Elizabeth Rolls – In Debt To The Earl (страница 5)

His gaze fell on a narrow door on the other side of the room. Had he been so intent on the girl he’d nearly missed that? Without a word he rose and strode across, shoved it open and looked in.

‘He’s not here!’ The girl’s voice was furious now. No fear, just raw fury. He had to admire that.

A neatly made bed, washstand and small chest were the only furnishings. He closed the door and turned back to the girl.

‘Are you satisfied now?’ she demanded. ‘Or would you like to look under the bed?’

‘One bed, ma’am?’ he asked. ‘And where do you sleep?’ Talk about stupid! He’d damn near believed her!

Her eyes spat green fire in an absolutely white face. She stormed across the room. ‘It’s none of your business, but—’ Reaching the far corner he’d assumed held a chamber pot, she flung back the curtain across it.

His shocked gaze took in a thin, narrow pallet on the floor, covered with a totally inadequate blanket. A folded nightgown lay on top of the blanket and with it what looked like a violin case.

It convinced him as nothing else could have. Any man with this girl for a mistress would have her warming his bed, not shivering there in the corner.

‘You sleep there?’ It was all he could find to say. What sort of man let his daughter sleep in a draughty corner on a pallet that would scarcely do for an unwanted dog, while he took the relatively comfortable bed?

She jerked the curtain back into place. ‘As you see.’ Her cheeks were crimson. ‘I don’t care what you think of me,’ she went on, ‘and I doubt you care what I think of you, but you have forced your way into my home, insulted me in every conceivable way—I would prefer it if you left. I will tell my father you called.’

‘But you won’t tell me where he is.’ Why would she? The man is her father, for God’s sake. Even if he doesn’t look after her.

‘I don’t know where he is.’

He cocked his head. There was something there in her voice. Fear?

‘Would you tell me if you did know?’ he asked gently.

‘He owes you money, doesn’t he?’

He stiffened. No, she wasn’t stupid. But neither was he. If he told her the truth, what were the odds that he’d lose his quarry? ‘So quick to assume the worst, Miss Hensleigh?’ he said. ‘The boot might be on the other foot.’

She stared. ‘You owe him money?’

He hesitated only a moment. ‘Is that so surprising?’ It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t said outright that he owed Hensleigh money. His conscience squirmed regardless.

She looked at him uncertainly. ‘I see. Well, I still don’t know where he is or when he will return. But if you leave your name I will let him know that you called.’

And the instant Hensleigh heard his name, he’d bolt again. However, at least he could be fairly sure now that she really didn’t know where her father was. ‘Remington,’ he said. Another half-truth. He quashed his conscience’s mutterings with the reminder that neither she nor her father had seen fit to share their real name, either. Remington was his family name, after all. Unless she described him, hopefully he’d think it had been Nick. No one would view Nick as a threat.

‘Very well, Mr Remington. Good day to you.’

‘You really don’t know where he’s gone?’ James pressed. ‘Your landlady mentioned that she hadn’t seen him for several days.’

Scarlet washed into her cheeks again. ‘No. At least, not exactly. He may be with a...a friend.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘There is a woman he visits, but—’

‘What?’

Her chin went up. ‘A mistress. I thought you knew all about mistresses!’

He cleared his throat. ‘I know what a mistress is for!’ It was the concept of a father who didn’t keep that sort of knowledge from his daughter that startled him. And the concept of a daughter who didn’t pretend ignorance of such things. Although he supposed under the circumstances that would rank with stupidity.

‘Quite.’ Her voice spat scorn. ‘I don’t know her name, or where she lives. If you knew he wasn’t here, why bother coming up?’

She was quick enough, he’d grant her that. ‘Because your landlady might be mistaken, or you might have known where he was.’ He rose. ‘I’ll call again, Miss Hensleigh.’

There was no point staying any longer. He had as much information as he was going to get on this visit.

* * *

James reached the bottom of the stairs without falling through them. The stench of cabbage and fish had gained ground while he’d been upstairs. Or perhaps it was the contrast with the beeswax. Plain beeswax. Mama had always insisted on a touch of lemon in the furniture polish...his grandmother had favoured lavender.

There was no reason, logical or otherwise, why a girl wielding a beeswax-scented polishing rag should interfere with his plans to destroy Hensleigh. He was not responsible for the fate of Hensleigh or his daughter.

He stepped out into Frenchman’s Yard. A shabbily dressed man snored fitfully in a doorway, an empty bottle beside him, while several ragged boys played some sort of game with pebbles. One of them eyed him hopefully. ‘Got a copper, yer worship?’

Aware that it might be a monumental error of judgement—men had probably been mugged for less—James fished out a sixpence and held it up. ‘Information first.’

The sight of this untold wealth had the attention of all the boys. They crowded around and James kept his other hand in his pocket, firmly on his purse.

‘Hensleigh. Anyone seen him recently?’

The boys exchanged glances. One of them, clearly the leader from the way he stood forward a little, spoke. ‘The cap’n, you mean?’

James let that pass. ‘Yes.’

The boy shrugged. ‘Not for three, mebbe four days. Lu bain’t seen ’im, neither.’

‘Lu?’

The boy’s eyes narrowed and he glanced up at the window of Hensleigh’s lodgings. ‘You was up there with her long enough. She’s ’is daughter. Lucy.’

‘Right.’ If she was anything else, these boys would know it. And then there was the hair. Hensleigh’s fading ginger hair must once have been red. Those few tendrils drifting from the confines of the girl’s mob cap had shimmered copper.

‘Fitch might know where the cap’n is.’ One of the smaller boys spoke up. ‘Fitch’s real friendly with Lu. Gives ’er money sometimes, ’e does.’

Without looking, the leader cuffed the boy on the head. ‘Stow it.’

‘Fitch?’

But the small boy took one look at the other boy’s face and shook his head.

The leader shrugged. ‘Just a cove.’

James reminded himself that it was none of his business if Miss Hensleigh was real friendly with anyone. Even a cove who gave her money sometimes. It happened. Yet in his pocket, his hand balled to a fist.

From above the sound of a violin being tuned floated down. James listened, arrested as first the G string was tuned, then the D and A in turn were coaxed into harmony. Finally the E string. A moment’s silence and then the instrument sang, a lilting, dancing tune that somehow brightened the dingy yard even though the sun sulked behind its gloomy defences.

Dragging his attention away from the music, James tossed the original sixpence to the leader, plucked another out of his pocket and gave it to the small boy who had mentioned Fitch.

‘If anyone does know where the captain is, I’d be interested.’

‘Took a bag, ’e did,’ volunteered another boy. ‘Saw ’im wiv it right down on Fleet, by the Bolt.’

‘Did you see him get on a coach?’ James asked. The Bolt-in-Tun, on Fleet Street, was the departure point for some of the Bath coaches. Bath would be a very likely destination for a card sharp looking to recoup his losses.

The boy hesitated, finally shrugged. ‘Nah. Just happened to see ’im there. Wasn’t that int’rested, was I?’

James fished out another sixpence and flicked it to him. ‘Apparently not. And you’re also clever enough not to tell me what you think I want to hear. Thank you.’

The lad nipped the coin out of the air with startling dexterity. ‘Could nick down there an’ ask around if you like, guv.’

James considered that. ‘No. Never mind. Does the name Kilby mean anything to you?’

The boys went very still and furtive glances were cast at their leader. He shrugged. ‘Nah. Never heard of ’im.’

James nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Fairly sure he had just been lied to, he strolled out of the yard and headed west, towards Fleet Street and the Bolt-in-Tun. The lilt of Lucy Hensleigh’s fiddle remained with him long after it had been drowned by distance and the rumble of wheels and hooves.

* * *

Lucy played until the light slid away from the window, leaving her in the shadows. Wrapped safely in the music’s enchantment, she could pretend for a little while, hold out the terrifying reality of her life. She played from memory. He had sold her music months ago, along with her last three books. The only reason he hadn’t sold the violin as well was that she had been out with it when he came home looking for things to sell. Slowly she let the spell unravel, knowing that even music could not keep out the world for ever. Shivering a little, she set the instrument back in its case and closed the window. She had practised for long enough and Fitch would be along soon.

Her stomach growled.

If only Papa had been home when Mr Remington called! Then they’d have some money. Money for the rent, money for food. Unless he owed it all to someone else. Over the four years that she’d been with him after Grandma’s death the gentleman’s code of so-called honour had been drummed into her—debts of honour were paid first, no matter if your daughter was hungry and you weren’t using your real name.