hunting Hensleigh, or Hammersley, as Gerald knew him, I have some information for you.’
* * *
An hour later, James was still staring into the dancing fire, his mouth set in grim lines. Huntercombe had left thirty minutes ago, but he had no inclination to join the silken, perfumed crowd in the main rooms. Instead he poured another brandy and breathed the heady fumes before sipping.
Huntercombe had said Nick had been lucky. James’s fingers tightened on the heavy glass. That was an understatement. There was no longer any question of merely ruining Hensleigh—he was going to use him to get to this mysterious Kilby. And then he’d destroy both of them.
And Lucy? He hardened his resolve. He’d keep her safe, but Huntercombe’s story changed the game. Pursuing Lucy gave him the best of all reasons for continuing to call at those shabby lodgings...as long as everyone thought he was after the girl no one would question his visits.
But beyond that, he needed advice from someone who knew the shadowy world he had stumbled into.
* * *
Lucy dreamed. Dark grey eyes smiled at her with inexpressible tenderness. Strong arms held her secure against all threat of danger. Even held her warm and safe from the rain. She nestled a little deeper into the warmth and safety...until the drumming of the rain penetrated.
Literally.
Lucy woke to an icy trickle of water leaking right over her head. With a muttered curse she scrambled out of bed, dragging the thin, lumpy mattress and blankets out of the way.
She stared up at the sagging matchboard ceiling. God only knew where the water was getting in and it didn’t matter. What mattered was convincing Mrs Beattie to get it mended.
* * *
Five minutes later she was dressed, had the bed shoved against the wall and a bucket under the leak. Catching her cloak off the back of the door, she wrapped it around her and went into the other room. The curtain that hid her usual sleeping place was open, the pallet and blanket empty. The closed window suggested that Fitch had taken his leave by the stairs well before first light to avoid Mrs Beattie.
Lucy’s heart sank a little, but she pushed the melancholy aside and cut bread and cheese. The fire had gone out long ago. Briefly she considered relighting it, but dismissed the idea even though there was plenty of coal left. She needed to save it for when she was cold, not waste it on luxuries like toasted cheese. Munching, Lucy looked out of the window. Grey rain swept the yard, battering relentlessly at sagging walls and boarded-up windows.
Rain before seven, fine by eleven...
Armed with this unwarranted optimism, Lucy went downstairs to do battle with Mrs Beattie.
* * *
Mrs Beattie puffed up the stairs, grumbling that she’d see for herself. Confronted with the leak, she glared first at it and then at Lucy, as if wanting to blame her for it.
‘’Tain’t my fault,’ she said at last. ‘Dessay it’ll ease off when it ain’t raining.’
Lucy blinked. ‘I’m sure it will.’
Mrs Beattie squinted at the leak again. ‘Don’t reckon as it needs mending,’ she said at last. ‘’Course, you want to put a bucket there, you can.’
‘Of course, Mrs Beattie,’ said Lucy meekly. ‘Would you like me to tell Mr Wynn downstairs why his ceiling is leaking, or will you?’
Mrs Beattie scowled. Mr Wynn had lived in the rooms below for years. He paid his rent on time and extra to eat his dinner in the kitchen. Mrs Beattie would not want to offend him. ‘S’pose I can speak to someone about it. ’Tain’t my fault,’ she repeated, and stumped off, banging the door behind her.
* * *
When the bells of St Clement’s struck eleven the world still wept and a bitter wind whipped through every crack it could find and drove the rain ruthlessly against the window. There was no point going out, she told herself. She’d be lucky to earn a penny. No one would want to pause to listen to a fiddle in this weather, even if she could find a sheltered spot where her violin and bow would not be ruined.
Three shillings...
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