Black conducted himself like a gentleman walking on eggs in Lady Luten’s salon before dinner and in her dining room later. He was careful not to overindulge in wine and to take no larger a helping of any of the various dishes than Lord Luten took. Handling the array of cutlery posed very little problem for him. When in doubt, he watched to see what knife or fork the others took up. He had been observing the swells long enough to know the proper way to wield cutlery and had been practising with Lady deCoventry’s best silver for years. Any servant knew enough not to put a used utensil on the tablecloth. Still, performing in public placed a strain on him and he ate so daintily and sparingly that Corinne feared the meal was not to his taste.
She needn’t have worried. If she had served leftovers it would have been like ambrosia to him. The thrill was in just being there, at her table, with a lord, a lady, a baronet and Mr. Pattle. He was a little surprised that no one mentioned the case during the entire meal, until he realized they didn’t care to discuss it in front of the servants.
He didn’t worry about not adding much to the conversation. Sir Reginald didn’t leave anyone much leeway for that. It was all talk of books and plays and music and art. Black was eager to learn about these things, but at the present, any time he had to spare was devoted to his French grammar.
At the meal’s end, Lady Luten said to the footman hovering nearby, “The gentlemen will take their port in Lord Luten’s study this evening, Roberts.” Then they all rose and went there.
“You’re not leaving me out this time, Luten,” she said, as he accompanied her down the hall. “And don’t tell me you want a cigar. You seldom blow a cloud.”
The wine was delivered to the study and the footman closed the door behind him. Luten took his seat at the desk and the others disposed themselves on the chairs. “I spoke to Townsend this morning,” he began. “He had nothing to help us but urged that we keep him informed of what we learn. Have any of you anything to report?”
“Coffen and I did as you suggested this morning,” Prance said. “We’re convinced no one was following us.”
Luten looked to Black. “I wasn’t followed either. I spent the morning working in the kitchen at Arthur’s. I didn’t get much we don’t know already. Henri and Guy worked there for a few days — they’ll take anyone they can get for the lower type of job. They got turned off for filching from the clients’ pockets. I did find out they stayed at a place called Mrs. Horsely’s rooming house on Little Hart Street. I don’t know if they’re still there. It was handy to Arthur’s, so p’raps they just rented by the week, knowing they’d not be staying at Arthur’s long. I can look into it.”
Prance and Coffen listened enthralled to Black’s latest success. “How on earth did you get them to hire you?” Prance asked.
“They’d hire Jack Ketch if they could get him cheap. Nobody stays there for long. Mind you I wouldn’t say you have to worry about eating there. The kitchen was clean enough. ‘Twas the chef that don’t know how to handle his men that accounts for the turnover. I was hard-pressed not to land him a facer on my way out.”
“I was wondering how you got away after just half a day without putting them wise,” Coffen said. “Didn’t they find it odd?”
“I don’t know if they did, nor don’t care. I can’t see that it matters either. I’m not after a character reference from the likes of them.”
“Quite right,” Luten said, chewing back a smile. “Good work, Black.”
“There’s a little more,” Black said. “Pattle and myself had a word with Ned Sparks this afternoon. He tells me Eric Martin is an Englishman. He says he’s putting up at the Sheepwalk, which he ain’t, but he left that address where he could be got in touch with in the evening, so I figure he drops in at night and might get messages there.”
“That’s interesting!” Luten said. “We’ll have to have a man stationed there.”
“I planned to go there this very night. Mr. Pattle’s volunteered to go with me.”
Prance, not usually the first to volunteer, took exception to this. He had determined to be a man of action, and the visit to the Sheepwalk was the only action available at the moment. “Why Pattle?” he asked. “I’d like to go with you, Black.”
Black stared in astonished dismay. “You might look a bit out of place, Sir Reginald. It’s not a fancy sort of inn.”
“I have other clothing I can wear. I’ve been amassing a complete wardrobe of disguises. I can do a credible vicar or footman.”
“Either one would stand out like a jester at a funeral,” Black informed him with a shake of his head. “It’s a place for common folks. I passed myself off as a dealer in old books when I was there.”
“But I know a good deal about books! And if an opportunity to overhear any conversations in French should arise, eh bien, je parle français courrament.”
Coffen gave Black an apologetic look and said, “He’s got us dead to rights there, Black. We wouldn’t know a parlay-voo from a turnip. You give him a hand in toning down his outfit and we’ll take him along.” Black agreed with as good a grace as he could muster.
Coffen turned to Luten and said, “Just a thought, Luten, it might be a good idea to ride, rather than take a carriage. They might take off across fields or what not where a carriage couldn’t follow. Do you ride at all, Black?”
“Certainly I do, Mr. Pattle, but I’ve no mount.”
“Take Smoker,” Luten said at once. “He could do with the exercise. No, on second thought, if Martin’s there he’d recognize him.”
“He’ll recognize us, since they’ve been following us for days” Prance reminded him.
“True, but if he arrives after you and sees Smoker in the stable, he might not enter. You should choose a dark corner for your table to avoid being recognized.”
“And if he spots us and leaves, we’ll jump up and follow him,” Coffen said.
“Take my Jezebel, Black,” Corinne suggested. “She’s up to your weight. Not a prime goer like Prance’s and Coffen’s mounts, but it’s not likely the Frenchmen will be riding.”
It was arranged that they would call on Luten as soon as they returned to let him know if they had had any luck. Black and Coffen accompanied Reggie home to alter his appearance. Villier scoured the attic for the oldest jacket, boots and hat he could find, and Black advised him to exchange his elegant ebony walking stick for a sturdier blackthorn one. The mounts were sent for and they set off into the darkness.
April’s warming sun had set and a brisk boreal wind blew in their faces, making the ride unpleasant. Prance feared and complained more than once that it wasn’t doing his ribs any good.
The branches of black trees swaying and creaking overhead in the wind added an ominous note. The crescent moon drifted between patches of cloud, at times silvering the metaled road, at times coyly hiding her face. Three gentlemen traveling together were not likely to be set upon by footpads or highwaymen at least, nor were they.
The Sheepwalk was a ramshackle medieval inn surrounded by tall trees of an undistinguishable sort. The ancient brickwork below changed into beams and plaster above, topped by sagging thatch.
Prance knew by the racket emanating from the door even before it was opened that the inn was not the sort of place he would find congenial. He almost regretted his rash offer to come, until he remembered that tonight he was Baron Wolfried, dashing master spy, afraid of nothing. The place was even worse than Black had intimated. It reeked of ale, cheap tobacco, unwashed bodies and worse. The clientele was certainly composed of cutthroat highwaymen, smugglers and horse thieves. None of them, to judge by the Anglo-Saxon curses ringing in his ears, were French.
Black looked all around, shook his head to indicate their quarry was not in the room, and headed to a table in a dark corner. A plump tavern maid came up to them at once. “Have yez ate?” she asked.
“Just pints all around,” Black said.
When she returned with the drinks, he said, “Is Tess in tonight?”
“She’s working t’other end of the room. They could use more help around here. We’re run off our feet.”
“Ah, I see her now,” Black said.
He watched a pert redhead in a mobcap as she ran from table to table, carrying trays and warding off lecherous advances on her person with a practised swipe of her hand. After a few tries, he caught her eye and beckoned her forward.
“Why if it ain’t Mr. Black,” she said. “Couldn’t keep away from us, eh, Blackie? Sold many Bibles lately?” Her leering eye and mocking tone implied the Bibles were not the usual sort.
“Business is flourishing, Tess. I see the same goes for this place.”
“Lord, yes. And not a decent tipper in the place. Say, that reminds me, them Frenchies you was asking about, them that you thought might want one of your special Bibles, they’ve been back.”
“Are they here tonight?”
“Not yet, but they come here the last two nights, just about this time. You want I should tell them you’re here, or did you get your brandy elsewheres?”
He gave her a sly wink, slid a silver coin along the table and said, “No need to tell them. I’d like to surprise them.”
The sharp look she gave Black suggested she was unhappy with the size of the tip, but she snapped the coin up fast enough and slid it into the pocket of her apron.
“Shame on you, Black,” Prance rallied. “I fancy I don’t have to ask what sort of Bibles you planned to show to the Frenchies.”
“I needed some excuse to be asking about them,” he replied blandly.
“I thought brandy was the excuse.”
“Wanting brandy ain’t a job. Here I’m a dealer in special Bibles and like my tipple when I’m at home.”
Coffen listened, frowning. “Is it hard to get hold of a French Bible in England?”
“Not particularly,” Prance said. “One can procure one from any purveyor of pornography, eh Black?”
“Pornography?” Coffen cried. “Don’t that mean dirty pictures? Black, I hope you ain’t making a mockery of the Bible!”
“His Bibles are not Bibles,” Prance explained.
“You might have called them something else then. Nursery rhymes or some such.”
“You’re right, Mr. Pattle. It was thoughtless of me.”
“Sullying the good name of the holiest book in the world,” Coffen grumbled. “It’s the most unheard of thing I ever heard of. I’m ashamed of you. What would Lady Luten say?”
“You mustn’t tell her!” Black cried.
“I wouldn’t sully her ears with such filth.”
Prance nudged Black’s elbow. “Tess is squinting at you. Is that your French customers?”
Tess tossed her head toward the door, and Black nodded back to signal he’d seen them. It was the three Frenchies she’d described to him earlier, to judge by their appearance. The fat, older one would be the leader, Alphonse, the other two would be Henri and Guy.
“I don’t see Eric Martin there. What do we do?” Prance asked. “They haven’t seen us.”
“If we could get close to them, we might overhear something interesting,” Coffen said.
“Not much chance of that. There’s no empty table nearby,” Black pointed out. “If we just wait unseen, they might be joined by Martin.”
“Right, we’ll watch and wait a while,” Coffen said.
The three men sat on the far side of the room and ordered ale from Tess. Their frequent glances towards the door suggested they were indeed waiting for someone. They never glanced within a right angle of the dark corner where the three were watching them. After a while, Alphonse raised his hand, ordered another round of drinks, then arose and left.
“Is he leaving? Should we follow him?” Prance asked.
“He’s ordered another round. I fancy he’s just paying a visit to the necessary,” Black replied. As Alphonse soon returned, they assumed Black was right, as usual.
The Frenchmen drank their second round, then all got up and left together. They went out the front door, indicating they were leaving the inn. “We’d best follow them,” Black said, leaping up. “I’ll watch and see which way they go. You bring our mounts around, Pattle.” The niceties of Mr. Pattle were forgotten in his excitement.
Prance stood a moment undecided, then went after Coffen to help with the mounts. It would be hard to say which of them was the more surprised — Coffen and Prance to see their mounts were gone, or Black to see the Frenchmen riding off on them.
He hollered after them, but his voice was drowned out by the clatter of hooves and raucous laughter from the retreating riders. He watched to see if they left the road to cut across a field, but they just charged straight ahead, until even the cloud of dust they caused had faded away.
Prance and Coffen soon joined him, and heard the news they half expected. “They’ve done it again,” Black said, too shocked and dismayed to utter the curses that welled up in his throat. “Alphonse must have got hold of our nags when he left the table.”
“I don’t see how they spotted us,” Coffen said. “You don’t suppose Tess tipped them the clue? She served them their ales.”
“She must have done,” Black conceded, knowing in his heart she had. She’d accepted a bribe from him, why not from them? She wasn’t happy with the size of the tip either. He’d ought to have made it a guinea.
“And after you paid her too,” Prance snipped. Black said not a word about the inadequacy of the bribe. “How do we get home?”
“How do we tell Luten?” Coffen said.
“How do I tell her I’ve lost her mount?” was Black’s concern.
They had one small piece of good luck that evening. A pair of city bucks out for a night of mischief arrived roaring drunk in a hackney five minutes later. The driver was happy to pick up fares for a return to London. Hardly a word was spoken as the three were jostled about in the coach. Each was mulling over how to recount this disaster to Luten and Lady Luten. Black had the added worry of wondering if he would be expected to replace Lady Luten’s mount.
No legal way of making a couple of hundred pounds occurred to him. He had told Luten he was now an honest man, and meant it. If worse came to worst, he figured Pattle would lend him the money but he hated to ask, unaware that borrowing was a way of life for many of the upper classes.