The dark figure took off into the mews behind Grosvenor Square. Charlotte followed. Her sparrow’s eyes were confused by the gloom, the shadows. Where was he?
There. Ducking down a narrow alley.
Charlotte followed, trying to keep him in sight. I should have been an owl. Where had he gone? He’d disappeared—
There.
They emerged into a wider street. The runner vanished into the shadows on the other side. His footfalls dimmed; he’d plunged into another alleyway.
Charlotte landed. I want to be Bess!
The night changed around her, became easier to see, less confusing. The runner was gone from sight, but she heard his boots slapping on the ground, caught his scent: sweat, ale, fried onions.
Charlotte loped after him.
After several minutes, the runner’s pace slowed from sprint to steady trot. The route he chose was circuitous—along alleyways, across sleeping squares, through mews—but he never hesitated, never lost his way.
They traversed London, heading east, past sleeping houses, past rows of shuttered shops, past dark churches and noisy taverns. She saw the occasional carriage, the occasional pedestrian, and once a night watchman doing his rounds. The streets became dirtier, the air foul with smells she couldn’t identify. More people were abroad. Drunken revelers staggered home. Women she took to be whores waited in doorways, smelling of gin and sweat. Once she passed a man and woman copulating in an alley.
Finally the runner slowed to a walk. He glanced back over his shoulder, climbed the steps to a tavern, and pushed the door open.
Light fell on him for a second before the door closed.
Charlotte stood, panting, trying to fix his appearance in her memory. Thin face, lank hair falling over a narrow forehead. He was young; the faintest down had shown on his cheeks, glinting in the lamplight.
She looked around, taking note of her surroundings—gutters overflowing with waste, stinking puddles of stagnant water. Something moved, rustling: rats.
Abruptly, the tavern door opened. Charlotte flinched from the roar of noise, the stink of fetid air.
A man came out and urinated, clutching the wall with one hand to steady himself, and staggered back into the tavern.
Charlotte hesitated. Should she wait to see if the runner emerged?
The door slammed open again and disgorged half a dozen men, unshaven and unwashed, reeling with drink. She backed away as one vomited noisily into the gutter. The others seemed inclined to brawl, shoving each other, throwing punches. Metal glinted in the moonlight: a knife blade.
Charlotte fled back down the street. Behind her, someone bellowed, an animal sound, full of rage.
Breakfast was in the back parlor, a housemaid apologetically informed her, because the windows in the breakfast parlor were broken again. Charlotte thanked the girl and went downstairs.
Lord Cosgrove was already there. His plate held a sirloin and several poached eggs. He glanced up from the newspaper he was reading. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir.” Charlotte crossed to the serving dishes lined up on the sideboard. The mingled smells made her mouth water. She spurned the kippers, piled her plate high with sausages, bacon, sirloin, and eggs, and sat opposite the earl. Christopher Albin had a significantly larger appetite than Charlotte Appleby.
They ate in silence, the earl reading his newspaper, Charlotte turning the events of the past night over in her head. When she’d finished eating, she laid down her knife and fork. “Sir?”
Cosgrove looked up.
“Last night . . .” She straightened the knife and fork on her plate, lining them up with one another. “Last night more windows were broken.”
“I had noticed,” the earl said, dryly.
“Well, sir, I . . . uh, I followed him.”
Cosgrove observed her over the top of the newspaper for several long seconds, then folded the paper and laid it aside. “I thought I told you not to do so alone.”
Charlotte flushed. “You did, sir, but . . . but I woke up when I heard the glass break and I saw him in the square and I couldn’t not follow!”
Cosgrove stroked the bridge of his nose, as if deciding what his response would be. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was loud.
Charlotte held her breath.
Cosgrove lowered his hand. He picked up his teacup and leaned back in his chair. “Where did he go?”
She released the breath she was holding. “I don’t precisely know, sir. I didn’t recognize the streets. But it was east of here.”
“How far?”
“We ran for close to an hour.”
“An hour?”
“Almost, sir.”
Cosgrove glanced at her plate. “No wonder you had such a healthy appetite.” He sipped from his cup. “Very well, tell me.”
Charlotte obediently related her tale, finishing with a description of the window-breaker.
“And he didn’t see you?”
“No, sir. I kept well back.” It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like one. Charlotte straightened her unused cutlery on the tablecloth.
“He went into a tavern? “
“Yes, sir. But I couldn’t see the name. It was too dark.”
Cosgrove put down his teacup. “Did you go in?”
“No, sir. It . . . it looked a very rough place.” Again, it wasn’t a lie, but it had the shape of one in her mouth. She reached out and moved her butter knife a quarter of an inch to the right, so that it was precisely parallel to its companions on the tablecloth.
“At least you showed some sense.”
She glanced up in time to see Cosgrove close his eyes for a moment. He looked as if he was in pain.
Charlotte decided that it was best not to reply to this comment. She bit her lip and moved the fish knife she hadn’t used, lining it up with the butter knife.
“Almost an hour’s running east of here, you say?”
She glanced up again and nodded.
“Could you smell tanneries?”
“Oh, is that what it was?”
Cosgrove rubbed his brow, as if her tale had made his head hurt. “Lad, I think you were in Whitechapel.”
The name meant nothing to her.
“Of all the places in London!” The fierceness of his voice made her flinch in the chair. “You should be lying in a gutter with your throat slit!”
Charlotte bit her lip again and looked down at her table setting. Everything was neatly lined up. She reached out and aligned the silver salt and pepper shakers.
“Will you stop doing that!”
Charlotte jerked her hand back. She risked a glance at him.
The earl’s gaze pinned her to her chair, fierce. “I absolutely forbid you to go back there! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
The earl released a long breath. His anger seemed to die, like a candle being snuffed. “Could you find it on a map?”
Charlotte nodded. “But . . . but you won’t go there yourself, will you, sir?” Memory of the men spilling from the tavern was vivid in her mind. Cosgrove might spar regularly with Gentleman Jack, but what good were fists against knives?
Cosgrove’s eyebrows quirked up. “Would you refuse to show me the way if I said yes?”
“You said yourself that it’s dangerous.”
His expression became amused, as if her concern was a joke. “I’ll take a couple of footmen with me.”
“But, sir . . .” She stared at him, remembering the glint of the knife blade in moonlight. “But . . . but your appearance is striking. Unlike the Smiths, you are memorable. If you ask questions, how long do you think it will take for news of it to reach the lad who broke your windows—and the person who hired him?”
Cosgrove’s smile faded.
“We have an advantage, sir. A very slight one. If you go to the tavern, we lose it.”
Cosgrove’s eyebrows drew together. He pinched his lower lip between forefinger and thumb, tugged, thought.
Charlotte held herself motionless, almost not breathing.
“You’ve made your point, lad.” Cosgrove pushed to his feet. “But I still want to know where that tavern is. Wait here.”
He returned carrying a map. “Show me.” He swept aside her neatly arranged cutlery.
“Where are we?”
The earl planted his finger on the map. “Here.”
Charlotte traced her route, acutely aware of the earl leaning over her, acutely aware of the warmth of his body, the smells of soap and freshly washed linen. The map told her the names of the streets she’d run along last night: High Holborn, Cornhill, Leadenhall Street, Rosemary Lane. “Sir . . . you promise you won’t go there, if I tell you?”
“Lad,” Cosgrove’s voice was startlingly close to her ear. “You do remember that I’m paying you, don’t you?”
Charlotte bit her lip and kept silent, her gaze fixed on the map.
After a moment, Cosgrove laughed. She felt his breath ruffle her hair. “Very well, you have my word. I won’t go there.”
“The tavern was on this street, sir.” Charlotte pointed. “Cripple Lane.”
The earl grunted. He pushed away from the table and walked to the window, stared down at the mews, his brow creased in a frown.
“It doesn’t help much, sir, does it?”
He turned to face her, leaning against the windowsill. “It may be possible to hire someone to patronize the tavern. Someone familiar with Whitechapel. Someone who won’t stand out.”
“How does one locate such a person, sir?”
“A good question, lad. I wonder if Gentleman Jack would know a likely fellow?” His frown deepened, he seemed to gaze through her, and then his gray eyes focused. His expression grew pained. “Albin, if you’re going to sleep under my roof, then I must insist—I really must insist—that you learn to tie a respectable neckcloth.”
Charlotte touched the knot of muslin at her throat. “What’s wrong with it, sir?”
“An organ-grinder’s monkey could tie a neater neckcloth.” Cosgrove pushed away from the windowsill. “Upstairs with you. It’s time you had a lesson.”