Candice Hern (5 page)

The only thing he could think to do was check on all the main coaching inns for signs of the runaways. Assuming they went straight from Charlotte Street, Simon decided that Holborn, with its many large coaching inns, would be the most likely area to begin the search.

His first stop was the Bell and Crown, a busy inn from which several Royal Mail coaches and heavy stage coaches regularly departed. He sorted through passenger lists, talked with ticket sellers, ostlers, and postillions, but no one had seen a couple matching the description of Belinda and Barkwith.

Discouraged at how long it had taken to discover nothing, Simon moved on to the George and Blue Boar with little hope of success.

He had none there, nor at the Green Dragon.

There were four dozen or more coaching inns in London. If he was to check with each one, it could take days. And while he frittered away the hours, Mrs. Tennant was no doubt waiting anxiously for his return, impatient to be on the road. Dash it all, he was not good at being a hero. He wanted nothing more than to be a white knight in shining armor for this lady in distress, but the chance of that happening was fading with every minute that passed.

He needed help.

Ten minutes later, Simon was at the Bow Street Office, asking to speak with Sir Richard Ford, the chief magistrate. The court was busy, and Sir Richard was involved in a witness examination, and so Simon was led through a maze of narrow corridors and made to wait in a small, ill-ventilated office.

Thankfully, his wait was no more than a quarter hour. Sir Richard entered, introduced himself, and took a seat behind the large, cluttered desk in the center of the room. “I assume you have a crime to report?”

“Not a crime, precisely,” Simon said. “At least, I hope not. Merely a bit of unpleasantness that I’m hoping one of your Runners can help me sort out.” He proceeded to tell what he knew of the supposed elopement of Geoffrey Barkwith and Belinda Chadwick.

“And what is your relation to those involved?” Sir Richard asked.

Simon cleared his throat nervously and hoped to heaven he would not be forced to explain about the Busybody. “I am a friend of the family,” he said. “I have been asked by the girl’s aunt to help find her niece and bring her home before her reputation is irreparably ruined.”

“I see. And so the aunt—Mrs. Tennant?—means to catch up with them before they reach Scotland. She wishes to put a stop to an over-the-anvil wedding?”

“She does not believe there will be any wedding.”

“Ah.” Sir Richard’s piercing gaze was unnerving, but Simon met him square in the eye. “You understand, Mr. Westover, that Bow Street resources are limited. The Runners are committed to the business of inquiry, toward the pursuit and arrest of criminals. We cannot become involved in every minor domestic crisis brought before us.”

“I understand,” Simon said. “But I also know that they are sometimes allowed to take on private inquiry work for anyone willing to pay. I am willing and able to pay, Sir Richard.”

The magistrate studied Simon for a long, awkward moment before replying. “I only have eight Runners available for outside service. I can spare one of them at the moment. It will cost you a guinea per day, plus fourteen shillings to cover expenses. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Sir Richard shouted for his clerk, and sent the young man to locate someone called Hackett and bring him to the office. “The man I recommend to you is a constable in the newly formed Horse Patrol. He is a seasoned inquiry officer and an excellent horseman. If anyone can track down your runaway couple, it is Hackett.”

As his name was mentioned, the man himself entered the office. He was a rotund, yet somehow compact man in late middle age with salt-and-
pepper hair and matching bushy eyebrows. He wore the distinctive uniform of the Horse Patrol: blue double-breasted coat with large yellow metal buttons, scarlet waistcoat, blue trousers, black boots with steel spurs, a black leather hat, and white gloves.

He removed the tall leather hat and acknowledged his superior with a sweeping bow. “Sir Richard.”

“Hackett, this gentleman is Mr. Westover. He has need of your services in a matter of private inquiry.”

Simon had risen from his chair, and the Runner turned toward him and swept another bow. “Obidiah Hackett, at your service, guv’ner.”

“Perhaps you should explain the situation once again,” Sir Richard said, “for the benefit of Hackett.”

And so Simon repeated his story. “I have determined,” he said, “that it will take more than one of us to inquire at every coaching inn. That is why I’ve come to Bow Street for help.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, guv’ner, but you’ll be needin’ more than a few interrogations of ticket sellers, I reckon,” Hackett said. “Once we ascertain their point o’ departure, we shall be obliged to follow their trail from inn to inn. Even if you was absopositively certain they’re headin’ to Gretna—and you ain’t—it is never wise to speculate on the precise itinerary of the fugitive. And I’d wager my fee they went by post. That mischievilacious sort don’t want a passel o’ nosy pas
sengers sitting alongside ’em.” The brindled brows rose and fell, punctuating his colorful speech with constant movement. “And considerin’ the matutinal commencement of their journey, it’ll take hard ridin’ to effect an interception. You say the aunt’ll be followin’ in a carriage, ready to take the girl home?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that poses a problesomatical complication, don’t it? If I’m ridin’ ahead, someone else has got to relay messages back to the aunt. A synchronized operation of such extraordinal precision takes two men, guv’ner. Two men at least, or there’s no guarantee of success.”

Simon looked to the magistrate. “Can you spare a second man?”

Sir Richard sighed. “Who did you have in mind, Hackett?”

“Mumby, sir. Between the two of us, I believe we can quickly resolve the situation.”

“All right.” The magistrate looked at Simon. “Hackett and Mumby for
two
guineas a day and fourteen shillings
each
for expenses.”

“Agreed,” Simon said, and wondered if this had been the plan all along.

“But let them do the work, Mr. Westover. They are both experienced investigators. I know you wanted to help, but—forgive me—you would just get in the way.”

“I understand,” Simon said. Nothing would please him more than to step aside and let the Run
ners do the job. “I will leave everything to Mr. Hackett and Mr. Mumby. Now, if—”

“Beggin’ your pardon once again, guv’ner,” Hackett said, “but I feel obligitated to acquaint you with a small detail Sir Richard has yet to mention. The reward.”

“Reward?”

“Aye, Mr. Westover. In a criminal case, you see, the Runner what brings in the perpetuator shares in the statutory reward. In a private case…well, the same sort of compensation is expected if the inquiry reaches a satisfactual conclusion. You take my meaning, guv’ner?”

“Yes, of course.” It was an effort not to smile at such twisted eloquence, even if it was extortion.

“And with two men on the job,” Hackett continued, “the reward would naturally have to accommodate an equitacious remuneration for each.”

Simon gave up the fight and flashed a smile. “I’m sure Sir Richard and I will come to an arrangement agreeable to all involved.”

Hackett returned the smile, his eyes crinkling up into mere slits beneath the bushy brows. “It’s a true gentleman you are, Mr. Westover.”

Simon reached inside his coat, pulled out a small leather purse, and shook out a few coins. “In the meantime, take this for today’s expenses.” He then pulled a calling card from his a waistcoat pocket, took a quill from Sir Richard’s desk, dipped it in the well, and scribbled a note on the back of the card. “Here is the direction of Mrs. Tennant, the
runaway girl’s aunt. Let her know the instant you discover any news of the elopement.”

“Right you are, guv’ner. We’ll have the young lady restored to the bosom o’ her fambly in no time.”

“I hope so, Mr. Hackett. I truly hope so.”

“
O
f course
you must accompany Mrs. Tennant on this journey.” Constance Poole’s steely glare skewered Mr. Westover to the spot. “There is no question about it. She cannot travel unescorted, and she certainly should not be forced to deal with a pair of Bow Street Runners on her own.”

Mr. Westover slanted a plaintive glance in Eleanor’s direction. She almost felt sorry for the man, but she needed his assistance. It appeared Constance was going to use her most autocratic manner—the one that brooked no challenge—to see that she got it.

After a good, long cry, Eleanor had confessed the entire situation to Constance, who agreed that the erstwhile lovers must be pursued. She also promised to put the full force of her own social standing
behind all efforts to hush up the affair and restore Belinda to a respectable position in society.

Eleanor was exceedingly grateful to have Constance’s unwavering support, and knew that if Belinda came out of this foolish adventure with her reputation intact, it would be due in large part to the formidable Mrs. Poole. Even so, Eleanor could not disguise her exasperation with her cousin over the subject of the Busybody. Constance had laughed until tears were streaming down her face. She was flabbergasted, and deliciously entertained, to learn that Mr. Simon Westover, and not his mother, was the Busybody. She found it so hilarious, in fact, that Eleanor had almost lost all patience with her.

One had to wonder what all those high sticklers of the
ton
would think to see the oh-so-proper Mrs. Poole chortling and snorting and guffawing in a most unladylike manner.

Worst of all, it had been very clear that Constance did not see the man’s perfidy in this business with Belinda. More amused than distressed, she did not seem to understand the seriousness of Belinda’s situation.

Until Mr. Westover had returned with a beautiful traveling chariot and the services of two Bow Street Runners. The news of Geoffrey Barkwith’s predawn departure had had a sobering effect on Constance. For Eleanor, the news only added fuel to her anger. She was not sure whose neck she most wanted to wring: Belinda’s, Barkwith’s, or the Busybody’s.

“Having been asked for your help in this sorry
business,” Constance said, “I can hardly credit your reluctance to join my estimable cousin in her crucial quest to save poor Belinda’s virtue.”

“My reluctance,” he said, “is due to fear of potential harm to Mrs. Tennant’s reputation if she were to be seen traveling alone with me in a closed carriage. Surely someone else could accompany her. Perhaps you—”

“Impossible.”

Eleanor stepped in to the fray. “My cousin is in a delicate condition and cannot travel any great distance.”

As she expected, Mr. Westover’s face flushed scarlet. Constance covered her mouth to keep from smiling.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Poole,” he said. “Someone else, then? Anyone else.” The poor man looked positively stricken. “It simply cannot be seen as proper for me to go along.”

Constance waved her hand in a casual dismissal. “You are too nice in your sensibilities, sir. My cousin is a respectable widow. No one will dare question her actions.”

“Yes, but—”

“Besides, all concern at the moment must be for Belinda. Her reputation is much more fragile than Mrs. Tennant’s.”

“Yes, but—”

“Under the circumstances, Mr. Westover, I do not believe you have a choice. There is, after all, that little matter of the Busybody.”

His head snapped toward Eleanor and his eyes blazed in sudden anger. A tiny knot of guilt momentarily seized her stomach. She had given her word, and lost very little time in breaking it. “Forgive me, Mr. Westover, but it was necessary to reveal your secret to Mrs. Poole. She believed your mother to be the Busybody. She knew I had gone to confront her at Westover House and—”

“And I coerced the information from her,” Constance said. “You must not blame my cousin. It was all my doing, but I assure you that your secret is safe with me. It will be, that is, so long as you agree to accompany Eleanor.”

She had him there, and he knew it. Another bit of blackmail. The look in his eyes suggested fear that he might be paying for his folly for a long, long time. Though the set of his jaw hinted at restrained anger, resignation marked the slight loosening of his rigid stance.

He would go with her.

“Besides,” Constance went on, “I will feel much more confident of my cousin’s safety if you are with her.”

The twinkle in her cousin’s eye sent a chill down Eleanor’s spine. In that instant, it became uncomfortably clear that Constance had other reasons for wanting Mr. Westover to accompany her. Dear heaven, what was she thinking? Surely she did not believe that being thrown into close quarters together would foster some sort of romance between them? Did she truly believe that forced proximity
would cause Mr. Westover to fall in love with her? She could not possibly think that Eleanor would ever be interested in such a man.

What an idiotic notion. What a foolish, lame-brained, nonsensical idea.

Constance flashed a sheepish smile, and Eleanor knew without question that her cousin had lost her mind.

“I bow to your judgment, ladies,” Mr. Westover said. “I will ask one of the grooms to return to Westover House and have my man pack a valise for me. I would do so myself, but I prefer to be on hand if the Runners arrive with news. If you will excuse me.” He made a slight bow and left the room. The echo of his brisk tread on the stairs sounded suspiciously like a man running for his life.

As soon as he was gone, Constance collapsed in laughter. “Oh, Ellie! He is adorable! Did you see how he blushed?”

“He is
not
adorable.”

“Oh, but he
is
. I cannot believe this is the horrid man you described. I expected a frail wisp of a man with his head in the clouds and inkstains on his fingers. How is it you never mentioned what a tall, handsome fellow he is?”

“I never mentioned it because it isn’t so.”

“Ellie.”

“All right. He is rather tall.”

Constance grinned from ear to ear, smug as the cat that swallowed the canary, and her brown eyes
sparkled with merriment. “He is tall and slender and beautifully dressed, with a face that might have been fashioned by a classical sculptor. Don’t be a fool, my dear girl, just because the man has a charming tendency to blush. He is an extremely attractive gentleman—
extremely
attractive—who will be in your pocket for the next few days at least. You would do well not to waste such a prime opportunity.”

“I knew it!” Eleanor pounded the arm of the settee hard enough to raise a cloud of dust. “I knew you had lost your mind. This pregnancy is having a strange effect on you, Constance. You’ve lost touch with reality. You must have done, or you would never even begin to think what I know you are thinking.”

Constance giggled like a naughty schoolgirl. “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

“Yes, I do. You’ve got some sort of dim-witted idea of a romance. Lord, you’re as bad as he is.”

“What?” Constance leaned forward, curiosity crackling like electricity in her eyes. “Ellie, has Mr. Westover expressed a romantic interest?”

Eleanor groaned. “Don’t be ridiculous. I only meant that you’re as much a starry-eyed romantic as he is. Neither of you appreciates the seriousness of the situation. Instead, he’s spinning dreams of love for Belinda and you’re imagining some sort of romance for me. Crackbrained, that’s what you are, the both of you. Blast it all, Constance, what I need right now is clear-thinking, level-headed common
sense directed at the problem at hand. It serves no purpose to twirl off into these irrelevant, useless, and thoroughly annoying fantasies.”

“Don’t be so sure it is all fantasy, my dear. I saw how the man looked at you. Heavens, he could hardly keep his eyes off you. He is
interested
, Ellie. It would do you no harm to show a bit of interest yourself.”

Eleanor clicked her tongue in exasperation.

“Honestly, Constance, can you really imagine I’d be attracted to a romantic fool who just may have helped lead my niece down the garden path? I’m furious with the man, for heaven’s sake, not smitten by him. Besides, I have always preferred dark-haired men, and his hair is practically red.”

Constance only just managed to stifle a crack of laughter as Mr. Westover walked in. He was not alone.

“Good news,” he said. “I have just intercepted our two gentlemen from Bow Street, on their way to report a remarkably swift success.”

Eleanor rose to greet the Runners, but was distracted by sounds of choking. She turned to find Constance looking near apoplexy as she tried not to laugh. Every aspect of this sorry business seemed a great source of amusement to her odious cousin.

She could hardly blame Constance this time, however. The men standing just inside the doorway, though dressed in nearly identical uniforms, were as different as it was possible to be. One was
short, round, and bandy-legged, with bushy hair and eyebrows. The other was well over six feet tall, thin as a rail, and spindly-legged, with pale, limp hair hanging over his collar.

Eleanor could not help thinking that with the somewhat bowed legs of the one and the skinny knocked-knees of the other, they appeared to spell out
ox
as they stood together. It was no wonder Constance had buried her face in a chair cushion, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

But they were here on serious business, and she hoped they would believe Constance to be overcome with emotion.

Mr. Westover lifted an arm in her direction. “Gentlemen, this is Mrs. Tennant. It is her niece, Miss Belinda Chadwick, who has gone missing.”

The round one stepped forward and swept a creditable bow. “Obidiah Hackett at your service, ma’am. And this here is Francis Mumby.”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. You have news of my niece?”

“That we do,” Hackett said. “Mumby here has a most superior and prodigitous brain, you see. Unique among the brotherhood of Bow Street. He approaches an inquiry real cerebralistical, like. In this case, with an expedicity beyond all expectations, he located the inn what hired out a post chaise and four to Mr. Barkwith shortly afore dawn this mornin’. And ascertained, with equal perspicasticalness, that a young lady matchin’ the description of your niece was in his company.”

Somewhere in all that eccentric verbosity—more fuel for Constance’s traitorous mirth—was news that brought Eleanor a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” she said. “At least we have somewhere to begin. What else did you learn? Do you know which direction they took?”

“Mumby here says they was headed north on the Islington road.”

“All right, then,” Eleanor said. “Let us be off. There is no more time to waste.”

It was decided that the two Runners would leave immediately to ride ahead toward Islington and begin the leapfrog relay that would track the runaways and send word back to Mr. Westover.

A message would be left at the Dolphin in Islington, giving instructions for the next stop. Eleanor saw Mr. Westover slip a money pouch to Hackett, and was reminded how much she would owe him when this was over. She would simply have to remember all the trouble he’d caused with imprudent advice to an impressionable young girl. Weighed in the balance, she figured he might still be found wanting.

His back ached and his legs felt cramped, but Simon kept himself squashed up close against the door of the carriage. Of course, he was being ridiculous. It would not kill him, or her, if he happened to brush his thigh against hers. But if he did so, he was afraid he might be tempted to keep his
leg pressed against hers, to feel the warmth of her flesh through the fabric of her pelisse—and have his face slapped for his impertinence.

Dash it all, how was he to endure the long hours, even days, sitting next to this glorious creature, so passionately driven to rescue her young charge? With the fire of determination and urgency lighting her green eyes and tinting her soft cheeks. And the occasional hint of anxiety when she absently chewed her lower lip, causing the full upper lip to grow more deliciously plump.

It was more than flesh and blood could bear.

He began to consider once again the idea of an ode to her upper lip.

Or should that be cherries? Or plums? Or perhaps pomegranates? No, nothing rhymed with pomegranate. He would have to give the object more study, though he was quite certain that
perfect
and
soft
and
delectable
would figure in the verse.

Mrs. Tennant had been chewing her lip more often since picking up the Runners’ messages in Islington, then Highgate, and then Whetstone. The two unlikely-looking detectives were certainly earning their pay, and making good time on horse
back. But the fugitives were still at least twelve hours ahead of them. If they were lucky, Simon figured they might catch up with them in time for the wedding breakfast.

“Oh, dear. Do you think it’s going to rain?”

Mrs. Tennant’s voice pulled Simon from his reverie. He looked out the window and up at the gray sky. “Yes, it does look as if it will rain. But not quite yet, I should think. Certainly not before we have stopped for the night.”

“Oh, but we can’t stop anytime soon. Assuming there is a message at Chipping Barnet, we can continue for several more hours yet. We are so far behind them, we must go on for as long as we can.”

“Yes, I am afraid they are at least a half day ahead of us.” Simon watched her teeth sink into her lower lip once again. Dragging his attention from her mouth, he concentrated instead on her obvious concern. “I fear, Mrs. Tennant, that you must be prepared for us to be too late.”

She turned to look at him through narrowed eyes. “Oh, I am quite certain we will be too late, Mr. Westover. Once they stop for the night, I have no doubt it will be too late for Belinda.”