He ought to be your enemy. Remember what Grandpapa was used to say? Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.
She wasn’t sure about the origin of the quote, but thought it might be Homer. Someone had been suspicious about the Trojan Horse, as well they might. She had not been permitted to read Homer, of course. Grandmama had frowned on young girls reading anything more inflammatory than a book of sermons and Homer definitely counted as inflammatory.
The roof creaked loudly and she hurried to the window. She pushed the casement open and stepped back. A moment later Fitch swung through the window, to land catlike and dripping.
‘What the hell did his nibs want?’ he demanded. ‘Bit of a dolly roll?’
‘No,’ Lucy said. At least she hoped not if Fitch meant what she thought he meant.
Fitch snorted. ‘Right.’
‘He wants my father. I told you.’
The boy gave a shrug as he dripped his way over to the fire. ‘Just bet he does. But that ain’t to say he can’t chase a bit of tail on the side.’ He held out his hands to the blaze. ‘Nice. You buy fuel with the extra shilling?’
‘He bought it,’ Lucy admitted.
Fitch’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did he now? An’ you reckon—’
The stairs groaned under a heavy, uneven tread. The two of them froze.
‘Mrs Beattie,’ Lucy whispered, panic clutching at her insides.
Fitch made for the window, but voices floated up from the yard. ‘Damn!’ he muttered, hesitating.
‘The bedroom!’ Lucy said. ‘She’s no reason to go in there!’
Silent as a hunting cat, Fitch disappeared into the other room.
Lucy unbolted the door, then sat at the table and strove to appear unconcerned as the steps waddled over the complaining landing. The door rattled under the less-than-genteel knock.
‘Come in!’ She put on her best welcoming voice.
Mrs Beattie came in, eyes darting about. ‘Gorn, is he?’
‘Yes.’ As if you didn’t know! Very little got past the eagle-eyed landlady. ‘And I would prefer it if you did not permit strangers to wait for me.’
Mrs Beattie shrugged. ‘Called yestiddy, didn’ he? An’ this afternoon, lookin’ for yeh.’ She scowled. ‘Not but what I didn’ know he’d slipped back this evenin’. Not till he come lookin’ for coal.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Getting past Mrs Beattie unnoticed was nigh on impossible, but given the woman’s annoyance, apparently Cambourne had done it. ‘Can I help you with something?’
Mrs Beattie scowled. ‘In a manner of speakin’. You an’ me need to have a little talk about money, missy.’
Lucy’s stomach lurched. ‘The rent is due Friday. And I understood the coal was paid for.’
Mrs Beattie’s lips pursed, and Lucy could almost see her wondering if it was worth trying to gouge a little extra on the coal.
‘It was,’ the woman admitted and Lucy let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. ‘It’s the extra rent you an’ me got to talk about.’
‘Extra rent?’ The words felt thick on her tongue.
The landlady wiped greasy hands on her apron. ‘Aye. Yeh can bring a trick up here, long as yer quiet. But usin’ the rooms fer business, that’s extra rent.’
* * *
James strode back along the Strand towards Whitehall. He was going to be late to supper if he didn’t hurry. He kept an eye open for trouble and a hand on the loaded pistol in his coat pocket.
The streets aren’t safe around here at night.
Nor during the day for that matter. Not for a woman alone. And yet she traversed them daily. Unbidden, the image of her in boys’ clothes, slender legs encased in breeches, came to him. The threadbare, poorly fitting clothes had hidden everything. Perhaps he’d only known because he’d recognised the sound of her violin. Then he’d looked properly, seen the delicate line of her jaw, watched the slender hands coaxing magic from the violin. No one else had spotted the graceful girl hiding in the shabby suit. Even in the tavern. Ill-lit and crowded, she must have passed unnoticed. But it bothered him.
She ought not to be performing in the street.
So is she supposed to starve in ladylike silence to suit your notions of respectability?
Her father is damn well supposed to look after her! Not leave her earning pennies playing the fiddle.
And there was the rub. Her father. The man who owed him a thousand pounds. Who’d set the mysterious Kilby’s enforcers after Nick and left Lucy to shift for herself. The man he’d sworn to ruin.
‘Good God! What brings you down this way, Cambourne?’
James stared at the gentleman descending from a hackney cab. ‘Montgomery.’ He acknowledged the viscount with a cool nod. ‘A business matter.’ He didn’t bother to ask what brought Montgomery this way. The man had an unsavoury reputation for preferring the brothels down here. Brothels that were fussy neither about the age nor willingness of their girls. Or, it was whispered, how the customers treated them.
‘Business? Down here?’ Montgomery looked amused and slightly disdainful. ‘My man of affairs deals with anything to do with the City.’
The cab driver coughed. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, milor’—’
Montgomery turned, scowling. ‘Yes, yes, my good man. Really, such a fuss over a paltry shilling or two.’
The jarvey said nothing, but James saw the anxiety underlying the scorn in his eyes.
‘The man has his living to earn, Montgomery.’
Montgomery sighed, produced the fare from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Really, Cambourne. Next you’ll be telling me that you pay your tailor when he duns you!’
‘Not exactly,’ James said. ‘He doesn’t dun me, because I pay when he bills me.’
Montgomery looked pained. ‘How very respectable. Well, I’m off to partake in the joys of the flesh. I’ve a nice, fresh game pullet reserved. Care to come along? I’m sure we can find something for you.’ The smirk suggested he knew what the response would be.
James didn’t bother to hide his distaste. ‘Thank you. No.’ He glanced at the jarvey, who was easing his horse away from the curb. ‘I’m going back to Mayfair. Do you want the fare?’
The horse stopped at once. ‘Glad of it, guv,’ said the jarvey.
‘Thank you. I won’t hold you up.’ He swung open the door and stepped into the cab.
Montgomery
