Barbara Metzger (15 page)

“Aha!” was all Ripken had to say.

Mrs. Dawson turned on him, brandishing her broom. “She’s at my daughter’s house, teaching my grandchildren their letters. What’s untoward about that?”

Dimm inched nearer the fire, keeping a wary eye on Mrs. Dawson, who looked like she wanted to sweep them away like specks of dirt that dared mess up her parlor. “Nothing untoward, ma’am, we just need to speak to the young woman.”

“Then why do you and this jackanapes have a warrant to search her room?”

“Well, ma’am, it’s like this....” Dimm proceeded to tell her about the dead thief, the missing jewels, and the reward, watching for her reaction.

She was outraged. “Miss Kathlyn has nothing to do with anything like that. She’s a dear, decent girl, and I’ll challenge anyone who says otherwise, so there.”

“Decent?” Ripken said with a sneer to his lip. “A female of easy virtue might get up to any number of indecent, even criminal acts.”

Nanny advanced on him, the broom handle pointing like a spear at his midsection. “I’ll have you know Miss Kathlyn is a good girl, and I won’t hear any talk of easy virtue in my house, young man. She might have her own reasons for tricking herself out like a Gypsy, but it couldn’t be helped, with no one to look after the chick but my lad.”

“Your lad?” Dimm shoved Ripken into a corner, out of Mrs. Dawson’s range.

“Master Courtney, Viscount Chase to you, sirrah, him what I gave my own milk when he was an infant. I’ve known and loved him ever since, and I won’t hear a word against him either. Gave me this house to live in, he did, and makes sure I don’t have a worry in the world.”

Ripken couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “How many other pieces of muslin does he bring here?”

Nanny poked him in the chest until he was backed against the mantel, the back of his trousers perilously close to the grate. “Your mama would be ashamed, young man. Go on, go look, and then get out of my house.”

Miss Partland’s room was a bit messy, especially compared to the rest of the house, but Mrs. Dawson explained that her maid Lizzie was home, sick. While Ripken searched the clothespress, Dimm noticed that there were no combs or brushes on the dresser, but Nanny explained that away, too: Kathlyn had such long hair, she just braided it in the morning for the children, intending to do it up proper over at Meg’s, in case his lordship was taking her out later. What Nanny couldn’t rationalize to herself, and wouldn’t think of discussing with the Runners, was the fact that Kathlyn’s warm robe was missing, too, and her valise.

Ripken kept muttering about all the expensive fripperies in the drawers, and Nanny kept glaring at him for what he was thinking. “You can get your mind out of the gutter, you young twit. Nothing like that goes on under my roof, by all that’s holy. Because missy’s got no family to speak of and has to earn her keep doesn’t mean she’s sold her virtue. And Master Courtney wouldn’t bring his fancy piece here. I hope I taught the boy better than that. She’s doing him a favor, is all, going about with him, and it’s little minds what think anything else. Little minds and little men.”

They didn’t find any jewels.

There was nothing for it but to go out in the cold. “We’ll go talk with Miss Partland at your daughter’s then, ma’am, if you give us her direction.”

“You won’t find her. Miss Kathlyn takes the children to the park so my Meg can rest. She’s feeling poorly and I won’t have her disturbed. You don’t have a warrant to go
there,
do you?”

Dimm sighed. This line of work was a lot harder when folks hated them. Nipperkin had a lot to learn. “Do you mind if we wait here for her?”

“Yes, I do.” Nanny needed to send for his lordship on the instant. “I have a great many chores and then my daughter’s household to see to. You’ve had your search, and your unlicked cub’s got his pleasure touching a lady’s dainties. Nothing in that bit of paper you showed me gives you the right to litter up my sitting room.”

“We’re only trying to do our job, ma’am, protecting the populace. That includes you and Miss Partland. She could be in danger, you know.”

“Go on with you. Who’d ever want to hurt a sweet child like that?”

“The Diamond Mine gang, ma’am, them as stole the jewels, or what’s left of them. They’ve been seen around.” He consulted his Occurrence book. “A short, ugly-tempered fellow, a taller one what’s missing part of his ear, and a yellow-haired female. Don’t suppose you’ve seen any of them lurking around the neighborhood?”

“Heavens, no!”

“Well, they want the missing stones, too, so’s they can cut them up and sell them. Killed their own ringleader over them, shot a guard. Now, if we know Miss Partland’s here, so do they.”

Nanny sank down on the sofa, her hand over her heart. “That poor dearie. What should we do?” Forgotten was her intention of sending for the viscount or throwing these public servants out. “You have to keep her safe.”

“That chore’d be a mite easier if you let us wait here and talk to the closest thing to a witness we have, see if she remembers anything else about Harry Miner ... or her aunt’s jewels.”

“Her aunt?”

“Lady Bellamy—it was her husband what brought the Bellamy Diamonds back from India—was sister to Kathlyn Partland’s mum. Their da was Lord Fowler.”

“I knew our Kitty was Quality! Why, that changes everything.”

“Doesn’t help find the jewels or catch the criminals, ma’am,” Dimm said while Ripken looked behind the sofa cushions. All he found was Wolfie’s latest bone, which didn’t sit too well with Wolfie. Mrs. Dawson patted the old dog on the head, then she patted Dimm on the shoulder. “You’ll work it out, dearie, I know you will.” Next she went off to the kitchen to fix them tea while they waited. Dimm could swear he heard her singing, and right after him telling her a band of cutthroats could be landing on her doorstep. He shook his head. He wasn’t going to understand women—ever, not even on the day he died.

He’d bet his good-luck piece that Mrs. Dawson wasn’t any procuress, though, and this wasn’t any house of iniquity. What kind of bordello kept a smelly old dog to stain the carpet? It was a kind heart she had, the viscount’s nanny, noticing the pipe in his pocket and inviting him to light it in the house. Even his darling Cora, God keep her, made him smoke in the garden. Maybe that’s why his joints ached so now. Mrs. Dawson asked about his family, too, and they laughed in agreement that surely grandchildren were a gift from heaven, and it was heaven when they went home to their mamas.

Dimm couldn’t help comparing this rounded, gray-haired woman in her neat apron to that veiled widow in the park who’d been dropping her handkerchief for him to pick up. Mrs. Dawson was too intelligent to ask an old gaffer like him to bend down so far. The widow was younger by decades, more shapely, more seductive. Dimm bet she couldn’t find her way around a kitchen.

Nanny brought out a tray heaped with gingerbread and apple butter to go on top, poppy-seed cake, and macaroons. Any woman who cooked this good had to be telling the truth.

Chapter Sixteen

It was an ill wind that blew no one any good, but this one did Kathlyn a favor. It blew snow, sleet, and rain hard enough to cancel that day’s racing. Algie and Woody wouldn’t take her home, but they did hire her the finest bedroom at the Pegasus Inn and a maid to wait on her. The viscount would have naught to complain of in their treatment of his property, they assured each other. Of course, the two did expect Miss Kitty to join them in their private parlor for dinner and to study the racing forms for the next day’s races.

She’d be wasting her breath to tell the viscount’s bacon-brained friends that it was not proper for her to sit alone with two unattached males. They thought she’d done a lot more than sit alone with Lord Chase. For his sake, and for her given word, Kathlyn could not disabuse them of the notion that she was a fallen woman. She did not have to conduct herself like one, however.

“I am sorry, gentlemen, but I cannot join you for dinner. I have no appropriate attire.” She fingered the shabby fabric of her old gray kerseymere, the only one of her old gowns that she’d saved, to play in with the children.

“Thought of that, Miss Kitty,” Algie said proudly. “Brought along some of m’sisters’ frocks. The brats have so many, they won’t miss a few.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t—”

“Then we won’t change for dinner either, eh. Woody? Be a pleasure, not getting rigged out like a Tulip for once. Of course, we’ll all have to sup upstairs in your room then, so we can plan our strategy for the races.”

Put like that, Kathlyn allowed as how she’d change and meet them downstairs in an hour.

The serving girl who brought her hot water and stayed to do up her buttons refused to remain with Kathlyn in the private parlor, not even for the coins Kathlyn offered.

“Gents in the taproom’ll pay a lot more’n that, iffen you get my drift.” Her wink said she believed Kathlyn understood very well. “Onct you decide which of your bucks to have, you can send t’other one to me. But if your boyo gets out of hand, you call for Sal. He won’t put up with rough stuff, iffen it disturbs the other customers. A’course, you look like you can handle them two. Have ‘em eatin’ out of the palm of your hand in that rig.” She made a face at her own black skirt and dingy apron, then waited impatiently for Kathlyn to follow her to the private parlor.

Giving one last look in the small, blackened mirror, Kathlyn shrugged and followed. Everyone thought she was a whore. Now she looked the part.

Algie’s sisters were debutantes, sixteen and seventeen years of age, so their gowns were virginal white, with ribbons and rosebuds, ruffles, and ruched hems. Naturally Algie hadn’t thought to bring the lace petticoats that went under a scalloped hem, so Kathlyn’s ankles showed. That wasn’t all that showed. Those teenaged sisters were girls, not yet reaching their mature proportions. Kathlyn was a woman. Most definitely a woman.

Algie turned red. Woody couldn’t speak at all, and the manservant bringing dinner walked into the door on his way out. Kathlyn hoped Lord Chase would be proud of his handiwork.

“Is that hot rum punch I see, gentlemen? Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve ever tasted any.” Since she couldn’t change the situation—or anyone’s mind—Kathlyn decided she may as well enjoy herself for the one night. Tomorrow Miss Kathlyn Partland would find her way back to London even if she had to walk, in her own gray kerseymere, thank you, but for tonight she was Kitty Parke, mistress to the most attractive, generous man in London. She hadn’t a worry in the world, not her future, not her nonexistent reputation, and not the amorous advances of these two gambling fools. Their own sort of gentlemanly honor protected her, belonging as she did to their good friend Courtney. So all she had to do was eat, drink, pray the roads didn’t get washed away, and keep these two paperskulls from losing their patrimonies at the track on the morrow.

An hour passed while they explained the nuances of all the information given on a tout sheet, then she was supposed to pick the winners. Kathlyn hadn’t a clue.

“Here, have another cup of punch. It’ll help you relax. Now, what do you see?”

“I see the walls whirling around.”

“Blister it, Woody, you’ve given her too much to drink.”

But Woody was consulting the racing forms. There was a Whirligig in the first, but the gelding was racing against Stonewall. “Go on. Kitty. Close your eyes, maybe something else will come to you.”

What came to her was the image of a tall, fair-haired man with a limp, and a dimple when he smiled. She’d give anything to have him smile at her right now, to have his eyes light up at the sight of her in this outlandishly revealing garment. “Chase,” she blurted, then clapped her hands over her mouth. Oh dear, now she was thinking like a fallen woman, too.

“Tagg in the second, good job, Kitty!”

But nothing else came after that, no intuition and no images of dashing Gypsy gentlemen, because Kathlyn refused to entertain such forward thoughts. Instead she was close to drifting off to sleep.

Algie wandered out to the taproom, in search of something to inspire her psychic powers, he said. He came back with Mina, the blond woman whose palm Madame Katerina had read at the Argyle Rooms. Mina seemed to be inspiring Algie, all right, as they returned to the private parlor arm in arm.

Harry Miner’s widow stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Kathlyn, for whom Sean and Quigley were right now searching—in London. “You do get around, don’t you, ducks?”

Kathlyn nodded. “And you, ma’am. Have you come upon your diamonds yet?”

“Not hide nor hair, and you?”

“Sparkle My Lady in the third, or Bijou in the fourth?”

Ursula turned to stare at Woody, wondering what the high-flying chit, whatever she called herself today, was doing with this baby-faced buffoon. What happened to the pretty toff with the limp and the longing looks? No female was dicked in the nob enough to pick this gaby over the viscount. He’d never get a girl’s blood pumping, and he’d never go bail for a ransom demand either, more’s the pity.

While Ursula was trying to hint the tall, skinny gent into a corner and into revealing what this unlikely trio was doing together, Kathlyn slipped away upstairs to her bedroom. She locked the door, then moved a chair under it, and made sure the window was too high off the ground to offer any danger. She decided to sleep in the white gown; she would be ready for any eventuality, and she wouldn’t have to ring for that brazen maid to come undo her buttons. She put her own robe over it and climbed into bed with her book of sonnets. She’d been in the habit of reading almost daily, and missed it, but her eyes were growing heavy after the first page. How odd, she thought briefly. Nanny’s grandchildren must have taken a pencil to her book, or perhaps it was Lizzie, trying to learn her letters, who had underlined some words she didn’t recognize. Kathlyn blew out the candle. She’d think about it in the morning, right after she figured out how to get back to London.

* * * *

“She what?” Courtney’s head ached, his mouth felt as if some small, scaly creature had shed its skin there, and his clothing was sopping wet after racing across town in a deluge in response to Nanny’s urgent summons. The world was making no sense. Governesses, even ones hired to imitate intimate associates, did not run off with jewel thieves. Nor did they get abducted by marauding gangs, as Nanny was wailing about. Who were these men in her parlor then, and where the deuce was Kitty? Blast, that woman attracted trouble like a magnet.