A yap rang out as Shivaji collared the man and escorted him back to the carriage.
Catchpole wrenched from Shivaji’s grip, glaring at the Punjabi as he tugged down his waistcoat and brushed away wrinkles. “This is highly irregular! I do not appreciate such handling.”
A peahen couldn’t have looked more ruffled.
Kit covered a smile with her hand.
Baggett smirked.
Jackson opened the door of the barouche. “My apologies, Mr. Catchpole. How about I drive you to wherever it is you’re going? Baggett, I assume you will see Kit safely home?”
His friend gave a sharp nod.
“Until later, then.” Jackson winked at Kit then once again faced Catchpole. “There is nothing to fear, Mr. Catchpole. I’d merely like a few words with you.”
The skinny fellow hesitated, gaze bouncing between him and Shivaji. With a final scowl at the Punjabi, Catchpole apparently made up his mind and hopped up on the step.
Jackson moved aside to allow him space. “Where to, Mr. Catchpole?”
Catchpole clicked the door shut then sank onto the cushion beside him. “Camden Lock, if you please.”
A strange time of night to visit a canal. Then again, everything about Catchpole was strange. He called to Shivaji as the big man gained the driver’s seat and took the reins in hand. “Camden Lock.”
The carriage glided into action, a far smoother ride than an average hack. No doubt Hammerhead would have a thing or two to say when he saw the invoice for this rental on the expense report.
Catchpole’s dark eyes stared at him from behind his mask. “It is very generous of you to offer me a ride after the debacle I nearly created for you. I must say your disguise is quite well done. Better than my own, in fact.” He tapped the side of the black leather near his temple.
Jackson stretched out his legs, crossing one over the other. “Tell me, Mr. Catchpole, why do you wear a mask?”
He was quiet for some time, theclip-clopof the horse’s hooves and the yowl of an alley cat the only sound.
“Perhaps I shall tell you someday,” he murmured at length.
“No one is promised another day, Mr. Catchpole, not even another breath. Now is your chance.” He shifted on the seat, angling to face the man. “I think you know you can trust me.”
“I most emphatically do.” His stringy brown hair bounced against his collar as he nodded vigorously. “You have proven yourself to be the most steadfast man I know.”
“Then tell me who you are—who youreallyare—for we both know the Palace only allows men of status and means to join their club.”
Catchpole’s lips pursed, twitching one way then the other until finally he spoke. “Whatever I tell you must stay inside this carriage. Have I your word, sir?”
Jackson placed his hand against his heart. “Upon my honour.”
Catchpole whooshed a breath. “I was hoping you’d say that. And so…” He tossed back his shoulders. “I begin my tale with a young lad, a voracious reader with a flair for the artistic, and passionate about all things vulnerable: birds, rabbits, mice, even snails or slugs. He was particularly tender of heart, you see, a trait that vexed his father, for he was a man’s man. Hunting parties, brandy and cigars—you know the type. And though this boy tried very hard to please him, nothing he did ever quite measured up to his older brother. Second son, second best, so they say…and they are correct. Oftentimes the boy wished his family were neither wealthy nor powerful.”
Catchpole’s head dipped, the ostrich feather in his hat bowing in sorrow as well.
Sympathy flared in Jackson’s chest. There was no doubt in his mind the man spoke of himself. Even so, he’d play the game set before him. “What happened to the lad?”
“Eventually he realised, though he’d tried to be like his brother, his father simply never accepted him, not even to his dying day.” The carriage veered around a corner, and Catchpole grabbed for the seat before continuing. “So the boy-turned-man purposely set out to be different…which landed him in gaol.”
“Great heavens. What for?”
He chuckled, his crooked teeth flashing as they passed by a streetlamp. “Nothing too grotesque, I assure you. A simple matter of out-of-hand carousing that led to throwing squibs in the marketplace. The resultant bangs caused quite an uproar. One lady even swooned. Still, no one was hurt, and no property was damaged, but being hauled in by the law was enough to shame the family name. So his brother—now the head of the family—sent him packing, albeit with a monthly stipend. Put him up on the far side of town in a not-too-shabby flat.” Catchpole shook his head sadly. “But I could never be a kept man, so I never did stay there.”
Jackson noted the slip. On purpose or a slight? Perhaps better not to question it…yet. In fact, in order to get more personal information out of the man, he averted his gaze, looking out at the passing buildings instead of directly at Catchpole. “And the mask?”
“A necessary evil, one I was forced to don the day I moved to the streets. The funny thing is, though, that I soon learned street people really aren’t any more virtuous than the wealthy. They are just as conniving and discriminating. No one accepted me for who I am. That is what brought me to my lowest point—the day you redeemed my life on the Blackfriars Bridge. I wasn’t jesting when I said you restored my hope in mankind, and even more so in these following weeks when you never once banished me from your presence. I believe you have shown me the very grace of God.”
