Scandal's Reward (23 page)

“You’re a game bird for a toff, ain’t you?” Archibald whispered.

* * * *

The carriage was hastily called, polite excuses made, and Dagonet escorted Catherine and Amelia back to Brooke House.

“A man called at the house, not an hour ago,” Amelia said, wiping away tears. “The driver of a hack. Annie was asking to be taken to a place called Lower Hobb Lane. When he refused, she ran away. Whatever was she thinking? To run off alone into London! She’s just a little girl.”

“I will find her and bring her back, Lady Brooke,” Dagonet stated firmly. “Pray do not distress yourself! No one would harm Annie. She has too much impudence for anyone to dare.”

“I insist on coming,” Catherine said. As Dagonet turned to her with a denial on his lips, she glared defiantly at him. “You shall not gainsay me, sir! She is my sister. She may need me when you find her. Besides, it is my fault.”

“Very well! If you are determined. How do you propose to keep up with me in your silk dress?”

“I shall borrow some breeches from David’s wardrobe. Don’t look so shocked, Amy! Lord Brooke wouldn’t mind if he were here, and you shan’t stop me!”

Dagonet grinned. “We shall need to look inconspicuous, dear Kate, which you, in a pair of your brother-in-law’s trousers would not be, however popular a ruse it may be in the pages of romances. If you must come with me, we shall return to my lodgings and I shall see that we are both suitably attired.”

* * * *

Within half an hour, the glamorous denizens of the ballroom were unrecognizable. Dagonet had changed his silk knee breeches for a pair of dark worsted trousers. A shapeless jacket covered his shirt and a battered round hat sat jauntily on his dark head.

For Catherine the disguise was simple. He had gone to her wardrobe at Brooke House and taken one of her older afternoon gowns. In a few quick movements, he tore off the modest lace inset around the neck, and left a neckline that revealed much of her bosom. Then at his lodging in Jermyn Street he produced the scarlet cloak she had worn on her last escapade in Whitechapel.

“There, my dear! With a little dirt once again smeared onto your cheek, you will pass for an inhabitant.”

If it had not been for the dueling pistols that he thrust into his pocket and the sword cane that he once again carried, Catherine might have thought him bent on nothing more than an evening’s entertainment. He gave her a reassuring grin as they left the house.

“Once more, the game’s afoot! We shall find her, Kate, and also, very probably, John Catchpole.”

They had no difficulty whatsoever in returning to the house where John Catchpole had held Catherine captive. Dagonet sauntered casually along Lower Hobb Lane with Catherine on his arm. They both gave the impression of a rather advanced state of inebriation. In spite of her anxiety about Annie, Catherine was kept smiling by a steady stream of pithy observations and absurd quotes. She played her part with a will.

They had just arrived at the shadowed entrance, when Dagonet gave her arm a warning squeeze.

“Look you, wench! The Red Queen!”

The woman with the greasy mob cap was fast approaching the house. She paid the disreputable couple lounging in the doorway no more attention than they had received from any of the other denizens of Lower Hobb Lane, and made as if to shove past them.

Without a word, Dagonet released Catherine’s arm and freed himself for action.

As the woman pushed up against him, her face paled beneath its network of red veins. She stopped. The drunken fellow blocking her path had a small knife pressed into the side of her neck. From the perfectly steady feel of the blade, he was not in the least drunk.

“Forgive this rude introduction, mistress,” Dagonet said. “We want a word.”

With no further conversation, the woman led them into the little room where Catherine had first met her. Dagonet allowed her to sit down in one of the scabby chairs.

“Now, ma’am. John Catchpole?”

Catherine expected some remonstration, but there was none. The inhabitants of Lower Hobb Lane understood physical violence, but they also understood implacable determination. The woman knew without the need for any further demonstration that Dagonet would have his way.

She looked at Catherine in her scarlet cloak and grinned.

“Well! You led the fellows a merry dance. But no need to act bosky with me. I’ll tell you right enough. Catchpole’s not here any more. If you want him tonight, he went to meet a gentleman out by Hampstead. Business.”

“Have you seen a little girl?” Catherine asked.

“We’re not in the children racket,” the woman announced with indignation.

Further questioning revealed no more information. Annie had not been seen. Dagonet acquired the address in Hampstead, and they left their informant sitting alone in her filthy room.

Catherine felt frantic.

“How can we be sure that Annie is not somewhere here? Or hidden in the house? She must be terrified out in these streets alone.”

“Annie is a resourceful miss, Kate. If she came to find John Catchpole, then our best bet is to follow the quarry in the hopes of catching the huntsman. Or in this case, the younger sister of an extremely headstrong and interfering family.” He caught her suddenly by the hand. “Never fear, we’ll find her. Now, to Hampstead!”

They rapidly wove their way out of the warren of streets and courts and back to the main thoroughfare. There stood the high-perch phaeton with Dagonet’s tiger at the horses’ heads. Catherine was handed in and they cantered out to the village of Hampstead, not far from London.

The heath, notorious in earlier days as a favorite haunt of highwaymen and robbers, loomed bleakly in the darkness. The air was brittle with frost, and Catherine wished she had her fur-lined pelisse, instead of the thin red cloak. They pulled up some distance from the house to which the woman in the mob cap had directed them, and Dagonet instructed his tiger to walk the horses in the opposite direction. They then crept up to the place on foot.

It was a run-down house, little better than a shack, well on the outskirts of the village. They reached the cover of some thick bushes in the garden.

“Stay here!” Dagonet ordered.

“If Annie is here, I must know!”

“Kate! What must I do to convince you? I had no desire to bring you on this hunt tonight. God knows what danger may await us here. You will stay under this tree until I tell you otherwise!”

Pale moonlight cast shadows across the planes of his face as he extracted a pistol from his pocket. He checked the priming. His face seemed as cold as the sky, the expression just as remote.

Catherine could see that she must do as he wished. If it came to a fight, she would only be in the way. Silently she nodded her head, and Dagonet disappeared into the shadows.

She had no idea how long she stood there, jumping out of her skin every time some small creature made a rustle in the underbrush. One time she had to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out when an owl swept by on silent wings. She hugged the thin cloak around her shoulders and took comfort from the solid rough bark against her back. There was no sign of activity from the house, only the faint glimmer of a candle shining inside one of the windows.

She almost fainted when something touched her shoulder. She whirled around.

Thank God, it was Dagonet!

“Come on,” he said quietly. His even teeth shone as he grinned. “I want you to see this.”

Catherine followed him up to the window and peered inside.

John Catchpole sat snoring by a roaring fire that cast its flickering light about the tiny parlor, his feet sprawled out in front of him. A wine jug dangled from his huge hand, its loop caught on one of his sausage-like fingers. His features seemed flattened in the dull light, and the massive chin shuddered like a wet horse with every snore. The sound was enough to rattle the rafters.

Catherine’s glance rested on him for only a moment, however, for her attention was caught by the other occupants of the room.

Two ragged children sat side by side on a table across from Catchpole. Their feet swung back and forth in time to his thunderous snoring. They were tearing with gusto into a big hunk of bread, which they took turns dunking into a greasy-looking pot of gravy. From the looks on their faces, they were having a great time. Both children were dressed in tattered rags, and the boy had bare feet. Catherine did not recall ever seeing him before, but she had no problem in recognizing his companion.

It was her little sister Annie. She turned in amazement to Dagonet. Laughter lit his face.

“God knows by what means your sister has arrived here, Kate,” he whispered. “But she seems to have fallen very firmly on her feet. Come on!”

In moments they were inside. As John Catchpole continued to snore, Annie turned and saw them. She leapt from the table.

“Cathy! And Mr. de Dagonet! However did you get here? This is my friend Archibald Piggot and we’ve had the best time. See, we found John Catchpole! Only he’s drunk and we can’t get him to wake up and tell us anything.”

“Annie, for Heaven’s sake!” Catherine wanted to shake and hug her sister at the same time. “This is unconscionable conduct. We’ve all been so worried about you.”

“But you were supposed to be at the ball. I told Archibald that he had to get me home before anyone found out.”

Dagonet was leaning against the door. “And you, Master Archibald, are this young lady’s escort?”

Master Piggot stepped down from the table at the sight of the fellow who addressed him. However roughly dressed, he was unmistakably a gentleman and, if Archibald were any judge, also a soldier. Not someone to treat lightly from the look of those shoulders and the set of that mouth!

The boy shrugged. “I’ve took good care of her, guv. Archibald Piggot’s not one to get into trouble. At least not too deep anyhow.”

“We came out here on the back of a coster wagon, Cathy. The driver never knew we were there the whole time. It was the best fun.”

“But look at your clothes, Annie!”

“I don’t think I look any the worse than you!”

Catherine glanced down at her ragged frock and laughed. It was only too true. They were both covered in dirt and their clothing was a very far cry from their usual neat habits.

Annie gave her a hug. “I’m sorry if you worried, but Archibald said I must dress like this if I was to get through the city unnoticed, so he fetched me the stuff in trade for my pelisse. It’s a good thing, too, because I would have torn it all up clinging to the back of those carts and things.”

Catherine shook her head. “Annie, you could have been killed. It’s too dangerous to go gallivanting off across London by yourself. Promise me you won’t do it again!”

“But I did find Mr. Catchpole. And I wasn’t by myself. I was with Archibald.”

Dagonet interrupted. “Your quarry was not, however, lost, Miss Annabella, and did not need to be found by you. Perhaps you were not aware that Mr. Catchpole is reliably reported to be expecting company tonight, although I admit that at the present moment he doesn’t seem to be in a fit state to receive anyone. I intend in the next few minutes to remedy that situation, and it may not be a suitable sight for ladies. I would therefore suggest that you allow your sister to escort you home.”

“No!” Annie cried. “Not after all I went through to get here! You shan’t send me home now! And Cathy doesn’t want to go either.”

One glance at Catherine was enough to tell him that she would not leave willingly without hearing what Catchpole had to say. Dagonet laughed. Two Hunter sisters were more than he wanted to argue with, but they should go. His intent was distracted before he could say more by the sound of a horse outside.

“We have company,” he said.

He motioned Catherine and the children into the darkest corner, and positioned himself behind the door, gun in hand.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the gravel path up to the cottage. Someone hammered at the entrance. Catchpole slept on.

The front door hinges creaked. Someone’s labored breathing and solid tread echoed down the corridor. Catherine held her breath as the door to the little parlor was thrust open. The man stepped inside to find a pistol jabbed into his ribs.

“Why,” Dagonet said with a grin. “If it isn’t cousin George! Do take a seat, dear cousin, and join us in our merry party.”

George turned white and then red. “What the devil are you doing here?” he blustered. “Is this a trap? Set up by you, no doubt! Blackmail is just your line, isn’t it?”

“Blackmail, cousin? Now don’t tell me that our slumbering friend has taken up that unpleasant trade?”

“It’s because Mr. Catchpole knows that you murdered the Milly girl,” Annie squeaked, running up and placing herself squarely in front of Sir George. “He wants money, or he’ll tell everyone.”

“Annie!” Catherine stepped forward and caught her sister by the shoulders. “You will apologize to Sir George this instant. Mr. de Dagonet already told you that Sir George Montagu was elsewhere when Milly drowned.”

George sat down and loosened his cravat, twisting his neck as he ran a finger around it.

“So that’s it, is it? You’re the force behind this little caper, Miss Hunter, or Mrs. Charles de Dagonet, I should say.”

“I have nothing whatever to do with it, sir.”

Dagonet laughed. “I imagine that Mr. Catchpole is quite capable of thinking up a scheme to blackmail you, George, without anybody else’s help. However, we shall gain nothing by accusing each other. It would be more constructive, I believe, if we were to attempt to gain the story from the horse’s mouth. Master Piggot! A bucket or two of water from the well, if you please!”

“Yes, sir!” The boy ran to obey.

“I had not planned such a spellbound audience for my meeting with our unconscious friend, I must admit,” Dagonet continued. “But
fortuna favet fortibus
, does it not, cousin? Fortune favors the bold.”

Archibald struggled in with two leather buckets sloshing over with slimy water. “Here you are, sir,” he said, and saluted.

“Well done, Mr. Piggot,” Dagonet replied. “Now let us test the wisdom of the old French saying:
Il ne faut pas éveiller le chat qui dort
. Or, since we English prefer dogs to cats: Let sleeping dogs lie. Though we may live to regret this action.”