“What happened with your friend, Alberts?” asked Eli.
“We was doin’ a job?—”
“What kind of job?” Elijah’s heart sank as Mason confirmed Mr. Alberts was under the employ of The Vicar.
“A payin’ one,” spit out Mason, finding his courage.
“Who attacked you that night he disappeared?” asked Eli.
Mason’s head jerked to Elijah, eyes narrowed. “This isn’t just about Alberts?”
Gus said, “Was he trying to leave The Vicar’s congregation?”
The man’s face paled. He blinked, then shook his head. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ else.”
“Then you can come with us. We’ll put you up for the night in a lovely little place on Bow Street,” rasped Eli.
Mason dropped to his knees, scuttled beneath Gus’s arm, then ran. Within two steps, Gus had him by the collar, his huge fist slamming into the man’s jaw. Mason crumpled to the ground. Gus picked him up and heaved the unconscious man over his shoulder. “He’ll be easier to transport this way.”
CHAPTER 11
Friday
Hatton Garden, London
Clara plopped down on a chair in the servants’ hall, happy to finish early tonight. The comte and his sister were attending a social event, so supper would be for the staff only. She was pleased with her dishes so far and had been called up twice and complimented. After receiving permission from Henri, she had shared the soufflé recipe with Lady Moorsy.
“It will be nice having an evening to ourselves,” said Mr. Smalley as he sat down beside her at the table. “I’m hungry enough to eat that little scullery maid.”
A squeak came from the doorway of the scullery, and the butler laughed. “Just teasing.”
Mrs. Johnson came in. “The housemaid is almost finished with her lady’s maid duties. Mr. Smalley, could you be persuaded to bring us an open bottle to finish with dinner?”
“Sounds like a grand plan,” he agreed and left for the butler’s pantry. “I’ll meet you in the servants’ hall.” On occasion, when Mr. Smalley worried wine might go bad, he would share the remains of a corked bottle with the housekeeper and cook.
They ate together, having fed the lesser servants earlier. The conversation came around to their employers.
Mrs. Johnson waved her fork as she spoke, “Does it seem odd that their only guests are widows and spinsters?”
“There was a son who came along once,” reminded Mr. Smalley. “I think his lordship is looking for a rich wife.”
Clara snorted. “His sister would have to give up her imaginary throne.”
“I did hear something about charity donations the other night,” said Mr. Smalley. “Maybe it’s easier to get coin from the older ladies without husbands to convince. The beggars from the war and poor orphans may not elicit the same sympathy from a husband. And what else do they have to spend their money on?”
That made sense to Clara. “Where did they go tonight?”
“A ball given by the Langstins.” The Marquess of Langstin was well-known for his dances. “They won’t be back till late. Is your beau coming tonight?”
“Tomorrow,” she said, trying not to smile at the term “beau.”
“How are you, my dear?” asked Mrs. Johnson. The housekeeper had heard Clara crying several nights when she’d first moved into the cook’s quarters.
“Fine,” she said quickly, knowing the question pertained to her missing father. “We must all continue to live, right? Tomorrow is another day, and being Friday-faced won’t change him being gone.”
“Good attitude,” said Mr. Smalley. “Smart girl.”
***
