Bartholomew grinned. He approached the desk with his usual briskness, holding a small, folded letter between his fingertips.
“Thought you’d like to know, sir. I took the letter to Mrs. Beltan’s as you asked. There’s been a reply.”
Chapter 11
“So soon?” I asked to hide my eagerness—I’d only sent him off a few hours ago. “Did you wait there for it?”
“No, sir. I told Mrs. Beltan to forward any response to the house and came on home. The lad she hires for errands brought it to the kitchen door just now. I thought you’d want to see it right away.”
I did. “An excellent thought. Thank you, Bartholomew.” I took the letter from him, pretending I wasn’t impatient to read it.
“No trouble, Captain. I’d been missing Mrs. Beltan’s scones.” Bartholomew sighed in nostalgia for the nights he’d spent in the cold attic at the top of that house. “She gave me a dozen. Only charged me for six.”
“Kind of her.” I noted that the practical-minded Mrs. Beltan had not given him all twelve for nothing. “I too miss her baking. She has a good heart and talented hands.”
“As you say, though Lady B’s cook is a fine one too. I’ve gained a stone since we moved here, I think.”
Bartholomew patted his firm and youthfully slim belly, bade me a cheerful good evening, and departed to go about his duties.
I quickly broke the plain seal on the letter and opened it to find that Lady had written her response beneath my note to her.
I was pleased to receive your very kind reply, Captain, and happy that you remember me. If you can speak with me tomorrow at Mrs. Beltan’s shop, I will make my way there at two o’clock. I realize you must be a very busy man these days, so there is no need to reply to this letter. I will await you there tomorrow, and at two o’clock all days after that for a week. If you discover you cannot find the time, then I will cease bothering you.
I remain, as always, in respect,
Lady
I set aside the letter and made a note in my book—two o’clock, Mrs. Beltan’s bakeshop. I was quite curious to learn what Lady had to say and would make certain I arrived at the appointed time.
I noticed in Lady’s letters her full knowledge that I’d married into a prominent family who’d dragged me into their whirl. I also heard the undercurrent of humor that had underlain her tone whenever she’d spoken to me at the lying-in house.
Again, I wondered who the blackguard was who’d brought her to that sad place. Courageous of her to lay the blame on herself, but if I ever found the man who’d ruined her, I’d take him apart.
At half past seven Grenville and I, accompanied by Brewster, seated ourselves in the Fox Run tavern and accepted pints of mediocre ale from the proprietor.
Brewster took a noisy sip, made a face, and placed his tankard on the table. He wiped his mouth but said nothing, keeping an eye on who came and went through the door.
Busy Piccadilly arced between Hyde Park Corner to Haymarket, skirting Mayfair and St. James’s. This tavern, almost exactly in the middle of the arc, attracted gentlemen who took rooms nearby as well as those who worked for such gentlemen. About half the patrons were men in coachman’s livery or servants taking their day out, the other half well-dressed gents seeking a meal or a drink.
Most of the conversations I could hear were of sport, mostly racing and boxing, and the money to be made—or lost—betting in each. One gentleman moaned he’d wagered a monkey on a steed who’d sauntered in dead last on a point-to-point.
“All but sat down and quit at the final hedge,” he said, to the amusement of his friends. “Rider should have put barbs under his tail or at least sharpened his spurs. Finally, the beast decided to hop over and trot in, looking delighted he’d lost me my little all.”
His unsympathetic friends roared with laughter, slapped him on the back, and ordered more ale.
“Sharpen his spurs,” I repeated in disgust. “Barbs under the tail. If he tries any of that on a horse, I’ll demonstrate exactly how it feels.”
“He is speaking figuratively, I’m certain,” Grenville said soothingly. “A man upset he lost his cash.”
I took another sip of lukewarm ale to contain myself. I was here to find out more about Mr. Pickett and why he should be murdered, not explain the compassionate care of horses to idiots.
The time ticked past, Grenville checking his pocket watch more often than need be. The racing lovers trailed off into general discussion, and I made myself cease listening to them.
Eight o’clock came and went. I began pulling out my watch as often as Grenville. Brewster sat like a stone, as though prepared to wait all night.
“Well,” Grenville said at half past eight. “I suppose this was a wasted errand. I thought it better to meet Mr. Cudgeon as if by chance, but I can always make an appointment with him and pretend I need a new fowling piece. My huntsman usually takes care of that, however, and Cudgeon knows it.”
“I could make the appointment,” I suggested. “With you to recommend me.”
