CHAPTER FIVE
On Watch
“’Tis such nights that unfit us for the days that are to follow.”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
Mrs. Fitzherbert’s footman, Faller, led Adam down the servants’ stairs and into the warren of workrooms that undergirded even a modest London household. Faller was a youngish man, perhaps in his midtwenties. Tall and White, with only a few pockmarks on his cheeks, a straight back, and good calves to his legs. He walked on ahead of Adam like he was afraid to look behind, and maybe he was. The whole house would be on edge just now, not only from the theft but from wondering what the outcome would be for them. Adam had once seen an entire household staff sacked over the theft of a ring. In that particular case, it was discovered that the master of the house had sold the ring to cover a debt. To keep the secret from his wife, he’d allowed the servants to be blamed.
Faller and Adam passed the kitchen and the servants’ hall, the laundry and sewing rooms. A few of the staff were still awake, and they glanced sharply at Adam, an intruder in their domain, but no one said anything. No one would. Not until they knew who he was and where his sympathies lay.
“How long have you been with Mrs. Fitzherbert?” Adam asked Faller.
“Four years, maybe five.”
“Good berth?”
Faller shrugged. “’S all right. Food’s good. Pay’s regular. Treat you fair. Butler’s no more dishonest than some, an’ never one to blame you for the silver going missing and what all.” Faller’s face creased, as if an unpleasant memory had just come to him.
They’d reached the back of the house and a latched door to the outside. Faller hesitated a moment and then turned toward Adam. “You really with Bow Street, then?”
“I was,” Adam answered.
“And that lady, that Miss Thorne”—he jerked his chin toward the low ceiling—“she’s the genuine article?”
“She is.”
Faller glanced over Adam’s shoulder, back toward the workrooms, looking to see if anyone was listening. “Cuz everybody’s on pins and needles right now. Not sure what the missus is going to do, what with the divorce trial coming up and now this. Nobody knows which way is up.”
“Wish I could help you there,” said Adam, and he meant it. “I’m not sure even the king knows which way is up right now.”
That got a chuckle out of the younger man. “Can’t argue that. What’s your name, then?”
“Harkness. And you’re Faller?”
“’S right. Tom Faller.”
Adam lowered his voice. “Look, Faller, I know how it is. You don’t want to be the one to peach. But if anybody knows something, they’d be doing the missus a favor if they were to tip the wink to me—or Miss Thorne. Nobody need know where it came from.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Faller shot the bolt on the outside door and pushed it open. A blast of hot August air rolled through the confined entryway. “But you know how it is.”
He did. Belowstairs was a small world. Carrying tales to the family or, worse, to outsiders could be punished in any number of ways big and small.
Adam nodded his thanks and walked up the stairs into Mrs. Fitzherbert’s walled garden.
The summer darkness was settling in; so was a low canopy of rain clouds. Adam let himself glance back at the house. From here, he couldn’t see any light in the upper story. He wondered where Rosalind was. He wondered what she had discovered, and wished he could be there beside her. If there were still signs of the thief’s work, that was where they’d be.
At the same time, they needed to know who was watching the place. It was possible they were some harmless curiosity seeker or a newspaperman come to see if anything interesting might be happening in the Fitzherbert household. They might even be a special constable or guardsman, sent by the king to keep watch so that Mrs. Fitzherbert wasn’t harassed or talking to the wrong people.
Now that Adam’s eyes had adjusted to the deepening twilight, he could see the garden was shaped more like a triangle than a square. The wall of the house made its base. He also spotted a small door set in the right-hand wall. It hadn’t been visible from the high street and probably led to a mews or an alleyway.
A raindrop hit the brim of his hat. Another fell against the back of his palm.
Adam avoided the path and crossed the lawn instead. It wasn’t likely that the sound of gravel under his boots could be heard beyond the walls, but there was no point in taking chances.
He paused at the arched door and listened. He heard the clatter of traffic. The rhythm of the watchman’s call lifted in the distance. Then, closer, he heard the sound of men’s voices, low and grumbling.
Adam found the latch. He slipped it back and eased the door open just the barest inch. Fortunately, Mrs. Fitzherbert’s staff were diligent. The hinges were well oiled and made no sound. The voices continued to rise and fall, without hitch or hesitation.
Adam pressed his eye to the crack. As he suspected, the garden opened onto a narrow mews. He couldn’t see anyone, however. Adam eased the gate open a little farther and ducked through.
On the other side, he held still, taking in his immediate surroundings. To the right, the mews ended at the high street. Their corner made a Y shape—the narrow end of the garden’s triangle.
There, perhaps three yards in front of him, stood a cluster of men in low-crowned hats and shirtsleeves. They all had their backs to the garden door (and him) and their faces toward the high street and Mrs. Fitzherbert’s front door.
And, clearly, none of them were happy about it.
“Bloody hell, it’s raining.”
“So button your coat.”
“How much longer you planning on keepin’ us here?”
“I’m not keepin’ you anywhere. You go on if you want.”
Not one of the three looked behind them. Adam would have shaken his head at such carelessness, but he didn’t want a stray rustle of cloth to alert the men. This was hardly a crowd of experienced lurkers, but inexperience did not mean they might not be dangerous.
Adam held his breath and moved closer. The light patter of fresh rain helped cover any stray noise.
“. . . had enough,” muttered one of the men in front of him. “Nothing’s happening tonight.”
“Patience, Langton. The toffs still all have their boots under the table. It’s a long night yet. Plenty might happen.”
The first man—Langton—grumbled under his breath. His compatriot on the right slapped his back and pulled a flask out of his pocket to pass. Langton took a swig and, sociably, passed it to the man on his left.
The third man took his swallow and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Can’t believe I let you two talk me into this.” He passed the flask back. He also pulled his hat brim lower.
“Liar.” The first man took his drink and handed the flask back to Langton. “You begged to be here. You said the Times was sure to pay double for anything on the Fitz.”
Adam’s mouth settled into a tight, hard line. These weren’t housebreakers or constables or loyalists of one stripe or another. These were newspapermen, looking for gossip.
Adam had spent some years apprenticed to a gamekeeper. He’d learned the art of silence. Slowly, patiently, he stepped forward. As soon as he was at arm’s length, Adam reached out and tapped Langton on the shoulder.
Langton shouted, and the flask flew into the air, spilling liquor in every direction. Adam jumped back as the three of them whirled around.
“Bloody hell!” shouted the right-hand man. “What d’ye think yer doin’?”
“Finding out what you’re doing,” answered Adam. “It’s getting late, gents.”
“Aw, clear off,” said Langton. “This is none of your business. Whoever you are.”
But the third fellow, the one on the left, squinted at Adam. “Harkness?”
Now that he was facing the round, slouching man, Adam recognized him.
“Hello, Ranking,” he said amiably. Ronald Ranking was a regular hanger-on at the magistrate’s court and in Bow Street’s lobby.
“Who is this fellow, Ronnie?” demanded the right-hand man.
“Parke, this is the famous Watchdog Harkness,” said Ranking. “Late of the Bow Street Runners.”
“Oh, ho!” sneered Parke. “That Harkness, is he?” His tone turned blatantly curious. “Story is you pulled Townsend’s nose over the Cato Street business.”
Adam said nothing.
“And that he shoved you out the door with a boot up your arse,” Parke went on.
“Now then,” said Adam mildly.
“What are you doing here?” asked Ranking. “You’re not working for the Fitz now, are you?” He squinted harder, trying to read Adam’s expression. “Are you?”
Adam ignored this. “Tell you what, Ranking. How about you and your friends come with me to the pub around the corner? I’ll buy us a jug of beer, and we’ll talk the whole thing over.”
Langton surveyed the quiet street with an attitude of disappointment. “No pub around any corner near here.”
“Then we walk till we find one,” said Adam. “Otherwise, you can all just clear off.”
“Or what?” snickered Parke. “You’ll call your friends in the runners?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait, they ain’t your friends anymore! Cuz of that boot to your arse and all.”
Adam cocked his head ever so slightly, as if listening for something. The watchman’s shout drifted between the houses. “Nine o’ the clock, and all’s well!”
“The watch is two streets away, by the sound,” he remarked. “Much easier to just move along or come with me to find that beer. Unless you all fancy a night in lockup, which means your stories, and your excuses, will be late to your editors.”
The three looked at each other. They looked at Adam.
“Watch is a bunch of old men and drunkards,” Parke assured the other two. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Maybe,” agreed Adam. “But I’ll be helping them.”
All three newspapermen looked at Adam again.
“Ain’t worth it, Parke,” said Ranking. “We seen enough.”
Parke looked ready to argue, but Langton shook his head, indicating either that Parke shouldn’t be a fool or that Langton wasn’t going to back him up. Perhaps both. Parke’s shoulders slumped.
“All right, lads,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
Langton slapped his friend’s back, clearly glad to be on his way.
“Ranking,” said Adam quietly.
Ranking hesitated and turned his head.
“I’ll be at the Bell and Anchor at noon tomorrow. We might have some things to say to each other.”
Ranking’s eyes narrowed. Then he nodded once and hurried after his compatriots.
Adam waited until the newspapermen were entirely out of sight. He was about to turn around and head back through the garden door when he heard the slow clop of a horse’s hooves.
Habit more than genuine worry made him step back into the shadow of the wall. As he watched, a single dispirited horse came round the corner. It was a fine animal, but the rider was a large man perched awkwardly in the saddle. Instinct or warning stirred in the back of Adam’s mind. His eyes narrowed.
The man rode past Mrs. Fitzherbert’s door, heading toward the corner where Adam waited. Adam pressed himself closer to the wall. The rider reached the corner. Now he was close enough for Adam to see his face.
Adam froze.
He’d seen the rider exactly once before, but he was not inclined to forget that face. Because the man seated so painfully on that fine horse was George IV, the king of England.