The Virgin's Auction (23 page)

Chapter Nineteen

She woke again with the first stirrings of the house – the distant clatter of a coal scuttle striking a grate, a few words of conversation far below stairs, muffled and indistinct, hooves in the yard as horses were led out for exercise. One after another the sounds lifted her further from sleep until she surfaced.

James slept on, face turned away but one arm outflung towards her on the coverlet, fingers curled upwards. The cool grey light of dawn came dimly through the curtain but it was enough to see the grandeur of the entire r
oom, high-ceilinged and stately; bar this lush bed.

She scrambled out and across the cold floor, looking for and finding her bag in a chair.

Taking it into the dressing room so she would not wake him reminded her uncomfortably of another awakening, long months ago but uncomfortably vivid in her mind. She pushed the memory away and concentrated on washing and dressing, using a cloth and the cold water in the jug to clean herself.

Dressed and looking the part of a respectable young woman of modest means, she worried about her next step. Should she wake him? Leave him to sleep longer? He must be tired after all that driving. But when she opened the door into the bedroom she saw he was already up, tying the sash of a dressing gown about his body.

“Excellent,” he said, taking in her readiness. “I shall try not to keep you waiting. I’ve rung the bell for a large breakfast for one, which we can share. If you move a chair behind the screen you can sit comfortably out of sight while the food is brought in. The carriage is ordered for the half hour. We’ll eat and then depart.”

“Will breakfast not take a great while to prepare?” she said, accustomed to the constraints of their single cook, who had worked only with a rigid schedule so she could manage everything alone.

“It shouldn’t do. I like to rise early and I don’t like to wait around. My staff are used to my odd fits and starts. They’ll do. Now you play least in sight.” He shooed her towards the heavy screen in one corner, then entered the dressing room and closed the door behind him. The screen looked mediaeval, carved with a hunting scene involving stags and horsemen. She dropped her portmanteau behind it, dragged a chair over to the same spot then scooped up her torn gown.

She looked carefully around the room to be sure no other evidence of her presence was in sight. She
could see nothing overt, but chose to pull up the crumpled sheets and bedspread and to fling open all the curtains for light and a window for fresh air. Then she settled down to begin the task of mending the damage to her dress.

Less than five minutes later there was a brief knock on the door, which turned out to be just a warning rather than request for permission as it was swiftly followed by the sounds of the door opening. Then she heard a rattle that she guessed was the tray being laid down on the table by the window. Clinking and rustling followed as the place was set to the unseen servant’s satisfaction. Footsteps shushed faintly back across the thick carpet, then the door closed again with a muted click.

Laying her mending to one side, Melissa peeped cautiously around the screen, ready to pull back again if her ears had deceived her. But no, the room was deserted and the table spread with an elegant repast.

There might be some protocol to be observed when sharing a single breakfast after a night of debauchery, but if so she did not know it and didn’t really care. She was hungry and the food smelled good and hot. She filled the bread plate with scrambled eggs and bacon to accompany the soft white roll taken from the bread basket and lavished with fresh butter. Then she set to with a will, hoping to demolish it all and hide her gluttony before James returned.

She had done a fair job of it by the time he emerged, fully clothed in a fashionable morning suit, clean shaven, brushed and polished. She scanned his clothes approvingly, taking pleasure in something so well made, fitting a man so lovingly created by the hand of God. His coat was slightly loose about his torso rather than skin-tight as a dandy might wear, which explained why he could get himself into it without the assistance of a valet; unless there had been one hiding in a drawer in the dressing room, of course.

She wondered when he had removed his boots last night. She certainly had no memory of a nocturnal struggle so he must have repaired to a hidden bootjack. The ones he wore now had white tops and tassels. She stared at them with some fascination. When she raised her glance he was quirking an eyebrow at her, so she leaned back in her chair, letting her expression show a teasing incredulity.

“
Are
you a dandy, pray tell?”

“I should say not,” he replied with some surprise. Why . . . oh, the boots. I have a dam . . .
er . . . wretched jackanapes of a valet who delights in certain accoutrements. I indulge some of his whims.”

“Turn him up sweet with frills and furbelows?”

“You think it’s too much? I rather thought so, but he was most eloquent on the matter. Exhausting. I let him have his head.”

“Oh no, not too much at all.
Just the right note of . . .” she paused, searching for something appropriately flattering to say, and caught the knowing twinkle in his eyes. She burst out laughing, and he joined her, stroking her shoulder lightly before seating himself, in a way that quietened her instantly as it raised a tingling sensation from her head to her toes.  

He sat and ate without standing on ceremony, demolishing the remaining eggs, bacon, sausages and bread, washing it down with tea from the elegant teapot. She poured for him and for herself also, enjoying the delicate aroma and taste of the superb blend. She did not think she had ever had tea of such quality.

“Where do we begin the search?” he asked, laying down his fork between mouthfuls.

“I have been thinking about it, and I believe we should start with my father’s man of affairs. If I were Trevor – and knowing as little of the situation as he – that’s what I should do. From there I must call on my father’s cronies. I do not have the direction of many, but if I start with one I hope he may tell me where to find the others.” When she mentioned her father he stopped chewing and narrowed his eyes at her, arrested.

“Your father? Is he . . .”

“He is dead. Th
ese last two months.”

“Two
months?”

“Yes.” She wished she had lied. They both knew
the auction had been a month ago. She did not want his speculation. Or his pity.

But he did not pursue that line of inquiry, looking instead at the teacup he was absently rotating with one finger as it sat on the
thick linen of the tablecloth.

“And he had a man of affairs?”

“He did.” Another detail she would prefer to conceal. Perhaps he would condescend to wait in the carriage while she saw Mr Beaseley. Beaseley could hardly be depended upon for any sort of politeness about the circumstances of her father’s life and death. If there was ever a man who adopted manners only when they would line his own pocket, it was Beaseley. She would rather not rely on James’ grand and imposing presence to shut the man’s mouth.

When she volunteered nothing further, he returned to his meal. She felt his eyes resting thoughtfully on her time and again until his continued scrutiny made her stand and walk to a window to gaze down at the yard, her back to him.

“Let us go then,” he finally said, and she turned from her thoughts to find him standing, meal finished, drawing on his gloves. “If you put the blanket about your head once more, as you did last night, we will endeavour to conceal your identity.”

She took his advice, taking the blanket from the place she had let it fall last night and contriving a basic hood and cape out of the folds. Then he held the door open for her, following her through to the dim hall.

Quietly they stole downstairs, feet almost silent on the treads. When a young serving maid came upon them out of a servants’ corridor to one side, giving a squeak of astonishment at finding her master creeping about in the hall, Melissa turned her head sharply to one side and kept walking, ignoring the girl’s curtsey and bowed head.

James took the lead when she was uncertain of the way, showing her quickly to the back door.

“Follow me, keep your head down and say nothing,” he told her.

She did as he bid, staying close. And although she sensed the startled reactions of the several stable
hands and servants in the yard, no one addressed her as she trod almost on his heels.

She bit her lip when she saw his high-perch phaeton drawn up, the horses dancing in their traces, fresh as paint. This was not an equipage designed for a quiet errand. They would draw attention everywhere they went. She wished she had a proper hooded cloak, or better yet, a veil. Heaven forbid she was seen.

Perhaps she would keep the blanket up wherever they went, regardless of the figure of fun it would make her. Better James think her odd than one of Black Jack’s informants spot her larking about town. She set her lips grimly and took the hand he offered to help her ascend. Naturally he would not drive anything more sedate, the wretched man!

Chapter Twenty

“Yes, I have seen your brother.” Mr Beaseley shoved his half-moon spectacles further up his nose, then settled back in his chair with his hands complacently linked over his paunch.

“Well?” Melissa asked impatiently when he failed to elaborate. “When did you see him? Do you know where he is now?”

“I believe I saw him about four of the clock yesterday. As to his current whereabouts, naturally I haven’t any idea.”

“But what did you tell him? Where was he going?” she said, leaning forward over the desk, her voice rising. That he should seat himself when she did not was an insult, and the man’s attitude grated abominably, but that was as nothing to her frustration at his stalling. She longed to slap him.

“Do settle down, young lady,” he said in an abominably patronising tone. “A tendency to hysteria is most unbecoming. If I may advise you –”

“You may
not
. But you will
certainly
tell me what you know of my brother without further delay.”

He put his nose in the air. “I am not minded to share such information. Your brother was here on a matter not suitable for a female’s knowledge. You would do best not to concern yourself with–”

“Mr Beaseley, my brother is a minor under my charge, and your prevarications are completely inappropriate. You
will
tell me what you know, this
instant
!” she demanded with a volume that was nearing a shout.

“I cannot like this tone, Miss Spencer,” he said, turning back to the ledger open before him, that he had been examining when she first entered his office. “I recommend you attend me at another hour, when your senses are not so disordered.” He waved a hand above his head in a gesture of dismissal one might use with a servant, not even looking at her. “Good day to you.”

“By God, you little wea-”

“I recommend you answer the lady.” James’ tone was as soft as the tread that brought him into the room, but it carried a tone of incredulity at
Beaseley’s effrontery.

Mr
Beaseley started, hands flying to the arms of his chair and clutching them nervously. The superb cut and tailoring of James’ clothes could not hide the power implicit in his large figure. Standing still, he yet exuded a faint air of menace as he scowled at the offensive man of affairs.

“Oh . . . ah . . . that is . . . of course. I was merely trying to protect –”

“Tell Miss . . . Spencer what she wishes to know.”

“I really don’t know where Master Spencer is at the present moment.”

“Repeat the conversation you had with him,” she ordered, bolstered by James’ backing. Beaseley shot her a look of despite, and said:

“He wished, quite properly, to settle some affairs of his father’s that had been left outstanding. I assured him t
hat my final bill had been paid by my own effort to dispose of your father’s chattels. The house and furniture, etcetera. He asked if I knew of any other debts. I said to my knowledge, there were none, as I oversaw the payments to the bank and all others out of the proceeds from the sale. There was virtually nothing remaining, by the way. I have a trifling amount ready for your brother to draw upon when he reaches his majority. I will hold it in trust until then.”

“Do. But you gave him no other direction than that?”

“I mentioned a moneylender. I do not know if your father ever did business with the man, but he asked me for a recommendation to such a person in the month before his death. If there was another debt it might have been to him, if not over some private matter between Mr Spencer and another gentlemen.”

“Did Peter go to him? Do you know?”

“I do not. The possibility exists.”

“What is the direction?”

“A Mr Jack Pritchard, in Water Lane, Blackfriars.”

Jack. The name rang in her head like a knell of doom.

“Black Jack? Is this man Black Jack?”

“I am not familiar with that sobriquet.”

Melissa stood, fists clenching and unclenching by her sides as she stared at this awful, smug man. Ruin stared her in the face.

“Do you have any idea, any idea
whatsoever
of the sort of man you have recommended to your client? And then to give his name to my brother, my innocent brother. You
despicable
–” She choked on her gorge, whirling and sidestepping James to run from the room.

He caught up with her on the stairs.

“My God, my God!” she babbled, taking the steps two-at-a-time. “We must make all haste! Do you know the way? Tell me you can find this Water Lane.”

“I can. But who is this man?”

“The worst. The very worst. Dangerous, unprincipled . . . this is my every nightmare.” They burst out of the building and onto the street, Melissa casting about dazedly, one hand pressed against her forehead as if to hold her senses together.

“What do you know of him? Does he work alone? What is the scope of his operations?”

“I barely know. Only that he has many men in his pay, and a reach to be feared. He will not hesitate to do such to Peter that I . . . oh God.” She nearly collapsed at the thought, her knees giving way. But James stood by to catch her round the waist and keep her on her feet. He held her for only a brief moment, until she was steady, his broad chest a rock against her shoulder.

“We will find him. Do not fear.” He set his hands about her waist and lifted her easily into the phaeton, then flicked a coin to the boy who stood at the horses’ heads. “We
shall
find him. But pause only a moment. I say we go first to Bow Street. We should take reinforcements. I will not see you put in danger along with your brother.”

“I cannot bear to–”

“I am not asking. You are under my protection and by God I protect what is mine. Now hush and hold on, we go with all speed.”

He suited action to words, taking the reins firmly in his hands and flicking his whip over the heads of his horses. They surged into motion, racing down the street and making pedestrians shriek and bellow with fright as they leapt from their path. Melissa held on for dear life, aware of the danger but uncaring what risks they took, if only they could reach Peter in time.

“Oh Peter. Oh my God, Peter.” Tears were streaming down her face.

“It may not be the same man. If the only connection is a name–”

“Father sought a money lender. He was given Jack Pritchard’s name. He borrowed money from Black Jack. The coincidence is too great. It
must
be the same man. If I am wrong it will be a miracle.”

All this past night her brother had been in the clutches of Black Jack. While she debauched herself with James, he had suffered God only knew what horrors. She remembered Black Jack’s threats,
remembered her own auction – and knew a fear the like of which she had never imagined.

At Bow Street James refused to leave the carriage, instead sending one of the men at the door inside to fetch an officer. The officer sauntered out onto the pavement two minutes later, by which time Melissa was ready to have hysterics. When he saw the carriage and couple waiting for him he smartened his pace, touching his hat respectfully as he came to stand by the near wheel.

James leaned over to speak to him.

“I hold your magistrate to be a close personal friend. I wish to see a force dispatched in pursuit of a villain – one Black Jack, residing as Mr Jack Pritchard in Water Lane, Blackfriars. The man has kidnapped Master Peter Spencer, this woman’s brother.”

To hear him say it with a certainty like that made it so much more devastatingly real in her mind. She fought the debilitating wave of despair back fiercely, knowing there was no time to indulge
herself by giving way to it.

“He made threats against my brother’s wellbeing, and my brother had a considerable sum of money about his person,” she added anxiously, hoping to convey the gravity of the situation and add to the stack of crimes in case that swayed the man in some way. “It will have been stolen, I have no doubt.”

“This man is by all accounts a desperate character. You or your associates may have knowledge of him.”

“Can’t say as I have, sir.
But I’ve not been long at Bow Street. I’ll just have a word with the Guvnor an I’ll be back right quick. You stay here, if you please.”

“The name is
Carstairs.” The man nodded and went swiftly away.

Melissa was in a fever of impatience. To sit still for these long minutes and wait was well nigh impossible. James tucked her again against his chest, stroking her hair and shoulder in a calm, reassuring way. Without that touch she felt she would surely have flown apart in agitation.

“This will not take long. Only wait a few moments and then we can go. Hush now. Peter will be all right. Just a little longer.”

She was appalled to be weeping still, letting her tears soak into his coat. The completely unaccustomed comfort of a strong man to bulwark her against misfortune seemed to have turned her into one of those wretched, helpless watering pot women she had always despised. Even so, he represented the best and brightest hope of rescuing Peter. She did not imagine she could face this moment alone.

Finally the runner returned, followed quickly by the clatter of hooves on cobbles as four more officers on horseback rounded the corner.

“We’re to go with you, sir. And you can send the lady inside to wait, if you please.”

“Not a chance!” she said fiercely, emerging from James’ arms with a scowl on her face.

He took one look at her expression. “She’s coming.
Water Lane, though I don’t know the number. Jack Pritchard’s the man.”

He flicked his whip over the horses, which sprang readily into action, and they bowled away down the street. The horsemen flanked them to start with, and then outpaced them, though not by much. James took the corners at a speed that made her gasp in fright.

Down Fleet Street they wove in and out of the traffic, whoops and catcalls rising from the pavements as the Runners cantered past. Melissa barely saw the early morning crowds of vendors and pedestrians, her attention all on the carts that impeded their way, traders with wagons piled high and the hustle and bustle of London commerce beginning its day.

People recognised the Runners in their distinctive dark coats and top hats, stopping and making way for them where they could. James followed close behind, passing between obstructions with inches to spare, displaying a control and finesse that would have amazed her at any other time.

Not now though, not now when every thought was a drumming in her head that urged them onwards, faster and faster.

They took the main roads and in less than a quarter of the hour the Runners were making a turn into a smaller street signposted Water Lane, still passably wide and respectable enough in appearance. She saw shingles out advertising a lawyer, a
printshop and a moneylender. There, yes! A legend was inscribed over the door: ‘Mr. J. A. Pritchard, Sums of Exchange.’

“There!” she hissed, grabbing James’ arm and pointing with her free hand.

“I see it.” So had the Runners, for they pulled up and dismounted in a businesslike way that did much to reassure her. She stood and made ready to climb down without waiting for assistance, but James forestalled her.

“Wait here,” he commanded, gripping her upper arm in turn.

“What? I will not! That is my brother–”

“And you have done all you can for him, leading us here. Let us take care of the rest.”

“But you will not recognise him. Nor yet Black Jack.”

“We shall manage. If the man’s the desperate character you think him, I’ll not have you getting in the way and becoming a hostage or a target. Stay here and hold the horses. I shall return as swiftly as I may. With this force of arms we should be done quickly enough. Do not keep me longer by arguing. There’s no time for it!”

Seeing the implacably grim look on his face she gave up her protests, intending to wait only until he was inside before following at his heels. But when she saw him pull a pistol from a space under his seat, check the powder in the pan then put it in his pocket, she bit her lip.

A grave situation indeed.
Dangerous to come upon him from behind by surprise.

As he jumped down and ran into the building after the Runners she waited,
joggling up and down, undecided. But the tension became too much. She looped the reins and tied them fast, caught up her skirt, uncaring for decency, and climbed down.

With her feet on the pavement her attention was caught by three figures, emerging with stealth from a byway some four or five buildings away down the street. Her distracted brain was just a moment too slow to recognise them and turn away to conceal her face.

She saw a malevolent smile break out across one man’s features and turned in a panic to flee. But her slender skirt was a hobble, tangling her legs in their petticoats and preventing any sort of real stride. In moments she felt a firm grip take hold of her shoulder and spin her around before a heavy clout on the jaw shook her skull and knocked her from consciousness.