nature.

“No, indeed,” Grenville said. “My health is robust thus far. Though one never knows. Today, I have come to ask a favor for another.”

“I could have called upon you.” The man looked hurt. “You had only to send for me.”

“Unusual circumstances, Mr. Wilkinson.”

Wilkinson shrugged and gestured us into the house. Instead of the sumptuous parlor I’d imagined, we went to a very plain sitting room with dark-paneled walls and straight-legged, shield-back chairs.

Without preliminary, Grenville explained the errand. Mr. Wilkinson’s ruddy face showed sympathy.

“The poor lamb. You leave it to me, Mr. Grenville. I’ll take fine care of her. Now, does the family want a walking funeral, or a carriage? I have some new headstalls in—with ostrich plumes that are the most beautiful, straight, well-dyed things I’ve ever seen. Quite stylish. And the finest cloth for draping the parlor. You give me some indication of what he wants, and I will arrange it.”

“I am afraid I don’t know,” Grenville said. “I promised to deliver the young woman home. After that, it is up to him.”

“I understand. I understand. Grief is a difficult thing. That is why so many leave the choices to a trusted friend, like yourself.”

“If he does want more, you send the bill to my man of business,” Grenville said. “Thank you, Wilkinson. I know she’s in good hands.”

We rose and took our leave. Wilkinson, whose head came up to my chin, peered at me with professional interest.

“We never like to think of bereavement,” he said. “But consider me when the time comes, sir. Giving loved ones the send-off they deserve is important, I think. And for yourself, sir, if you forgive me. Though that day I am certain is far in the future.”

I’d never been sized up quite so frankly for a coffin before. I had known a coffin-maker in the army with an eccentric sense of humor, who would measure officers before battle to make sure he had enough boxes with the right dimensions. Since the officers he put his ruler to usually made it back in one piece, it became a mark of good luck to have him come at one with a tape measure.

I made my bow to Wilkinson and followed the very amused Grenville out.

“He’s quite proud of his business,” Grenville said as we rolled away. The rain had ceased, all to the good. I had an appointment to ride in the park with Donata’s son. “But very skilled at it. The processions he arranges go off with aplomb and never drift into the vulgar. He is rubbing his hands, counting the days before I fall off the twig. It will be the grandest event London has ever seen, he says.”

“Then your demise will cheer at least one person,” I said. “The rest of us will be morose.”

“I am certain I will have enraged enough men with my haughtiness by then that there will be a line of rejoicers,” Grenville said. He sighed. “I grow weary of this life, Lacey.”

“You long to be off.”

Though the rain had ceased, a dampness pervaded the town. London was awake and alive, men and women, horses and carts moving through the streets in a great press, regardless of the weather. High brick walls hemmed us in, cutting off any view but stone and humanity.

“I do,” Grenville said. “Dr. Johnson observed that when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, but I am missing the rest of the world. One can only remark upon the cut of another man’s coat so often. Although the bright green thing I saw upon the back of young Lord Armitage last night made me choke. And then I felt old. He is twenty-three, uninterested in the opinions of a man of forty. He, like Wilkinson, looks forward to my departure.”

“Stop.” I gave Grenville a stern look. “You are plunging into melancholia—I know the signs. Go home and make your plans for your Egyptian excursion in the winter. I have told you I will accompany you, and I will.”

Grenville brightened. “You’re right, Lacey. That will be just the thing. The weather there is appallingly hot, even in January, and there is dust everywhere, along with poisonous snakes and insects. You will heartily enjoy it.”

“I believe I will,” I said.

We talked of places in Egypt we’d visit and what I looked forward to seeing, as the carriage wedged its way through the damp press of London and dropped me at my front door. I took my leave of Grenville, feeling better, and went to find Peter to go for our ride.

Hyde Park after a rain, when the sun was beginning to emerge, was a fine place. Trees and brush sparkled with raindrops, the air had freshened, and the open expanse of the park was invigorating after the narrow streets of the metropolis.

It was not yet the fashionable hour, when the entire haut ton would turn out in carriages and on horseback to parade in their finery and greet one another with wit both pleasant and biting. Peter and I had a stretch of the Row to ourselves, though others were walking or trotting horses in the distance.

Peter was a good rider—he’d been given instruction at an early age and already he had a quiet seat, a steady hand, and knew how to move with the horse. Ostensibly, I was furthering his riding education, but the truth was we both enjoyed our afternoon rambles in the park, the men of the household together.

Peter was slightly downcast today, though I did not realize this until our first half-hour had passed. He was usually a cheerful chap, nothing at all like his churlish father—or perhaps the absence of that overbearing father had brightened his disposition.

“What is it?” I asked him when I noticed he didn’t laugh as quickly, or seem as interested in naming and describing others’ horses. “Something bothering you, old man?”

Peter didn’t answer for a time, as though debating what to tell me. “Mother is going to have a child,” he burst out. “Nanny said.”

Peter was six years old, tall and sturdy for his age, and could converse without nervousness with adults he knew. I saw his mother in this. Donata talked, as she called it, man-to-man with Peter instead of behaving as though he were a strange creature from a land she’d long ago left behind.

I sometimes forgot that Peter, already a viscount, was in truth a bewildered little boy.

“She is,” I said. “We were going to tell you so. In a few days, in fact. Make a celebration of it.”

“I don’t have a father,” Peter said abruptly. “Not anymore.”

“I know.” I’d been there when Lord Breckenridge had been pulled out of brush and bracken, stone dead. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Mother says you are to be my father now, even though you aren’t really. That is, if you and I are willing.”

“I’m certainly willing,” I said in all sincerity. “If you’ll have me.”

Peter frowned, his small face screwed up in uncertainty. “You’ll be the true father to Mother’s child. You won’t need me.”

“Ah.” I thought I understood what was bothering him. “You think when I have this new little one, I’ll forget all about you.”

“Won’t you?” Peter was struggling to keep the wistfulness from his question. Males in England had stoicism drilled into them from an early age. “Mother never liked my father. No one did—I didn’t like him either, really, though I don’t remember him much. So … maybe … you won’t like me.”

The sins of the fathers are to be laid upon the children, so said the Bard in The Merchant of Venice. Well did I know how trying it was to be the son of a man most people, including his own family, despised.

“You are not your father,” I said firmly. “I truly believe God gave us free will, Peter. You need be nothing like the late Lord Breckenridge. I respect and esteem you, lad. You remind me far more of your mother, and you know I care very much for her. Another child will only add to our family, not take away from it.”

Peter watched me, doubtful. Another rider, his greatcoat pulled close against the chill the rain had brought, came toward us at a slow lope. We’d have to cease this conversation and nod to him, speak to him if he were an acquaintance.

“Think of it another way,” I said. “Gabriella is my daughter, and now your stepsister. I have room in my heart for her, and you, and another child. You and Gabriella get on well, don’t you?”

“She’s very kind,” Peter conceded. “Though she’s much older than me.”

“She’s a kind young woman.” Could I help it if pride rang in my voice? In the decade and more of her life I’d missed, she’d become a sweet-tempered, sunny-natured girl. Loosening her to meet the young men of London filled me with dread. “You will have to help us raise our new child to be as kind and thoughtful as Gabriella.”

“I will?” Peter looked more interested. “Do you think it will be a little girl?”

“I hope so,” I said. “The world needs more ladies. They’re so much softer and more cheerful than us.”

Peter’s grin flashed. He enjoyed it when I spoke to him thus, as men together.

The other rider was nearly upon us. I turned, ready to tip my hat and greet him if need be.

The rider went low in his saddle and urged his horse toward us at a rapid pace. I stopped in surprise. It wasn’t done to ride hell for leather when the park began to fill with the elite, though I sometimes shocked the denizens with a good gallop.

I recovered my surprise in time to see the man, muffled to his nose, his hat pulled over his eyes, ride hard for Peter. He swung something down beside his horse—it appeared to be a bag with a weighty object inside.

He was going to knock Peter from the saddle. My body knew this before the thought could form.

The crackling of gunfire came back to me, the scents of smoke and the roar of men in the middle of battle. I’d fought those who tried to smack me from my horse, cut me down, shoot me, trample me. I’d survived by being ruthless, fast, and trusting my instincts.

As the lingering din of war sounded in my head, I shoved my horse between the rider’s and Peter, driving my mount at the approaching man’s, forcing him to turn.

The rider’s horse shied; mine spun and smacked his hindquarters into the other, ready to kick. The rider kept to his saddle, though his horse swayed. He righted the beast, and let fly the sack at me.

It had indeed been filled with large rocks, as I found when it struck me. If I’d ducked, it would have flown over me and hit Peter, and so I took the full brunt on my back and side.

The impact, though I tried to roll my body to mitigate the worst of it, sent me from my horse. I landed hard, on my shoulder and bad leg, cursing as gravel cut my face.

Out of the corner of my eye, as I lay in fury, I saw Brewster emerge from the trees that lined the Row and hurtle toward the rider. He reached the horse and got his hands on the man’s coat, but the rider struck out at Brewster. A knife blade flashed, Brewster let go, and the rider and horse skimmed away.

A pair of small boots landed next to my face. “Papa.” Peter’s worried voice sounded. “Are you dead?”

Through my pain and frustration, a warmth flooded me. He’d called me Papa. Not sir or Captain, or any of the formal monikers by which he’d addressed me thus far, but an acknowledgment of how he wished to regard me.

The moment ended when Brewster inserted himself between me and the rest of the world, going down on one knee.

“Bleedin’ ’ell. You alive?” He turned me over to see my glare. “Thank God for that. Don’t know what I’d tell his nibs.”

His hard face took on a look of relief. Whether for my own sake or the fact he’d not have to report to Denis that he failed to keep me alive, I couldn’t say.

Other riders were stopping, as did a sleek, two-wheeled curricle. “Who the devil was that?” The rather large and long-nosed countenance of the second Baron Alvanley peered down from his seat, his hands competently on the reins. “I had no idea there were highwaymen in Hyde Park.”

William Arden, Lord Alvanley, was fairly young, not quite thirty, but he’d already had a distinguished army career and was firmly in with the Prince Regent’s set. Grenville found him witty and entertaining, but Alvanley was ever trying to push Grenville aside as the successor of Mr. Brummell.

“What happened, Lacey?” Alvanley went on. “Shall I fetch someone?” He looked disapprovingly at Brewster, obviously too much of a ruffian to be my servant.

“I will be well,” I said in some irritation.

Brewster’s strong hand under my arm got me to my feet. Peter, trying to hide his tears, handed me my walking stick.

“I’m all right, Peter,” I told him reassuringly. I rested my gloved fingers on the boy’s shoulder and felt him trembling.

Alvanley’s tiger—a young lad hired to tend the horses when the driver of a curricle or phaeton was away from the vehicle—had leapt down at Alvanley’s command and caught my horse.

The boy, not much older than Peter, led my mount, a strong bay with a thick black mane, back to me. The tiger patted the horse in admiration before he handed me the reins.

I’d need a leg up. Before I could ask, Brewster was next to me, cupping his hands to heave me onto the horse. He pushed so hard I nearly slid off the other side but caught myself in time to save me that embarrassment. Brewster boosted Peter into the saddle of his smaller horse with more gentleness.