thing, my lord—there’s a young woman living there from what I could find out…a Mrs Daventry …
Good Lord! Julian stood at the top of Christmas Steps and wondered if he was insane even thinking of descending the alley. Modbury had thought so, and Julian could see his point. The alley was positively medieval, and so steep someone had actually built steps. According to Modbury it led down to the old quay, and at least once had housed the sort of establishments sailors on shore leave frequented—brothels and taverns.
You can’t visit, my lord!
The hell he couldn’t. Gripping his umbrella, Julian started down the slippery steps. There were two possibilities. Either Daventry kept a whore down here—it was not unknown for a woman to use her protector’s name—or he was already married. On the whole, Julian thought a conveniently distant wife more likely; a mistress was only convenient if she were close enough to bed regularly. Either, however, would settle Lissy’s idealistic infatuation, if a description of the alley wasn’t enough.
It was dark in the alley and a dank chill closed in, with a reek of cabbage, fish and sour humanity on the breeze rattling the shop signs. The old, timbered houses with their cantilevered upper storeys loomed over the street, holding light and fresh air at bay. A couple of seedy-looking taverns were the only hard evidence of the street’s former reputation. There were few people about, but suspicious eyes followed him from doorways and windows. He consulted the address Modbury had given him—there, on the opposite side, just before the next set of steps between a fishmonger and an apothecary, was the house he sought.
A one-eyed, moth-eaten cat sheltering in the lee of the building flattened its ears and hissed, slinking away as he approached the open door.
A voice was raised.
‘Now be sensible, missy. I got Mr Daventry’s letter and it says, right here, “the house and all its contents”! See? All its contents. Not “all its contents if no one else happens to want them”. So—’
‘Well, I assume you’re not planning to put me on the auction block along with my clothes and hairbrush as part of the contents!’ came another voice. A prim, schoolmistressy voice a man would think twice about annoying.
The voice went on. ‘And if you can make that distinction, then you should be capable of exempting the rest of my personal property.’ Irony gave way to anger. ‘And since Mr Daventry is my brother and not my husband, he owns neither them nor me!’
Blast! Probably not wife, then. Mistress remained a possibility…
The angry woman continued, ‘When you return next week, you may have the house and all its contents because I shall have removed myself and my possessions to lodgings!’
Through the open door Julian could now see a large, beefy- looking man, in the old-fashioned knee breeches and frieze coat of a respectable tradesman. He had his back half-turned, but there was no mistaking the rising annoyance in the set of his jaw.
‘Now see here, missy!’ he growled, all attempt at reason abandoned. ‘’Twas unfortunate I misunderstood how things were, but there’s no call to take that tone! I’ll be calling in the sheriff and bailiffs if you remove more than your clothes and hairbrush. Everything, the letter says, and I’ve made a list, I have!’ He brandished a piece of paper, presumably in his unseen opponent’s face. ‘If aught’s missing, I’ll have the law on you!’
It was none of his business, Julian told himself. Common sense dictated that he remain out of any legal brangle between Daventry and his sister. Only this wasn’t Daventry…and exactly what situation had the man misunderstood?
The woman spoke again. ‘You may leave, Goodall. I suggest you clarify your instructions with my brother. In the meantime my solicitor will call upon you.’
Goodall, far from being abashed, took a step forward, presumably towards the woman.
‘Are you threatening me, missy?’ His voice had turned thoroughly unpleasant.
‘Leave!’ Sister or not, the undercurrent of fear in her tone flung Julian into action. Three swift strides took him over the threshold.
‘Goodall!’ he rapped out.
The man swung around. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘The lady told you to leave,’ said Julian coldly. ‘As an acquaintance of Daventry, I suggest you do so before I speak with the magistrates on his behalf about entering this lady’s home and harassing her. Out.’
He strode past Goodall with scarcely a glance at the woman. All he could see was that she was of medium height, bespectacled and clad in dull brown. His attention was on the aggrieved Mr Goodall, and he deliberately interposed himself between them.
Goodall flushed. ‘Now, see here—’
‘Out.’ He delved in his pocket and pulled out his cardcase. ‘As for who I am…’ He took out a card and handed it to Goodall ‘…I’m Braybrook.’
He gestured to the door and Goodall, his face now as pale as it had been red, swallowed.
‘I’m sure…that is…I didn’t mean—’
‘Out!’
Goodall went.
Julian closed the door and turned to receive the heartfelt gratitude of his damsel in distress—
‘I have no idea who you may be, but you will oblige me by also leaving.’
Frost glittered at him from behind unbecoming spectacles. And there was something odd about her direct gaze, something faintly disconcerting—as though she had the ability to see straight through. Right now he wouldn’t have wagered a penny on her liking what she saw.
As for what he saw—the woman was a quiz. Her hair colour remained a mystery under an all-enveloping and extremely ugly cap. As did whatever figure she might possess beneath a gown remarkable only for its sheer shapelessness and being the drabbest brown he’d ever seen.
Any lingering hope of her being Daventry’s doxy faded. No self-respecting doxy would wear the gown, let alone the spectacles.
And she faced him with her chin up, her jaw set, and her mouth a flat, determined line.
‘No gratitude, ma’am?’ he drawled.
Those queerly penetrating eyes narrowed. ‘I’m reserving it until I know who you are, and why you entered my home without my leave,’ was the icy rejoinder.
‘Well, you won’t discover either of those things if you kick me out into the street,’ he pointed out with what he freely acknowledged to be unforgivable logic.
It seemed she concurred. One small fist clenched and the pale cheeks flushed. Otherwise her control held.
‘Very well. Who are you?’
He supposed she could not be blamed for being suspicious. He took out his card case and extracted another card, holding it towards her.
There was a moment’s hesitation before she moved, and then it was warily,
