THE SECRET OF THE LADY’S MAID — A Useful Woman Mystery

by

Darcie Wilde

READER SAMPLE

PROLOGUE — A BAD BUSINESS

“Then it must be treason; and see it I must, by all that’s good or by all that’s bad — “

Edgeworth, Maria, Belinda

#

London

February, 1820

         Adam Harkness stood in the shadow of a slouching, half-timbered house. The tiny alley around him — which went by the name of Cato Street — was dark and quiet.  The noise from the nearby pubs and gin shops oozed between its close-packed buildings, but no sound rose from the alley itself.   Its few soot-smudged houses had all been tightly shuttered against the raw February night. It was easy to imagine the folk inside tucked up in their quilts and sound asleep.

         He’d had some luck for his vigil.  The moon was near full, and the sky unusually clear, which meant he had fair bit of light to see by.  But it also meant it was unusually cold and the needle-sharp, February air pressed hard against his skin.  Adam shifted his weight slightly to try to keep his feet from going numb, but kept his attention on the stable across the way.

         A flickering lantern showed through the hayloft’s crooked shutters.  Every few seconds, a passing shadow blotted out the faint light.  That told Adam that unlike the rest of the alley, somebody remained awake in that loft.  In fact, if he’d counted correctly, roughly twenty somebodys busy as bees in there.

         But busy with what?  There’s the question.

         They’d each arrived singly.  All men, but other than that, they’d been a ragged, varied bunch.  One wore a cobbler’s leather apron.  One was a Black gentlemen dressed in a frock coat who could have been a clergyman or a school master.   One wore a coat so tattered it hardly deserved the name. 

         They’d scuttled down the street with their collars turned up and their hats pulled low.  When they stepped up to the stable door, they looked carefully about before slipping inside.

         Left to himself, Adam might have speculated they were a group of petty thieves and pickpockets.  But according to the news given to Adam’s superiors at Bow Street — the cobbler, the school master, the tattered man, and all the rest in that shuttered loft — were bent on nothing less than high treason.

         Just this morning, Adam had been called into John Townsend’s opulent private office, along with Stephen Lavender, Sam Tauton and Sampson Goutier.  Goutier was the only patrol captain present.  He was an expert navigator of the the tangled world that was London after dark, and only reason he had been made a principle officer was that Parliament only authorized eight such men to serve at a time, and Tauton had not yet retired.

         John Townsend’s agitation was made plain by the way he had behind his broad desk before he even spoke a word.

         These men intend to murder the entire privy council when they sit down to dinner in Grosvenor Street. He’d said.  His grace, the Earl of Harrowby, Lord President of the Privvy Council was stopped in Hyde Park by a man calling himself Hiden, Townsend told them all.  This Hiden, gave his grace the outline of the plot.

         And his grace believed this fantasy? Goutier had asked incredulously. 

         His grace had good reason to believe it, snapped Townsend.  It is now for us to act on the matter.

         How could these men even know about a ministerial dinner? asked Lavender.  He was a narrow man with a long face and strict ideas about law and order.  He and Adam had butted heads more than once.

         It’s published in the papers, said Townsend.  One of their number saw the notice.

         Surely, said Adam, the first thing to do is make sure that Hiden is telling the truth.  Where can we find this man, Hiden?

         But apparently, his grace had neglected to ask that.  Hiden had delivered his warning, and disappeared. He thought, however, that Hiden could be one of the cowmen who pastured their animals on the green.

         The argument over how to proceed lasted half an hour.  Goutier and Sam Tauton agreed with Adam that they needed to find Hiden and make sure this report was accurate.  Lavendar, on the other hand, argued that they couldn’t waste the time.

         If we hesitate, we could wake up to a revolution in the streets.  We need to arrest these men in at once.  It’ll be safer all around.

         Townsend had agreed with Lavender, but Adam stood his ground. 

         If it turns out this report is a mistake, or madness, Bow Street will look like fools, he said.  And when the newspapers get hold of it, they will mock his grace, and us, for jumping at shadows.

         The argument worked, as Adam hoped it would.  Townsend saw it as his duty to protect Bow Street’s reputation as well as the King’s peace.  So, he reluctantly agreed to allow Adam to find out what he could.  However, he also declared no men would be spared for the mission.  Adam was entirely on his own. 

         Now, standing in the cold and the dark, Adam had to admit something was happening in that hayloft.  But if it was a dread and murderous conspiracy, the participants were remarkably sloppy.  The man he’d sent to the stable door to test the waters had walked right in, and that was over two hours ago.  Adam had heard no sounds of a struggle, or other commotion. 

         In fact, all he heard now was the rhythmic call of the watch.  “Two of the clock, and all’s well!  Two of the clock and all’s well!”

         Christ, I hope it is.  Adam let his breath out slowly.  The vapor rose in front of his eyes, shining silver in the moonlight. 

         The plan was not anywhere near as strong as he’d have liked, but they had no time to come up with anything better.  The ministerial dinner was in two days.  At least, it would have been if it had not already been cancelled.  This turn of events, however, had very deliberately not been reported to the newspapers.

         The watchman’s call faded away.  Adam waited, measuring time by the beating of his heart and the shadows passing this way and that in the hayloft and the slow deadening of all feeling in his toes and fingertips.

         At last, the stable door dragged itself open.  Adam willed himself to stillness.  His eyes had adapted well enough to the dark that he could make out the shadow of a tall, lean man as he slipped from the darkness.  The man glanced at the sky to gauge the weather. Then, he hunched his back against the knife-edged wind that sliced through the alley and scurried away.

         Adam gave himself a count of thirty to see if anyone else would emerge to follow his man, but the stable door remained closed.  Upstairs, the erratic shadows moved back and forth, just as before.  No shout rose. 

         Adam pulled his hat brim lower, stuffed his hands into his pockets and set off after the tall man.  Out on the main street, he passed the doorway where Goutier kept watch, and turned his collar up.  That was the signal they’d agreed to.  All was indeed well.  He would meet them back at Bow Street.

         Townsend had not authorized any men to assist Adam in his vigil.  Goutier and Townsend had insisted on coming along anyway.  At least, if they were asked, they could truthfully say they had never gone into the alley.

         The further the tall man walked from Cato Street, the easier he moved.  By the time he’d gone a quarter of a mile, his conspirator’s scuttle had changed to the easy, swinging gait of a man without a care in the world.

         When the man reached the Dappled Mare carriage house, he rapped on the door.  After a long moment, that door opened and a boy carrying a lantern emerged.  The man handed him a few coins and sent him running towards the stables.  Some moments later, an enclosed carriage drawn by a pair of matched chestnuts was driven up to the door.  The tall man climbed inside, leaving the carriage door open.

         Adam took a last look about himself.  Satisfied that he was not followed, he crossed the cobbles, climbed into the carriage and latched the door.  The warmth from the footstove enfolded him like a blessing.  The tall man pounded on the roof.  As soon as the carriage lumbered forward, he drew off his slouching hat and cast it aside.

         “Well, Mr. Harkness,” Sanderson Faulks combed his fingers through his fair hair.  “I believe I must thank you for a most entertaining evening.  When I write my memoirs — which I hasten to assure you will not be published until long after I have ceased to breathe — this will take a prominent place.”

         Adam grinned.  He’d made Faulks’s acquaintance several years ago.  Since then, the man had given him some good help during more than one investigation.  Faulks was a confirmed member of the dandy set, and made his living buying and selling art for London’s upper crust.  He also dabbled in money lending, and was a merciless card-sharp and was the first person Adam had thought of for this errand.

         Why me? Faulks had asked.

         Because I trust you.  Because you are deeply observant, but nobody in the neighborhood is likely to know you.  He remembered how Faulk’s smile had altered ever so slightly, as if to warn him not to make assumptions. 

         If this lot are habitual criminals, they might spot a Bow Street man, Adam told him.  And last, but not least, I am asking you because if anyone finds out you went into that stable tonight, Townsend can’t sack you for it.

         “So, what did you see?” Adam asked.

         Faulks returned a thin smile.  “If the most honorable magistrates at Bow Street believe that hayloft houses a dangerous nest of radicals, they are entirely mistaken.  What I saw was a half-deluded, half-desperate congregation of lost men.  I walked in without challenge.  I kept myself to a corner of the room for several fatiguing hours, and not one of ‘em so much as asked my business.  I had one confide to me that he only came to these ‘meetings’ because there was always something to eat.”

         Relief filled Adam, but it was not enough to entirely ease his suspicions.  Why had the Earl of Harrowby been willing to believe that this gathering represented a real danger?  Had they missed something? 

         “Were they armed?” Adam asked.

         “After a fashion.  There were a  handful of pikes, cutlasses and other such dangerous antiques.  I had a look at one of their guns and would wager it would be as likely to blow up in the owner’s hands as it would to fire.  Still, if not opposed too firmly, they might pose some sort of danger to the residents of the alley.”

         “Did they talk at all about their plans?”

         “One fellow, Thistlewood, did.  He was what passed as their ringleader.  He assured the rest that they could easily storm Grosvenor street and murder the cabinet.  At the same time, parties of their men would also steal cannon from various armories and militia posts, and throw up a series of barricades around the town.  After this, they would form a provisional government, burn all the paper money and distribute the gold in the Bank of London to the poor.” 

         “With twenty men?” said Adam.

         “Well, that point was somewhat in dispute.  Thistlewood insisted that this gathering was only one small part of the larger rebellion.  He said that another man, by the name of Edwards, had assured him there were tens of thousands ready to rise up all across London.”

         “Was Edwards in the hayloft?”

         “No,” said Faulks.  “Nor did anyone seem to expect him.  I don’t know that it signifies, but it struck me as an additional oddity.”

         Adam nodded.  “Thank you, Mr. Faulks.  I am in your debt.”

         “What will you do now?”

         “I’ll report back to Mr. Birnie and Mr. Townsend.  With any luck, what you’ve observed will be enough to soothe the fears of the his grace and the privy council.  Then, we can round these men quietly, charge them with being a public nuisance on a cold night, and be done.”

         “And if you can’t?” Mr. Faulks inquired.

         “Then God help those half-desperate, half-deluded men,” said Adam.  “Because the charge on their heads will be high treason, and every last one of them will finish up dead.”

CHAPTER TWO —  SORDID COMPANIONS

“It was quite indifferent to me how they got money, provided they did get it.” 

         Edgeworth, Maria, Belinda

#

         Francesca Finch sailed into the dingy flat.  She looked around her with disgust.  The place seemed worse than ever, with its whitewashed walls that were more gray than white and all the stiff, uncomfortable furnishings.  Drab curtains hung where there ought to have been doors.  The fire smoked and the lone window was cracked, so that no matter how many rags they stuffed into the sill, a knife-edged draft still sliced through.  

         “What happened, Fran?” Jack turned down one corner of the paper he was reading to look at her.  He sat in front of their tiny hearth, with his feet propped up on the hob.  A tea pot and a plate of sandwiches waited on the table at his elbow.  Apparently impervious to the cold, he was in just his waistcoat, shirt sleeves and stocking feet.  “Did you find the girl?” 

         “Yes, I found her.”  Francesca jerked at the fingers of her black gloves.  “For all the good it does us.”  She tossed the gloves onto the horsehair sofa and sent her black bonnet sailing after them.

         “Can’t say I like the sound of that,” said Jack.

         Jack Beachamp was a handsome man, in a raw, unpolished way.   He still kept the burly frame he’d earned as a prize fighter before he had given up the sporting life to become a thief-taker.  His naturally pale skin was permanently bronzed by sun and wind, his hands were scarred and calloused, and his long nose was crooked.  His curling, dark hair hung about his ears, as long as any poet’s.  The combination gave him a roguish, dangerous look, like a highwayman from the old days.

         In contrast to broad, dark Jack, Francesca herself was a golden willow-wand.  She’d the luck to be born with bright blonde hair and lively blue eyes.  Her mother said her face would be her fortune, but Francesca quickly learned that beauty — and the men it attracted — were not to be depended on.  So, she’d set about acquiring a set of skills to add onto her pretty looks.  She gained her polish from a lady’s maid who fallen on hard times and was happy to give lessons in exchange for gin money. Now, Fran could pass as anyone from an upstairs maid to the daughter of a baronet. 

         Well, maybe sister of a baronet, these days, she thought irritably. 

         “It turns out the plaguey little creature managed to run to a friend — some serving girl —and collapsed just as she got there.”  Francesca dropped gracelessly onto the shabby settee, letting her arms and legs sprawl wide.  “Before I could get proper hold of her, the girl’s mistress showed up and whisked her away.” 

         Which was what truly infuriated her.  She’d stood there and let the little chit be snatched, quite literally, out of her grasp.  I should have said I was her aunt or sister or any blasted thing.  I never should have let them bundle her off so easily.

         “But you followed them?” Jack prompted.

         “I didn’t need to,” Fran said, more to the ceiling than to him.  “I know where they went.”

         “Then what’s the trouble?”

         “The mistress of this serving girl is the ever so troublesome Miss Rosalind Thorne.”

         “Who?”  Jack cocked a curious brow at her.

         Fran pushed herself upright.  “Rosalind Thorne is the guard dog of the London’s ton.  She specializes in getting our grand ladies out of whatever troubles they may have gotten themselves into.”

         “Oh!  That Miss Thorne!” said Jack.  “Rumor has it she’s the reason Russell Fullerton decided to head for foreign parts.”

          “That’s her,” said Fran.  “And do you remember the dead man found in Almack’s ballroom?  Or the dead woman found in the courtyard of Marlborough house?”

         Jack shook his head.

         “That’s because Miss Thorne was there to cover them over.”  Fran reached for the chipped tea pot and poured a cup of the dark brew.  “The woman is a veritable female sextant.  She’s made a career of burying the worst secrets of the great and not so good.  They all run to her when there’s some ugly business that might sully their snow-white reputations, and she makes it go away.”  Francesca snorted.  “Clever game.  I should have thought of it.”

         “And now this Miss Thorne has our little Cate?”

         “So it would seem.”  Francesca slurped the bitter tea.  “Give me a sandwich.”  She and Jack were in the habit of managing for themselves.  Even when times were good, the two of them kept few servants.  Servants watched, and they talked, and that would never do for such a household as theirs.

         Jack passed the plate, which was as chipped as the pot.

         “Do you think Miss Thorne knows what she’s got in Cate Levitton?” asked Jack.

         “If she doesn’t yet, she will soon.  It’s my understanding she’s on speaking terms with half the servants in London as well as their mistresses.”  Francesca bit the sandwich, then pulled back and stared at it. “Fish paste?”

         Jack shrugged.  “The best I could do today.” 

         Why is there never any money?  They’d brought it in by the fistful over the years, but it always seemed to vanish like a dream. 

         “Could it be that Cate’s aunt has hired this Miss Thorne?” Jack asked.

         “It could be.”  Francesca munched angrily.  “Sick or not, the old woman is still sharp.”

         Jack leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.  “Well, I agree this is an unwelcome turn of events.  But all is not necessarily lost.  How did the girl look when you left her?”

         “Bad.  Serves her right for trying to run out on me,” Fran added.  “From the look of her, she could peg out before she has a chance to say anything.”

         Jack spread his hands.  “So, we will watch the house, and hope for the best.”

         “That’s not going to be enough.”

         “All right.  Say it’s not.  What do you want to do?”

         Now, that is the question, isn’t it?  “If the girl lives, we’ve got to winkle her out of there,” Fran said slowly.  “She still owes us.”

         Jack nodded.  “And while you’re at it, you can remind her that your silence isn’t going to come cheap.” 

         As he spoke, Fran felt the first stirrings of hope.  Maybe they could turn this disaster to good account.  Blackmail was much more Jack’s trade than her own, but perhaps Cate could be turned into a steady source of income.  One they could draw on to get themselves a proper house, all turned out in comfort and style.

         And proper food.  She thought as she finished the limp sandwich. 

         Jack was getting to his feet.

         “Where are you off to?” she asked.

         He touched the side of his nose.  “Government job.  Stafford wants that radical MP watched.”

         “Make sure he pays you this time,” she said.

         “No fear, my love.  I’ll be getting more than enough to satisfy that pirate downstairs.” 

Jack shrugged into his overcoat.  “In the meantime, you can start working on how to bring Cate safely back into our little fold.”

         “Without Miss Thorne queering the pitch,” Fran muttered.  “That will be fun.”

         Jack leaned down and kissed her.

         “Cheer up, my dear.  We’ve been in far worse spots.  After all,” he grinned,  “How much trouble could one genteel spinster lady make for the likes of you and me?”