In Debt To The Earl. Elizabeth Rolls
‘What?’
Her chin went up. ‘A mistress. I thought you knew all about mistresses!’
He cleared his throat. ‘I know what a mistress is for!’ It was the concept of a father who didn’t keep that sort of knowledge from his daughter that startled him. And the concept of a daughter who didn’t pretend ignorance of such things. Although he supposed under the circumstances that would rank with stupidity.
‘Quite.’ Her voice spat scorn. ‘I don’t know her name, or where she lives. If you knew he wasn’t here, why bother coming up?’
She was quick enough, he’d grant her that. ‘Because your landlady might be mistaken, or you might have known where he was.’ He rose. ‘I’ll call again, Miss Hensleigh.’
There was no point staying any longer. He had as much information as he was going to get on this visit.
* * *
James reached the bottom of the stairs without falling through them. The stench of cabbage and fish had gained ground while he’d been upstairs. Or perhaps it was the contrast with the beeswax. Plain beeswax. Mama had always insisted on a touch of lemon in the furniture polish...his grandmother had favoured lavender.
There was no reason, logical or otherwise, why a girl wielding a beeswax-scented polishing rag should interfere with his plans to destroy Hensleigh. He was not responsible for the fate of Hensleigh or his daughter.
He stepped out into Frenchman’s Yard. A shabbily dressed man snored fitfully in a doorway, an empty bottle beside him, while several ragged boys played some sort of game with pebbles. One of them eyed him hopefully. ‘Got a copper, yer worship?’
Aware that it might be a monumental error of judgement—men had probably been mugged for less—James fished out a sixpence and held it up. ‘Information first.’
The sight of this untold wealth had the attention of all the boys. They crowded around and James kept his other hand in his pocket, firmly on his purse.
‘Hensleigh. Anyone seen him recently?’
The boys exchanged glances. One of them, clearly the leader from the way he stood forward a little, spoke. ‘The cap’n, you mean?’
James let that pass. ‘Yes.’
The boy shrugged. ‘Not for three, mebbe four days. Lu bain’t seen ’im, neither.’
‘Lu?’
The boy’s eyes narrowed and he glanced up at the window of Hensleigh’s lodgings. ‘You was up there with her long enough. She’s ’is daughter. Lucy.’
‘Right.’ If she was anything else, these boys would know it. And then there was the hair. Hensleigh’s fading ginger hair must once have been red. Those few tendrils drifting from the confines of the girl’s mob cap had shimmered copper.
‘Fitch might know where the cap’n is.’ One of the smaller boys spoke up. ‘Fitch’s real friendly with Lu. Gives ’er money sometimes, ’e does.’
Without looking, the leader cuffed the boy on the head. ‘Stow it.’
‘Fitch?’
But the small boy took one look at the other boy’s face and shook his head.
The leader shrugged. ‘Just a cove.’
James reminded himself that it was none of his business if Miss Hensleigh was real friendly with anyone. Even a cove who gave her money sometimes. It happened. Yet in his pocket, his hand balled to a fist.
From above the sound of a violin being tuned floated down. James listened, arrested as first the G string was tuned, then the D and A in turn were coaxed into harmony. Finally the E string. A moment’s silence and then the instrument sang, a lilting, dancing tune that somehow brightened the dingy yard even though the sun sulked behind its gloomy defences.
Dragging his attention away from the music, James tossed the original sixpence to the leader, plucked another out of his pocket and gave it to the small boy who had mentioned Fitch.
‘If anyone does know where the captain is, I’d be interested.’
‘Took a bag, ’e did,’ volunteered another boy. ‘Saw ’im wiv it right down on Fleet, by the Bolt.’
‘Did you see him get on a coach?’ James asked. The Bolt-in-Tun, on Fleet Street, was the departure point for some of the Bath coaches. Bath would be a very likely destination for a card sharp looking to recoup his losses.
The boy hesitated, finally shrugged. ‘Nah. Just happened to see ’im there. Wasn’t that int’rested, was I?’
James fished out another sixpence and flicked it to him. ‘Apparently not. And you’re also clever enough not to tell me what you think I want to hear. Thank you.’
The lad nipped the coin out of the air with startling dexterity. ‘Could nick down there an’ ask around if you like, guv.’
James considered that. ‘No. Never mind. Does the name Kilby mean anything to you?’
The boys went very still and furtive glances were cast at their leader. He shrugged. ‘Nah. Never heard of ’im.’
James nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Fairly sure he had just been lied to, he strolled out of the yard and headed west, towards Fleet Street and the Bolt-in-Tun. The lilt of Lucy Hensleigh’s fiddle remained with him long after it had been drowned by distance and the rumble of wheels and hooves.
* * *
Lucy played until the light slid away from the window, leaving her in the shadows. Wrapped safely in the music’s enchantment, she could pretend for a little while, hold out the terrifying reality of her life. She played from memory. He had sold her music months ago, along with her last three books. The only reason he hadn’t sold the violin as well was that she had been out with it when he came home looking for things to sell. Slowly she let the spell unravel, knowing that even music could not keep out the world for ever. Shivering a little, she set the instrument back in its case and closed the window. She had practised for long enough and Fitch would be along soon.
Her stomach growled.
If only Papa had been home when Mr Remington called! Then they’d have some money. Money for the rent, money for food. Unless he owed it all to someone else. Over the four years that she’d been with him after Grandma’s death the gentleman’s code of so-called honour had been drummed into her—debts of honour were paid first, no matter if your daughter was hungry and you weren’t using your real name.
Perhaps he wasn’t out of town after all. Surely he wouldn’t have gone right away if someone owed him money...unless he owes more to someone else...
The gaming was a disease, holding her father in a fevered grip. Nothing else mattered to him. No logic, no reason could reach him. Nothing but the game. He was charming about it, naturally. Papa was always charming. Even when he was lying. In fact, especially when he was lying. He had reassured her at first. There was nothing to worry about. Everything was quite as it should be. All proper gentlemen played. He would stop as soon as he had made their fortunes. And she had believed him. Or perhaps she had just wanted to believe him. That he would stop. Just one more game to set all right, get the dibs in tune. Always just one more game. To get the dibs in tune. To oblige a friend. A matter of honour. Just one more.
She supposed she had wanted to believe him. What sixteen-year-old girl, with nowhere else to turn, wanted to believe that her father had them on an irreversible downward slide to destitution?
She looked at the worn-leather violin case. Thank God she’d had it with her the afternoon Papa had sold her books and music. He’d been furious that the violin had not been there to sell as well.
Luckily he had won that night and had forgotten about selling the instrument the next day. Now she either took it with her or hid it. And she hadn’t told her father the