CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“The fingers go naturally to the right keys after a few trials.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
The silhouette of a ragged cloaked figure crept through the darkness of the Hanover Square kitchens, their features hidden by a slouched hat.
Hugh’s tread was soundless as he approached, the shadows his accomplice as he moved over the flagstones.
The ominous figure opened a drawer, black-gloved hands searching…
For what?
He thrust his lantern high.
Then muffled a snort for Amelia’s cheeks were daubed with coal dust, her beautiful hair tucked tight within the confines of that horrendous hat, and she wore some peculiar black skirt with pleats.
“Hugh!” She swished her cloak over her shoulders and shoved those black-gloved hands to her hips. “Whatareyou wearing?”
With a mutter of pot and kettle, he peered down at his rather natty charcoal-black waistcoat with silver thread, ebony-black jacket and fine jet-black breeches. He’d forgone the ink-black greatcoat as the night felt warm for once. “My informal wear? And what are you searching for?”
“Tapers,” she hissed. “And we are breaking into a Regiment Office, not attending Almack’s.”
“I realise that,” he said, somewhat affronted. “I’m wearing boots and not my diamond-buckled shoes. But if I’m stopped by the watch on Piccadilly, then I’m merely a gentleman wandering at his leisure. Whereas you’d be taken to Bow Street without so much as a ‘by your leave’. I’ve never seen anyone who more resembles a heinous footpad on the prowl.”
The long black leather gloves folded across her black jacket and he couldn’t help but speculate on the colour of her stockings.
“I’m a female on the streets after midnight. My choices are limited. It was either footpad, doxy or crone.”
Er…“Footpad then. In fact, those leather gloves make me ra–”
“Where are you off to?”
Hugh turned to find Phoebe tapping her slipper at the kitchen doorway, arms folded and plaits jiggling.
“Why aren’t you in bed, young miss? It’s gone midnight.”
“I heard Amelia tiptoe past my door.”
“Ah.” He folded his arms also. “Well, we are just off to do some…reconnoitring.”
She scrunched her nose. “From what I heard, it sounded more like burglary.”
“It’s not burglary if it’s official business.” Which it wasn’t as he’d resigned but that was by the by.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Semantics. And shouldn’t you be wearing something a little less…refined, Uncle Hugh?” She hurried to Amelia. “I do so adore that skirt. Do the pleats mean you can run in it?”
“Precisely,” Amelia said, splaying the material out. “An Irish lady designs them for us. So easy and–”
“Could we perhaps debate the fashion choices of anà la modefootpad on the morrow?” No one had even noticed Hugh’s new boots. Which he’d scuffed especially.
Phoebe nodded and shivered, pale hands rubbing her arms. “Will you be gone…all night?”
“No, just an hour or so.”
“And…are you close, do you think?” Her lips pressed, black eyes shimmering. “To finding out what happened to Papa?”
