Odette Speex: Time Traitors Book 1 (21 page)

Hershel was one of the few runners to come to his profession with a relatively ample education. The son of a modest country vicar, he had inherited a strict moral code from his parents—yet another oddity among his fellow runners.

It was this upright sense of duty that led him out every fortnight or so to patrol the streets. To check up on the beadles and night watchmen who served as very unreliable law enforcement during the evening hours. This practice endeared him to no one and earned him the nickname, the Minister.

He cleared his throat and Fancy opened her eyes and sat up straighter. “The intruder appears to have broken his back from the weight of the hutch, had a sword driven through his heart,
and
ingested some sort of poison.”

Three pairs of eyes looked back at him blandly. “You say he was one of two attackers.”

Odette ran a hand through her hair and sighed. Wu had already given a detailed account of the night’s adventure before being dispatched to Lady Caroline’s with Odette’s regrets regarding their morning ride.

“Yes, Mister Gordon, there were two. The other escaped after running his fellow through with a sword.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“I do.” Fancy perked up and Hershel saw Odette stiffen. “I think they’re a gang of thieves. A secret-like gang, you know, with them masks. And their diabolical overlord wants Miss Odette see, because she’s beautiful and talented and all. But so’s not to give up the gang, they all take some kind of oath not to be captured alive. I’m thinkin’—”

“Thank you, Miss Fancy,” he interrupted. “An interesting theory. While I’m sure Miss Swanpoole can inspire passion in the breast of a diabolical thief overlord, I was thinking that perhaps she had something else they wanted.”

Fancy sat up even straighter, a little taken aback. “So
you
think it’s some sort of secret-like gang?”

“It is quiet obviously a ‘secret-like gang,’ Miss Fancy. Thus, the masks.”

“I keep nothing of great value here, Mister Gordon,” Odette answered, trying to gain control of the conversation. “My funds are managed by a solicitor.”

“I wasn’t referring to material possessions but knowledge or information.”

A warning shot of adrenaline coursed up her spine. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” she replied with an impatient wave of her hand.

“Really, Mister Gordon…” Cara stepped forward with her most captivating smile. “Is this the best time—”

Barely glancing at her, he held up a hand for silence. His attention focused entirely on Odette. “No idea?” He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “That man in there is not a common thief. He’s a soldier, well-trained, well-fed and clearly committed to someone or something. This isn’t a gang but a private army. And since the King is the only one legally allowed to command an army, I would sure like to know who this one answers to.”

“Well, obviously not to me,” she replied tartly.

“The boy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your servant. An Oriental is unusual.”

“Your point?” She shook her head. “You can have no reason to believe he is involved.”

“Two seasoned soldiers attack this house with only three unarmed women and a boy to defend it. One lies dead, the other flees. I would believe anything at this point,” he pronounced with an edge of incredulity to his voice.

She stared back at him speechless. What could she say? It was only hours earlier when she had learned Wu booby-trapped the house every night. Each entrance had its own specific ambush, trips, and wires.

“Dust and Coal Fire, Wu!” she exclaimed after he returned with news that the second assailant had escaped on horseback. “One of us could have been killed.”

“This is not possible,” he had replied calmly. “I set the traps late and release them before dawn.”

“And if I was restless and wandered out into the garden…”

“You could not do this without my knowledge.”

Odette had cast her eyes heavenward. It was no use probing for answers. He would only intone serenely his close connection to the dust particle floating through the house or some such mystical rot that she had given up trying to understand it at all. Now she stood looking back at the Bow Street runner unable to enlighten him on why they had inexplicably
not
been murdered in their beds.

A bustle at the front door momentarily relieved her from responding. Wu stepped silently into the room followed closely by Lady Caroline, Aamod, and an efficient-looking woman Odette had never seen before.

Lady Caroline glided over to Odette and wrapped her in a sisterly embrace. “My dear, my dear, is there no end to the indignities visited on lone women in this city?” She stood back and looked over at Cara and Fancy. “You must all come and stay with me. At least until the authorities can make some sense of this terrible offense.”

Odette darted a quick look at Wu who merely shrugged his shoulders. “No,” she responded uneasily, “we really couldn’t put you out like that.”

Caroline drew off her gloves in a businesslike manner and smiled. “Odette, my house is huge and I’ve brought Mrs. Crawford to help pack up whatever you might need. It most certainly won’t put
me
out.”

For a petite woman she made a commanding presence. Her gown was an exquisite robe a la francaise, the heavy orange silk shot through with vivid embroidery. The elaborate powdered wig was topped off with an enormous black crepe hat that barely fit through the doorway.

“You needn’t worry,” she continued airily, “it would only be for a few days and then you can return. I, of all people, understand the need for independence.” She turned to look at Odette, her tone now devoid of all arrogant playfulness. “The important thing now is to safeguard the lives of all those you hold dear.”

With Lady Caroline’s back to Hershel Gordon, he was not privy to the pleading look she now turned on Odette.

He cleared his throat. “It might be wise, miss, to seek protection while we try to sort this matter out.”

Lady Caroline turned around and directed her haughtiest gaze at the slight runner. Odette had to admire his composure when confronted with a member of the
haut ton
. He nodded politely but didn’t give an inch of ground. “It’s alright they stay with you, my lady, but I still have questions that need answers. And I won’t be put off.”

Caroline tilted her head to one side, her full lips touched with a smile. “Mister…?”

“Gordon, my lady, Hershel Gordon. Investigator for Bow Street.”

“Mister Gordon, I have no intention of interfering with your work. On the contrary, I wish you the greatest success in unlocking the riddle of these attacks.”

His eyes narrowed as he settled the strap of his leather satchel more securely on his shoulder. “Begging your pardon, my lady, if what you said there just might be a bit incongruent.”

Chapter 24

It was one
of those summer evenings that made Gabriel long to strip off his waistcoat and roll up his sleeves. Sweat tickled his neck and slid down his back to plaster the linen shirt to his skin. He walked up Fleet Street toward the Strand intending to stop off at Simon’s lodgings. His desire for some friendly advice was intermingled with the need to relieve himself of his waistcoat for a few minutes.

Gabriel wasn’t sure he’d find Simon at home. He had left the Middle Temple later than was customary. His uncle had tasked him with some last minute details of an unusual case involving a disinherited daughter and her aging father. It was a sad story that left him feeling mildly depressed. To shake it, he decided to walk the distance to Simon’s lodgings and then, with the support of his friend, visit Odette.

A grin lit his face. Just the thought of her lifted his spirits and put a spring in his step. He looked so handsome and pleasant several ladies not of his acquaintance smiled and nodded in passing.

After the ball he’d had a hard time tethering his emotions to the ground. His friends’ good-natured ribbing deflated his euphoria only a little. While he considered himself a man of the world, his experience with women was quite limited. Stolen kisses with young playmates and a two-year affair with the estranged wife of a noble client were his only real claims to romance.

He wasn’t proud of the affair, but it had been a source of excitement and affection he had never known before. She had been older than he by several years. She was very lovely and very unhappy. Their clandestine meetings were infrequent, tinged with longing and sometimes desperation. He remembered well the urgency of their couplings. At first, with him, she seemed content and even joyful. But it never lasted. In the end their physical connection could not overcome the reality that a deeper, emotional bond was not possible.

But with Odette anything, everything, was possible. He had held her in his arms and felt the future. Even the specter of Charles Drake couldn’t overshadow his optimism. They would find him out and rescue Odell. He imagined himself vanquishing her enemies. They would get married, she would stop dancing—

“Gabe! You walked right past me!”

Gabriel blinked and focused his eyes on Cyril’s face.

“Good God, man! You still look besotted!” he expostulated.

“My mind’s occupied with work,” Gabriel scoffed unconvincingly.

Cyril rolled his eyes. “No man smiles like that thinking of ink and dusty old parchment.”

“I’m off to see Simon,” Gabriel countered, changing the subject. “Join me?”

“I’ve just come from there. He’s not home. Ouch! What the—”

Gabriel had suddenly gripped Cyril’s forearm tightly.

“Shhh. Not so loud,” he whispered furtively. “Look over there… next to the stationer.”

Cyril peered through the crowd. “It’s just Graham and Sir Brandon, I believe.”

“
And
Lord Winter,” Gabriel replied tightly.

“Your—”

“Yes.”

Cyril looked again just as an elderly lady in a voluminous gown moved out of the way and saw that Lord Winter did indeed make one of their company. “So?”

“He was with Charles Drake at the ball and now he’s with Graham and Sir Brandon.”

“So?” Cyril replied again.

Gabriel sighed in exasperation. “This Drake fellow’s been causing problems for Odette.”

“Miss Swanpoole? What’re you talking about?”

“Her brother mostly.”

“She has a brother?” Cyril asked, thoroughly confused.

Gabriel saw the men separate. Sir Brandon and Ethan moved in one direction and Lord Winter walked off in the opposite one. He released Cyril and hesitated uncertainly before following Lord Winter.

“What are you doing?” Cyril asked.

“I’m following him.”

“Are you addlebrained? If you’re so interested in what they’re doing why not just ask Graham?”

The street was heavily trafficked, so Gabriel had to weave his way through the throng. Cyril close on his heels.

“I don’t trust him,” Gabriel threw back over his shoulder.

“Ethan? What’s not to trust?”

“I think he works for Sir Brandon.”

“Sir Brandon?” Cyril’s tone sharpened. “You don’t mean a spy!”

Lord Winter turned up the Strand. Gabriel and Cyril crossed the busy street to keep him in sight. “I’ve heard the rumors too, Gabe,” Cyril puffed, trying to keep up. “But Ethan? Why suspect him?”

Gabriel quickly filled him in on the disturbance at The Ferrous Swan and Ethan’s interrogation of Odette and Cara.

Cyril whistled through his teeth. “I say, that is odd. But still, hardly conclusive. He could have been headed to Hampstead for all you know.”

Now on Haymarket, Gabriel stopped and looked around having temporarily lost sight of their quarry. “Do you see him, Cyril?”

“For a dissipated old sot, he sure moves fast,” Cyril muttered. “There!” He pointed at a hackney on the other side of the street. “He’s getting into that coach.”

“Bloody hell!” Gabriel exclaimed and searched the street for another cab. A short minute later they clambered into a coach, Gabriel shouting, “Follow that carriage!”

“Whot?” replied the befuddled driver. “The street’s full of ’em.”

“Over there, man! Over there! The one with the yellow trim.”

“Wull, I’ll do my best…”

“An extra half shilling if you don’t lose sight of it.”

“Right then,” the driver replied briskly with a flick of his whip.

The carriage jolted off and careened recklessly down the street.

Cyril braced his feet on the rocking floor while Gabriel peered restlessly out the window.

“What do you hope to accomplish with this farcical stratagem?” Cyril asked.

Gabriel grinned at him and the tension drained from his face. “It is damned ludicrous,” he agreed. “But there are too many unexplained connections, Graham and Sir Brandon, Lord Winter and Charles Drake, Drake and Odell—”

“Odell Speex? The crazy one? Good Lord!” Cyril slapped himself on the forehead. “Miss Swanpoole’s brother! Of course! But what does he have to do with this? He seemed to drop off the face of the earth.”

“I’m not sure. Odette says Drake has him captive. Something about an invention and stolen property.”

Cyril looked skeptical. “Sounds pretty farfetched to me.”

Gabriel sighed resignedly. “I know. But now here’s this Drake fellow. And who is he anyway?” He looked out the window again, a bitter edge to his voice, “One thing’s for sure, Lord Winter wouldn’t deign to acknowledge such a lowly member of society without expecting some benefit in return.”

The coach came to an abrupt halt. They alighted in front of White’s Club.

Cyril sucked in his breath dramatically. “
Very
sinister.”

Gabriel frowned at him and threw the promised coin up to the coachman. He grabbed Cyril’s arm and led him across the street.

“I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but we can’t get in there. We’re not members.” Cyril pointed out the obvious.

“So we’ll go around to the servant’s entrance.”

Cyril stopped and looked at him seriously. “Gabe. It is members only,” he repeated. “Causing a disturbance will only embarrass you
and
your uncle.”

“Give me some credit, Cyril. They won’t know the difference between me and another footman.”

“Well, no livery, for a start.”

They came around the back and found the small garden bustling with activity. Not only footmen but deliverymen from vintners to florists milled about the back entrance.

“This is a piece of luck,” Gabriel observed. He drew off his waistcoat and gave it to Cyril. “Wait here,” he said over his shoulder and rolled up his shirt sleeves as he made his way to the crowded doorway.

“My pleasure,” Cyril assured him gratefully.

Much as he railed against the aristocracy, Cyril was easily intimidated by their arrogance. The smug sense of superiority angered him but also made him question his own worth. Another crack in his armor was made every time he and his father were turned away from his mother’s gravesite. He hated them, but a seed of doubt had taken root in his brain and would not be dislodged. He envied Gabriel his confidence. But then, their stories were very different.

Gabriel sidled up to one of the wagons and shouldered a large crate. Hiding his face to one side, he made for the doorway.

“Hey!” yelled a stout man in a somber black livery, bringing Gabriel up short, “Down the stairs with that crate. All wine to the basement.”

Gabriel followed the line of his pointed finger and saw a sunken staircase off to one side of the building. He descended the stairs and wound his way through a long hallway ending in a cool windowless room stacked with wine. He set the crate down carefully and looked around.

He had no idea what he was doing. His determination to help Odette combined with his blind hatred of Lord Winter had propelled him on this absurd goose chase. Oddly enough he wasn’t frightened but rather energized by the action. Gone was the cautious man of law. In his place was… was… he almost laughed aloud. He was going for “hero.” But instead “idiot” arose in his mind. An idiot in love… God save him!

Footsteps in the hallway shook him from his reverie. His momentary panic was quelled when a young boy in the same black livery came around the corner and into the cellar.

“Ho!” he exclaimed upon seeing Gabriel. “You scared me.”

“Sorry, lad.” His efforts to coarsen his language met with limited success. The boy looked at him askew when he added, “just deliverin’ some spirits.”

“The wine, you mean?”

“Ah, yeah.” Gabriel hesitated but decided the boy might know something. “Whot’s with all the goins’ on? Some sort’a party?”

The boy huffed disdainfully. “It’s White’s! There’s always a party.”

Gabriel nodded and made for the door.

“But today is something special, for sure.”

He stopped and looked back expectantly.

“There’s some new fellow.” The boy looked disapproving. “None of us servants knows anything about him. But his name was put in the book just last night and today he has more than twenty-five sponsors. Never seen anything like it. Nobody has.”

“Who’s this fella?”

“Name’s Mister Charles Drake. A simple ‘Mister.’ ” The boy shook his head in disgust. “Now they’re having some kind of meeting. Even the gaming tables are shut down.”

Gabriel nodded and started for the door again, but the boy stopped him. “If you help me take up these bottles, Mrs. Simmons will give you some supper.”

Gabriel wasn’t sure what to make of the information he’d just received but was eager to learn more. Loaded down with several bottles of expensive wine, they made their way through a maze of servants’ corridors and stairways to the kitchen.

Here the activity was manic. Footmen came and went in rapid succession and the noise was such that normal conversation was virtually impossible. True to his word, Mrs. Simmons, the cook, gave Gabriel a bowl of soup and a chicken leg. She motioned him to a bench out of the way.

He sat there wondering what to do next when a young footman came in supported by another. The young man was trying to stop the flow of blood from his nose as his companion settled him on the bench next to Gabriel.

“Here now, what’s happened?” Mrs. Simmons bustled over with a wet rag.

The uninjured one sputtered with indignation, “That puffy Marquis hit ’em! For nothing! Davy barely brushed him, that’s all. He didn’t even spill a drop of the soup.”

“It ain’t right!” Davy mumbled through the rag. “Hittin’ me for no reason.”

“You should hear ’em in there, Mrs. Simmons,” his friend continued. “Talking all rot and crazy-like. Closing down the coffeehouses and outlawing political speech. Like they knows—”

“You hush now!” Mrs. Simmons exclaimed, cutting her eyes over to Gabriel. “You two stay here in the kitchen for now. We’ve got plenty of you lads out serving.” She left again to preside over the general chaos, and Gabriel sat hardly daring to move, stunned by what he’d heard.

“Hey, Davy,” the uninjured footman whispered furtively to his friend. “Do you still have them toenails you cut off last night?”

“Yeah, in me pocket. I was going to throw them in the fire. You know I don’t like leaving bits of meself laying around,” Davy replied, voicing a common superstition.

“Well, hand ’em over.”

Davy reached in his pocket and handed his friend a handkerchief. Within it were what looked to Gabriel like several weeks worth of nail clippings.

“What’s say we add a little flavor to that chocolate soufflé.”

Stifling a gag, Gabriel stood and beat a hasty retreat out the kitchen door, through the garden, and back toward the street.

“Thank goodness!” Cyril cried upon seeing him. “I was about ready to abandon you to your fate.”

Gabriel unrolled his sleeves and pulled on his waistcoat.

“Well?” Cyril asked impatiently. “What did you learn?”

Gabriel clapped his friend on the back. “Be kind to the help, Cyril. Always be kind to the help.”

*

From the street corner Ethan watched the two friends depart toward Piccadilly and Haymarket. He had seen Cyril loitering on the sidewalk across from White’s and had hung back to observe. He had never known the young man to frequent this fashionable and prosperous part of the city. When he saw Gabriel emerge from around the building, he knew their presence here was no coincidence.

The meeting had been hastily scheduled so it was unlikely the two men knew of it in advance. Ethan was willing to bet a goodly sum that they had followed someone here. Perhaps even Charles Drake. He knew from Cara that Gabriel had some knowledge of Odette’s plight. But from what Ethan could gather, no one really knew what was going on. And that included Sir Brandon.

“You will have to attend the meeting, Graham,” Sir Brandon had said after assuring Lord Winter they wouldn’t miss it. “I have other obligations tonight. But I want a full accounting.”

Ethan had never known a time when Sir Brandon didn’t have inside knowledge of any activity impacting the Crown. The fact that he was now struggling to gain an understanding of the situation was truly disconcerting. It ate away at the borders of Ethan’s conscience that he contributed to this by withholding information. But until he had a better grasp on the roles both Cara and Odette played in this strange affair, he didn’t want to expose them, or himself, to the full extent of Sir Brandon’s scrutiny.