It was frustrating how every avenue led them to a dead end. There was no evidence pointing to the man behind this gang. If they didn’t get him, he could continue to operate even with the rest of them in jail. It was not these few felons they were after. They wanted their leader, who had tentacles that stretched far beyond England’s shores.
Chapter Nine
Aunt Mary wasunwell with a headache the next day. Jo’s father was engaged in writing letters home, hoping for news about the new owner of the shop and Sooty.
Idleness never appealed to Jo, and as the efficient staff took care of everything, she decided on an excursion to the Pantheon Bazaar in Oxford Street. Surely even Reade would not consider it reckless, as she and Aunt Mary had visited Piccadilly without harassment a few days earlier. Elegant carriages had filled the street while well-dressed women browsed the shops with their liveried servants.
Jo descended from the hackney with Sally onto Oxford Street, right outside the splendid building of the Pantheon Bazaar. Exotic smells greeted them as they walked into the grand entry with a high arch above. Any lingering doubt Reade might have instilled in her vanished as they joined the others roaming the shops. Every sort of item one could wish for was on display, novelties, jewelry, and furs. Jo tried on a becoming wide-brimmed hat trimmed with cerulean blue ribbons and promptly bought it, together with a straw bonnet decorated with artificial primroses for Sally to wear to church.
Another hour passed as they purchased more items. When Jo opened her coin purse to pay for a tortoiseshell comb decorated with pearls, she found she only had enough money left for the hackney ride home. She put the comb down and closed her purse.
“I have never seen the like of these shops, Miss Jo,” Sally said, who seemed thrilled with her new hat.
“I intend to come back soon,” Jo said, admiring the wares in shops as they passed. They carried the milliners’ hat boxes and their other packages through the bazaar, searching for the way out. The arched windows revealed the lowering sun above the rooftops. How quickly the hours had passed. Her father would be anxious.
She spied a door leading outside. “We’d best find a hackney.”
The street was unfamiliar. “This is not Oxford Street, where we came in.” She spied a signpost. “It’s Marlborough Street.” There were no hackneys in sight. “We might have better luck around the corner where there’s a hackney stop.”
They passed young gentlemen who lounged about in conversation or sauntered up and down. Dressed in tight coats, some wore canary-yellow trousers, others striped waistcoats, their cravats elaborate creations.
“My father calls them coxcombs,” Jo murmured.
A gentleman with a purple and yellow paisley waistcoat raised his quizzing glass to ogle them.
Jo flushed. “How rude,” she said under her breath, frowning at a gentleman whose collar was so high he could barely turn his head. He still viewed their progress as they hurried along.
Loaded up with parcels, they reached the corner. Jo breathed more easily when a hackney appeared at the top of the street. “Wait here with the boxes, Sally. I’ll hail that jarvey.”
The jarvey ignored her and drove his horse past. Jo dropped her arm. Several vehicles passed up and down the busy street. When another hackney appeared, Jo, determined not to let him escape, rushed onto the road. She waved her handkerchief as the carriage advanced down the street, the horse at a fast trot.
The jarvey drew his horse to a stop some yards further along. Jo hurried to give him directions. When she turned back, there was no sign of Sally. Their hat boxes and parcels were still on the pavement where she’d left them. Fancy leaving them like that. Annoyed, Jo ran over and gathered them up, expecting Sally to emerge from a shop. She’d barely turned her back for a minute. Where had the girl got to?
The jarvey yelled at her. He was losing his patience. Jo smiled sweetly and held up her hand, then darted into a nearby shop. She came out a few minutes later, none the wiser. The shopkeeper had not seen Sally.
Jo ran to where the men still loitered about and approached the exquisitely dressed young gentleman in the purple and yellow waistcoat who dabbed at his mouth with a lace-edged handkerchief.
“Have you seen my maid, sir?”
He waved the handkerchief, releasing a cloying scent. “Yes.”
“Quickly. Tell me! Where did she go?”
He grinned. “She walked around the corner into Oxford Street with you.”
The man standing next to him guffawed.
“Oh!” With a glare, Jo ran back to where she’d last seen Sally, gasping, boxes dropping from her nerveless fingers. Sally had not returned. Now thoroughly alarmed, Jo retraced her steps, her throat tight. What could have happened to her? It was as if she’d disappeared into thin air.
With a curse, the jarvey drove on, leaving Jo alone, her mind blank with confusion. Her chest heaved. Could it be as Reade had said? Had a procurer taken Sally?
Fighting tears, she stood unable to think as pedestrians pushed past her. Some glanced at her curiously, but no one stopped to ask if they could help. Jo waited. A sharp wind blew dark clouds overhead. Rain sent people scurrying. Water dripped off the brim of her hat, her parcels in danger of slipping from her shaky hands. Was she panicking unnecessarily? She tried to think. Sally must have dashed into a shop for something she’d seen and become lost. The maid would find her way back to Upper Brook Street. She seemed a capable, sensible girl.
When a hackney stopped for her, she climbed inside, damp and shivering.
Arriving home, she paid him and ran up the path, her arms full of parcels. The butler answered the knocker. “Mr. Spears,” she gasped, gazing into eyes, which bore a distant expression. “Has my maid, Sally, arrived home?”
“I couldn’t say, Miss Dalrymple. Servants do not enter through the front door if they know what is good for them.”
