It Takes a Lady Read online

  “No, milord. Nothing of the sort. We get mostly diamonds, very few rubies. Did you have a particular necklace in mind?”

  “I do, the Belmont rubies. I expect you are familiar with the piece?”

  “Oh certainly. And you have reason to believe Lady Belmont is planning to sell the Belmont rubies?”

  “Not in the least. The necklace has been stolen, I fear.”

  Perkins gasped in shock. “No! Really?”

  “Just last night. Presumably the thief plans to sell it.”

  “Oh but any thief worth his salt would never try to sell a piece like that to a reputable dealer like Rundell and Bridge, milord. Those famous pieces are too well known for us to handle them unless we were dealing with the legal owner.”

  “We have no reason to suppose it was a professional thief who took the necklace. In fact, it might just be misplaced — lost, but we thought it wise to make a few queries, just in case. You would recognize the necklace, then?”

  “Certainly I would. I know every stone in it. The centerpiece is a pigeon’s blood ruby as big as a cherry. And it is missing, you say?”

  “Yes, missing. That’s the proper word. It is missing.”

  The clerk frowned, bit his lips, and after a moment’s consideration said, “And the insurance company has been notified, I assume?”

  “I don’t believe so. Not yet, in any case.”

  Perkins looked as worried as if the missing necklace belonged to him. “I have not seen it since — well since half a dozen years ago, milord, when we — er, worked on it.”

  “You’ll send word to my house at once if it comes in, or if you hear word of its being up for sale.”

  “Certainly, milord, but I doubt very much it will turn up at any reputable dealer’s shop. Thieves have other ways of disposing of their illegal gains.”

  “So I understand. Thank you, Perkins.”

  He took Elizabeth’s arm to lead her out. She said in an innocent voice completely at odds with the mischievous glint in her eyes, “Why don’t you take care of that matter of your diamond cravat pin while you are here, Carbury? I fear I’m keeping you late for that pressing appointment you keep mentioning. A diamond cravat pin should soothe any ruffled feathers.”

  He led her quickly out the door. “You have a nasty mind, Miss Warwick. I am not in the habit of giving my man of business diamonds when I miss an appointment. Well, that was a waste of time. I believe I mentioned to you that Sara wouldn’t take the rubies to a well-known jeweler.” He signaled for his carriage, that was half a block away.

  “Anyone up to all the rigs like you wouldn’t. I still say a peagoose like Sara might. Let us try Wirgam and Love while we’re in the area, and if they haven’t seen it either, then we shall have to try other things.”

  They tried Wirgam and Love, and Cranford and received the same story in each shop. “Now may we proceed to a sensible search for the necklace?” he said, and again beckoned his waiting carriage forward.

  Elizabeth thought a moment, then said, “I cannot believe Sara would be familiar with anyone from Stop Hole Abbey.”

  He was surprised that Miss Warwick knew of this haunt of thieves, where stolen goods were bought and sold at discounted prices. “No more can I. Let us hope she still has the necklace, and hasn’t passed it on to a cohort. You say she left Galveston’s party immediately after lifting the necklace. She was with Buckner, and she would hardly be meeting a cohort with him along. And by the way, may I ask how a gently-reared lady like yourself is familiar with Stop Hole Abbey?”

  “Strangely, we do-gooders do not restrict ourselves to rendering help to those who don’t need it. We deal with desperately poor people, drunkards and derelicts who have been known to swipe a watch or ring on occasion. I daresay even prison is preferable to starving to death, or watching your children go hungry. I must go and speak to them.”

  “I shouldn’t think drunkards or derelicts would be handling a piece like the Belmont rubies.”

  “Not directly, but their grapevine is quite effective. Let us go to the Dials.”

  “Dials? What Dials?” he asked in confusion.

  “Seven Dials, of course.”

  “Seven Dials! Good God, Elizabeth, I can’t take you there. I wouldn’t go there myself. It’s not safe. You have no idea what that place is like.”

  She noticed, but did not comment on his using her first name. He hadn’t used it for five years. She had no intention, however, of calling him Nicholas unless and until he asked her to. She had taken too much for granted before and regretted it. “I am quite familiar with the place, Carbury. And you won’t be taking me, I’ll be taking you — unless you are afraid?”

  “It was your safety I was concerned about.”

  “That’s settled then. We are going. I shall be perfectly safe.” As the carriage drew up, she frowned at the crested panel on the gleaming door.

  “Only I fear we cannot go in your rig. It’s too grand. We’ll have to take mine.”

  “If you think the lack of a crest on the panel will save your carriage from being rifled —”

  “I shan’t be using Auntie’s carriage. I have a little rig of my own, not quite so fine. Your groom can drive us to the mews. It will save time if he drives my rig, rather than sending for my coachman.”

  She gave the coachman directions and they were driven to the mews where she stabled the rig she used for her trips to the slums. Carbury stared to see what the ostler led forth. It was a plain, small black dusty rig of a sort not used by society for the last two decades, but still encountered around villages. Ambitious drapers and tradesmen drove such well-used rigs for deliveries. It was drawn by a pair of mismatched jades that looked at home to a peg in the harness, being of a similar vintage and in a similar state of decrepitude.

  Carbury looked from the rig to Elizabeth, and said, “If this is your notion of a joke, Miss Warwick —”

  “No one will see you,” she said, patting his arm as if he were a child. “It is a closed carriage after all. You needn’t open the windows and no one will see through the dust on them.” She looked a challenge at him just as Carbury’s coachman approached them with his mouth hanging open as he looked from the carriage to his master.

  “Think you can handle this pair of bloods, Rafferty?” Nicholas said, chewing back a grin.

  “Gorblimey,” Rafferty said.

  Elizabeth turned to him and said, “Seven Dials, Rafferty.”

  Rafferty looked to Lord Carbury for confirmation of this outrageous suggestion. Nick shrugged, said, “You heard the lady. Seven Dials it is.”

  “But where the deuce is it? I’ve never been there.”

  “Do you know where Aldridge’s Horse and Carriage place is, in Upper St. Martin’s Lane?” she asked.

  “Can’t say I do, Ma’am.”

  “Drive to the junction of Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road. We’ll walk from there. You do know where Charing Cross Road is?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said with an apologetic glance at his master. The poorly hung carriage door emitted a squawk as he wrenched it open to allow the passengers to enter.

  Bags of various sorts littered the fading leather seats of the rig, hardly leaving them room to sit. Elizabeth pushed the bags to the floor and sat down. Nicholas drew out his handkerchief and dusted the seat opposite before sitting. “It will be best to walk once we get close,” she said. “I never take my carriage into Cock and Pye Fields. Such as it is, it is still a temptation to some.”

  “Where did you get this contraption?” he asked, brushing at the dusty window, but the dust was on the outside as well. He looked at his soiled handkerchief and tossed it on the floor.

  “I inherited it from Aunt Gertrude. I really don’t know how she came by it. Would you like her to procure one for you?”

  He ignored this mischievous question and for some moments the carriage jerked and jolted along. At length he asked, “Where are we to meet these derelicts and drunkards?”

  �
��Here and there. Some of them will be at home, some loitering on street corners, some in gin parlours, some in their places of business.”

  “I hesitate to ask what sort of business is run there.”

  “They have to live, like everyone else. They have rag and bone and used iron shops, builders, green grocers, estate agents — really slum landlords, women take in laundry and do dressmaking. On a fine day like this many of them will be on the street.” Probably brawling, but she didn’t mention that.

  “You do usually take a footman with you on these outings, I trust?”

  “I made that mistake at first. After he was knocked down and had his jacket and trousers stolen, I got some old second hand clothing for Alfie. He’s the under footman who usually drives my rig and accompanies me now. He was to come with me this morning, but when the Bow Street Runner called, I decided helping Tommy was more urgent and went looking for someone to help me, some friend or relative of Tommy’s. Wonderful luck that I ran into you.”

  He cast a baleful glare in her direction. “Wonderful luck.”

  “I see you disapprove of my toilette.”

  “Just surprised. You are usually more elegant.”

  “I wear these old clothes when I’m working. When in Rome, you know. I didn’t take time to change.”

  “I assume your Alfie does not go in livery. Manages to escape without losing the coat off his back, does he?”

  “Yes, Alfie has a wonderful way with the unfortunate people we’ll be meeting. He once lived in the Dials himself and knows their ways. He helped me out the day the footman had trouble. He rescued me, and I rescued him. We had just lost a servant so I hired him and took him home.” As she explained, she looked at Nick’s expensive Weston jacket, his immaculate cravat, his buckskins and shiny Hessians and frowned.

  “You are thinking I will look out of place,” he said.

  “Like a dandy in a rag and bone shop. You’ll have to change your clothes.”

  “Strangely, I had no notion when I left home this morning that I would be shanghaied into duty and didn’t ask my valet to pack me a bag,” he replied with a steely stare.

  “Well, you are in luck. There is some old clothing in that sack on the floor. Things I take for people who are in rags. You should find something to fit.” She met his glare with a challenging smile. “Unless you subscribe to the foolish notion that clothes make the man,” she taunted.

  He managed to keep his tongue between his teeth as he opened the bag and rooted about amidst a jumble of gowns, coats, shawls, undergarments and trousers. “If you seriously think I would be caught dead in any of these rags —”

  “More likely to be caught dead if you go flaunting that Weston jacket and fancy cravat pin. At least change your jacket and put on an old hat. And use a shawl or something to cover up your cravat and that pin.”

  He took it as a dare, and continued rooting in the bags, finally shaking out a few wearable pieces. “I shall wear this charming black hat and this moleskin jacket, but I’ll be damned if I’ll change my boots. I’ll sprinkle them with dust as I walk along.”

  “That will be fine. And don’t forget to cover your shirt front and cravat.”

  Nick rummaged through the bag and chose a knitted winter scarf in an unattractive grayish-purple shade. They alit a block before Seven Dials and Nick changed his hat and jacket. The jacket was too small for him, the hat too large. “I feel like a scarecrow,” he said.

  “You look like one. You’ll be the best-dressed scarecrow there.”

  It was not necessary for Nick to apply dust to his boots. By the time they reached their destination they were well dusted from the unpaved streets and dog droppings. Despite the obvious poverty, several stray dogs and cats managed to eke out a living. Probably lived on rats, to judge by their tattered ears and patchy fur, and in some cases lack of a tail.

  Seven streets fanned out from the column with the dialstone at its base. The seven dials which gave the place its name had disappeared long ago. The area had the facilities of a village for the desperate or the damned — decrepit shops, a few coffee shops, several gin parlours, small businesses and even a church. What it did not have was a school, with the result that ragged, shoeless, thin children swarmed about the streets, yelling, fighting, chasing dogs, some of them just sitting staring into space, as if they were already old men and women.

  A group of women, obviously the worse for drink, were fighting in the street, surrounded by a shouting throng. Groups of unsavory-looking men stared at them in a way that made Nick wish he had brought a pistol with him, though none of them actually accosted him.

  “We’ll start with Great White Lion Street,” she said, pointing to one of the seven streets fanning out from the column. “There’s a lumber house there.”

  “I thought we were looking for rubies, not lumber?”

  “It’s a house where thieves take stolen property to be sold. Sara wouldn’t know about it, of course, but as you mentioned, she might have passed the necklace along to someone. It’s worth a try.”

  Elizabeth was greeted by various derelicts as they walked along the street. “Morning, Miss,” the roughest looking men said with a shy smile and a nod.

  “Morning, Knuckles,” she answered to one lumbering giant in a catskin jacket. “Are you a proud father yet?”

  “ ‘Twas a boy, Miss, so we can’t be calling him Lizzie after yourself like we promised. Did next best thing, called him after King George – for the guinea, you see. Georgie it is, for better or for worser.”

  “King George will be pleased. Meg is all right, is she?”

  “She is, Miss, though ‘twas hard coming for the little one. We had to send for the midwife. Thankee for the pork jelly and blankets and all.”

  “I’ll drop in on Meg soon.” Nick assumed from the pleased grin Knuckles gave her when Liz shook hands with him that some money had been passed along.

  “Have you told them the king donates a guinea if they call a boy after him?” he asked in confusion.

  “They already know it.”

  “I never heard of that custom.”

  “Things are different here,” she said.

  Others — men, women and children, called out to her in a friendly fashion. A few of the women asked where Alfie was. Some of them reminded her of promises, some received the welcome handshake, all were obviously on the friendliest terms with Miss Warwick. Nick felt he had fallen into either a dream or a nightmare.

  Could this be the same naive girl who was afraid to ride in his curricle five years ago? Who had been shocked when she learned that some of her acquaintances had mistresses, and thought a carte blanche was just a white card for writing notes? He had found her naiveté charming, an interesting change from the more worldly debs — until she let him know she had marriage in mind.

  After walking for some fifteen minutes with frequent stops along the way, she stopped in front of a tumbledown wooden building that looked like an overgrown shack. Shabby men, not all of them sober, wandered in and out. Some of them nodded to Elizabeth.

  “This is it,” she said. “You’d best let me do the talking. King George is not good with strangers.”

  By this time, Nick would not have been completely surprised to see the monarch there, handing out guineas. King George was mad after all.

  Chapter Three

  Half a dozen rough-looking men sat around a deal table playing cards, smoking pipes and drinking ale. A saucer of pennies sat in the middle of the table. They glanced up when Elizabeth and Nick entered but continued their game without speaking. A buxom female with red curls tumbling from below a bedraggled mobcap stood behind them. She held a dust cloth, or possibly an extremely dirty tea towel, in her hand but was not using it. She also looked up when they entered. She didn’t smile but she came forward and said in a friendly manner, “Morning, Miss Lizzie. Not often you honour us with a visit. Can I help you at all?”

  “Morning, Meg. Is his majesty receiving visitors today?”

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nbsp; “Aye, the king’s in his counting house, as they say. I’ll see if he’s holding court.” As she spoke her sultry eyes moved to Nick, looking him up and down as if she were thinking of buying him. “Who’s yer friend then?” she asked Elizabeth. “Got yerself a new fella?”

  “Alfie’s under the weather today.”

  “I like this one better,” Meg said, gave Nicholas a poke on the shoulder and emitted a raucous laugh before waddling out of the room. She was soon back, beckoning them forward. They followed her down a long, dim, dusty corridor with closed doors along both sides. A large Union Jack topped by a gilt crown hung above an open door at the end of the corridor. “You know the way, Miss Lizzie. In there,” Meg said with a toss of her curls, and returned to monitor the card game.

  Nick would hardly have been more surprised to see the real King George than the person who greeted them. The wizened little man with snow white hair curling around his ears wore an ermine wrap around his narrow shoulders and a haughty expression on his narrow face. He sat on a throne-like carved chair that would have held two or three of him.

  Under the ermine he wore a crimson jacket bedecked with as many medals and stars and ribbons as the Prince Regent on parade. All of the ribbons were frayed, some of the medals looked authentic, in some the gilt had worn off to reveal the lead below. His fine white hands had handsome rings on seven of the nine digits. The small finger on his left hand was missing. The thumbs were unadorned.

  Elizabeth made a curtsy and said, “Good morning, Sire.”

  “What may we do for you this fine day, milady?” he asked Elizabeth, using the royal “we”. He remained seated and did not offer them a chair. In fact the throne was the only seat in the room. The room was furnished, really over-furnished, with fine cabinets and tables and an intricately carved armoire that occupied half a wall, but no chairs.