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“Only you got away. Well, when they get to the magistrate’s, they’ll discover their mistake, won’t they?”
“If ‘at where he was goin’,” Jemmy hinted darkly.
“Why do you suppose otherwise?” Mr. Langdon asked.
Jemmy gazed at him in exasperation. “Din’t I jest tell you? He’s been spyin’ on her and askin’ fings all week. Besides, ‘at big one ‘at grabbed me ain’t no trap, neither. Almost as big as you are,” he told Lord Rand, “only fatter and his nose all mashed in. I knows all on ‘em and he ain’t one.”
“Are you sure? He might be a new officer who mistook you for another boy.”
“Not him. He wouldn’t be nowhere’s near ‘em traps and horneys.”
This Lord Rand translated for Mr. Langdon as referring to thief takers and constables respectively.
“I seen him once at a gin shop when I went arter me mum. She wanted him to get her a job in ‘at house he worked at, but he wouldn’t on account he said she was too old and ugly an’ ‘d fright the customers.”
Lord Rand abruptly became sober and asked if Jemmy was referring to a brothel.
“A bawdy house she wanted. ‘Aft wot she allus said in the winter, as how she wanted a nice warm house and not out in the streets.”
“Good God!” Mr. Langdon exclaimed. “He speaks of a whorehouse as though it were the vicarage. How do these children survive?”
“The question at the moment may be Miss Pelliston’s survival, Jack. Save your aristocratic dismay for later.”
The viscount turned back to Jemmy. “Do you know the fellow’s name? Was it Jos, perhaps? Or Cholly?”
“Cholly,” was the prompt answer. “Jolly Cholly she called him. But I tole you about him. It’s ‘at other one got Miz Kaffy. ‘At tall one wif orange hair.”
Lord Rand stood up. “If that other one did not take her to the magistrate’s, our friend Cholly may be the only one who knows where they did go.”
He summoned Mr. Gidgeon and told the butler to send up a bucket of cold water to his chamber and have someone get them a couple of hackneys. Then the viscount strode from the room. Mr. Langdon and Jemmy followed.
Some minutes later, the two watched in amazement as Lord Rand, naked to the waist, bent over his washbasin and poured the cold water over his head. After towelling his head quickly and vigorously, he tore off the rest of his clothes. With Blackwood’s assistance, he changed into the attire of his pre-heir days. This business was speedily accomplished, the viscount having no patience with idiotic questions from his audience. When he was ready, he turned to Jack.
“Now,” he announced, “you’re going to rescue her.”
“I?” Jack asked, taken aback. “Well, of course I’ll help.”
“No, I’m helping. You’re going to rescue the damsel in distress—which she’d better be, or we’re going to look like a pair of bloody fools.”
Mr. Blackwood was dispatched to investigate the two likeliest magistrate’s offices—at Great Marlborough Street and at Bow Street. If Browdie and Miss Pelliston were at either of these places, the valet had only to inform them that Jemmy was safe, and to make sure the lady was brought home safely herself. Lord Rand and Mr. Langdon, meanwhile, would seek out Cholly.
Accordingly, Mr. Blackwood set off in one shabby hired coach and the two gentlemen, accompanied by Jemmy— who vociferously objected to being left behind—went off in the other.
The coach windows were so encrusted with soot and grime that Catherine could scarcely make out the passing scene. Her sense of direction being as deplorable now as when she first arrived in London, looking did her precious little good anyhow. Still, she did know that the nearest magistrate was at Great Marlborough Street. She pointed out to Lord Browdie that the carriage seemed to be heading the wrong way.
“Oh, he won’t be there. From what I heard, the crime happened in Bow Street territory, and you know how jealous those fellows are. Sounds like Townsend himself picked up the boy,” Lord Browdie added, carelessly dropping the name of a famous Bow Street officer.
Catherine was duly impressed, having heard the name before. She did not know that Mr. John Townsend—whose clients included the Bank of England and the Prince Regent—would never trouble himself with such small potatoes as an eight-year-old boy accused of pilfering a pocket watch.
“Not to mention,” the baron went on airily, “Conan’s a friend of mine, and since he’s the chief magistrate, we’ll have all this set straight quick enough.”
“Is that not the place?” Catherine asked a while later, as the coach turned onto Bow Street. “I’m sure Lord Andover pointed it out when he took me around town.”
“Oh, that’s the office all right. But they hold the prisoners a bit further on, at the Brown Bear.”
“Good heavens—isn’t that a public house?”
“It is. Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t a place for ladies?” Lord Browdie smiled contemptuously. “I expect you’ve changed your mind about your Christian duty?”
“You might have mentioned we were going to a public house. Obviously, I cannot enter such a place.”
“No, of course not. Only brothels, eh, Cathy?”
Miss Pelliston drew herself up. “You will have the courtesy, I hope,” she replied with cold dignity, “to refrain from raising that objectionable topic again. It does not become you as a gentleman to mention such matters in a lady’s presence.”
“Oh, don’t get on your high ropes, gal. I was only teasing. And you ain’t so missish as all that. Your papa talks plain enough in front of you.”
Lord Browdie was highly pleased with himself. He thought he was the cleverest fellow in creation. How easily she’d come! He needn’t have wasted so much time planning how to coax her. Not a word about needing her maid by, or demanding the dressmaker come along, or sending for her cousin. He was in such high spirits that he took no offence at her shrewish remarks. She could say what she liked now. She’d learn humility soon enough.
“‘Course I don’t believe it, m’ dear,” he went on unctuously. “Fact is, I was a trifle foxed that day. Wanted to apologise, but you’re devilish hard to get at lately. All them chaperones and maids, not to mention them beaux of yours. Heard Argoyne offered for you and Andover put him off. Holding out for Rand, were you? Well, it’s an ill wind blows nobody good. Might as well be a duchess if you can.”
Though this topic was even less agreeable than bawdy houses, Catherine contented herself with a disdainful sniff. She was immediately sorry. The interior of the coach smelled like something had died there days ago. She was not certain whether this fragrance emanated from the vehicle itself or from the gentleman sitting opposite, and was not eager to find out. All she wanted was to get out of this foul, jolting cage.
The hackney finally rattled to a stop. Lord Browdie alighted first and offered his hand to help her. She pretended not to notice and climbed down the steps unassisted. She began to draw a deep breath, then realised the air outside the coach was scarce fresher than that inside. She also noted that they were no longer in Bow Street, and with a vague stirring of alarm asked where they were.
“Just around the corner from the Brown Bear. Since I can’t take you into the place with me, I figured you could wait
here.”
He gestured towards the entrance of a building whose soot-encrusted windows were crammed with a haphazard display of articles that included gentlemen’s coats of the previous century, broken swords, rusty toiletries, crumpled bonnets, and other objects too moldering to be easily identified. Three balls hung over the door.
“This is a pawnshop,” said Catherine unhappily.
“Well, it ain’t a public house and it’s the best there is in the neighbourhood,” he lied. “Friend of a friend runs it. You’ll be safe as houses. Soon as I can get the boy moved to the office, I’ll come back and get you.”
Miss Pelliston struggled for a moment between Scylla and Charybdis. The hackney had already departed. She could not accompany Lord Browdie to a public house, and certainly not the Brown Bear. She dimly recalled Lord Andover’s remarks about the place being no better than a thieves’ den, filled with law officers as corrupt as their prisoners.
She could not wait on the street, either. The unsavoury block brought back memories of Granny Grendle’s and the foul alleys Lord Rand had carried her through on the way to his lodgings.
She gazed at the pawnshop door and swallowed. “I see there is no choice. I will have to make the best of it. But you do promise to hurry?”
“Of course I’ll hurry. Now, now, you’ll be fine,” he went on in those falsely avuncular tones that made her skin crawl. “Mrs. Hodder has a quiet back room where you can sit and have a cup of tea while you wait. I know it don’t look like much, but she’s a good old gal. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. You’d be surprised how many of the gentry come here— ladies too—like when they had a bad night at the faro tables and don’t like to tell their husbands.”
So saying, Lord Browdie yanked open a sticky door. Catherine reluctantly entered.
An enormously fat woman sat by a counter, knitting. She gave a curt nod as they entered. Lord Browdie spoke briefly with her in a low voice. She shrugged and made a vague gesture towards the rear of the shop.
