“What can we do?” I asked in some desperation.
“We can watch.” Mr.Grimes’s usually sunny face held seriousness. “We can be ready to snatch our Danny to safety at a moment’s notice. If you got one of the maids on your side, she can help, can’t she?”
“She can.” Hannah was nothing if not resourceful. She was also fast on her feet, slipping from danger like a clever fox from a snare.
Mr.Grimes pasted on his smile again. “Don’t you worry, Mrs.H. Danny won’t come to harm ifIhave anything to say about it.”
I believed him, and I appreciated his adamance. “His brother is helping too. Mr.Fielding’s got people watching.” His lads lounged against railings in the shadows a little way along Mount Street even now, observing us.
“Wild Errol, the vicar?” Mr.Grimes’s laugh rang out once more. “Well, he knows some who are plenty frightening. Dangerous even. They’ll let no grief come to Danny.”
“Thank you, Mr.Grimes,” I said, straightening my basket. “You have made me feel much better.”
Mr.Grimes touched his cap. “Happy to help. Danny’s like a brother to me. One what kept me out of trouble—as long as I did whatever he said.” He chuckled.
My tension eased enough to let me smile. “That sounds likeour Danny. Please visit again, Mr.Grimes. And tell me aboutanythingthat happens.”
“That I will.” He winked. “Any extra tarts wouldn’t go amiss either.”
I regretfully showed him my empty basket. “I’m afraid I’ve given away everything I brought out with me. If you stay a moment, I can fetch you something else.”
“Naw.” Mr.Grimes straightened to his full height. “I ate plenty of grub already today. Save it for another time. It will be my special treat.”
“I will reward you well,” I promised. Mr.Grimes would never have an empty belly again.
“I do look forward to that.” Mr.Grimes rubbed his hands in tattered gloves together. “Good night, missus. And don’t you worry. I’ll look after him.”
“Good night, Mr.Grimes.” I knew he’d do his best to keep Daniel safe, and for that, I’d bake him a thousand tarts. “God bless you.”
“And you, missus.” Mr.Grimes tipped a grubby cap to me, sent me his brilliant grin, and ducked back into the shadows.
I waited until he’d disappeared before I gave Mr.Fielding’s boys a nod and turned back to the kitchen stairs. I was still afraid for Daniel, but as I descended to the kitchen once more, I was bolstered by the knowledge that he had allies who’d fight for him.
* * *
The week’s end passed without incident at Mount Street, with the exception of Mrs.Bywater scolding me for making so rich a dish as the apples à la frangipane. I’d give them all dyspepsia if I wasn’t careful, she said.
Mr.Davis told me sourly that such concerns hadn’t stopped Mrs.Bywater from eating an entire bowl of it.
In my annoyance, I decided it would serve her right to give her a tart that was as dry as toast, perhaps with a single smear of unsweetened jam as its filling.
I even began to rub a tiny amount of butter into a mound of flour I’d heaped upon my table. If I moistened it into a paste with water, the result would be crisp and dry, like the stalest bread.
“Are we out of butter?” Tess asked in passing as she glanced at my floury fingers. “I can run out and fetch some if you like.”
“No, no.” I snatched the cloth off the tub I had brought from the larder and cut more cubes. “If I want the dough to puff into leaves, I must add the butter a little at a time.”
In the end, I could not bring myself to make a bad pastry. It would be like a famous soprano trying to sing out of tune, or a great ballerina faltering to the time of the music. If word got out that one of my tarts was inedible, my reputation would be in tatters.
I transformed the mound of flour and bowl of butter into a sheet of dough that I folded and rolled out, folded and rolled out, over and over. I layered the finished sheets into an oblong pan, alternating them with pears and cinnamon. No custard this time, but the pastry would not need it. I’d whip a cream to dollop onto the warm, finished pieces.
That sweet went up on Sunday night, and Mr.Davis proclaimed it a success. Tess and I, eating the remainder, agreed.
Monday after lunch, I donned my second-best frock and scurried away before Mrs.Bywater could come downstairs and demand I make six more of the pear tarts for tonight, as Mr.Davis had warned me she’d threatened to.
I’d nearly reached Oxford Street, when a hansom overtook me. I recognized the cabbie as one called Lewis, Daniel’s friend, and paused my steps when Lewis halted next to me.
“Get in, Mrs.H.,” Lady Cynthia drawled at me from the hansom’s interior. The upright figure of Mr.Thanos sat next to her, with as much space between the two as the small cab could possibly allow. “Thanos and I would like to ask you a few questions.”
