In Debt To The Earl. Elizabeth Rolls
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 truth—that, courtesy of Fitch, she had found a way to earn enough money to feed herself.
Jig waited as Kilby’s pen scratched across the big ledger. Wonderful it were, how the man could write so quick an’ all. Not that Jig had any use for book learning—he did all right. Too much book learning could make a fellow soft. But there was no doubt that Kilby had kept his edge, right enough.
The pen slowed and sand was sprinkled across the page.
Kilby looked up. ‘Your report, Jig.’
Jig, so named because he’d narrowly escaped dancing a hempen jig as a boy, shifted under Kilby’s flat stare.
‘Found ’is nest, guv.’
Kilby stretched his arms and set his hands to either side of the ledger. His smile, to Jig’s way of thinking, weren’t real encouraging. Nor his fingers, drumming on the desk. Jig watched, narrow-eyed. The left hand it were—the one near the knife. Word was that Kilby drumming his fingers meant he was annoyed. Further word said that the first a man knew of Kilby reaching for the knife was the realisation that his difficulty breathing had to do with the knife buried in his windpipe. Nor a smart cove didn’t discount the pistol near Kilby’s right hand neither.
‘Two days since I set you on to find Hensleigh, Jig,’ Kilby said. ‘Two whole days. I note you only say you’ve found his nest. But perhaps that’s just your roundabout way of saying you have found the man himself?’
Jig swallowed. ‘As to that, guv, I ain’t found ’im as such. Seemin’ly ’e’s away. No one ain’t seen ’im.’
The fingers stopped drumming and Jig breathed a mort easier. Kilby was usually open to reason.
‘Away?’
‘That’s it, guv. Can’t find a cove who ain’t there, but I got ’is hole.’
Kilby nodded. ‘But if he’s left his hole, Jig, then it is no longer his hole. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Reckon ’e’s comin’ back, guv.’ Cold sweat trickled down his spine. ‘Got a girl there.’
This time the fingers of Kilby’s right hand—the one near the pistol—started drumming. ‘Jig, men abandon women all the time. What makes you—?’
‘Reckon this is different, guv.’ Jig cleared his throat. ‘Seems the wench is ’is daughter.’
Kilby’s fingers stilled. ‘A daughter? He’s kept that very quiet.’
Jig relaxed a little. ‘Yeah. An’ it ain’t hard to see why, neither.’ Remembering the tasty-looking little redhead, he licked his lips.
‘Ah. Pretty, is she?’
‘Ripe as a plum ready for pluckin’,’ Jig assured him. He’d been tempted to do a bit of plucking himself, but he knew better than that. More than his life was worth if the wench turned out to be of interest to Kilby.
‘Hmm.’ Kilby leaned back, frowning. ‘The question will be, has someone plucked the plum already?’
Jig said nothing. For himself he didn’t much care if a wench were already broke to saddle. But an unbroken ride was worth a mint in some quarters.
‘Well, never mind.’ Kilby said. ‘Since Hensleigh has a saleable asset I’ll get back the money he bilked me of with the Moresby boy’s vowels. You can go now, Jig.’
Jig hesitated. The rest of his information might not be so welcome, but information was information. Kilby liked to know everything. ‘Got a bit more, guv.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a gent sniffin’ around.’
Kilby sat up slowly. ‘Sniffing where? Not here?’
‘Nah.’ Jig shook his head. ‘Heard him askin’ around about Hensleigh. That’s how I tracked Hensleigh.’
‘After the girl?’
Jig scowled. ‘Could be. But he found out Hensleigh mighta gone to Bath.’
Kilby raised his brows and Jig expanded. ‘The gent asked some lads. Got told Hensleigh’d been down the Bolt. So I follered ’im and sure enough ’e goes down there an’ starts askin’ round. Seems Hensleigh or a bloke like ’im took a ticket for Bath.’
Kilby let out a breath. ‘The odds are high Hensleigh owes him money, too.’ He considered. ‘Or he might just be after the girl.’
‘Might be both,’ offered Jig.
Kilby nodded. ‘Yes. He might have come looking for his money and now be wondering if he should just take his winnings out of the girl’s hide.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Check at the Cockpit who Hensleigh lost to recently. And watch his lodgings. If the same gentleman shows up again, find out where he lives, or get a name.’
‘Aye, guv.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Asked about you, he did.’
Kilby’s hands clenched to fists. ‘Did he now?’ His voice was very soft and Jig tensed. ‘Did he get an answer?’
Jig shook his head. ‘Nah. No one said nothin’.’
Kilby nodded. ‘Very wise. Anything else?’
Jig hesitated. This went against the grain, so it did, but he valued his life and folks that held out on Kilby tended to find that their lives ended unexpectedly. ‘The boy—Fitch.’
‘What about Fitch?’
Jig shuffled. ‘Seemin’ly ’e’s hangin’ around the wench, too. Heard one of they lads say as how ’e gives ’er money.’
Kilby’s fist clenched. ‘Is he now? Isn’t that interesting? It might be an idea to keep an eye on him, as well. His earnings have been down recently. Find out why.’
‘Aye, guv.’
‘You’ve done quite well, Jig,’ Kilby said. ‘I’m impressed.’
* * *
It was probably a waste of time to call at Hensleigh’s lodgings again. James told himself that as he strolled along the north side of the Strand the next day. His visit to the Bolt-in-Tun had netted the information that Hensleigh had bought a ticket for Bath. James had discarded the notion of driving down himself. Tracking Hensleigh would take time and might alert him. The last thing he wanted was for the fellow to run altogether.
The man had to return sooner or later to his daughter. But he wouldn’t wager a farthing against Hensleigh finding another bolt hole, so keeping a close eye on said daughter made complete sense.
Lucy.
He lengthened his stride. Her name was no concern of his. Nor was she, or her soft coppery curls, any concern of his. Except