“Good,” he growled, heaving himself to the saddle. “Shove the lad up back.”
The stable master blinked. “I might need gloves,” he muttered but nevertheless grabbed the whelp and propelled him onto the rear of Pegasus.
“Oy, mind me new togs, Mr Tuffers, and what do I hold ont–”
The lad must have found somewhere as Casper raced his horse out and Horatio stayed aloft.
There existed a genteel route to Covent Garden but today Casper took the quicker backways – Brooks Mews and the various alleys, but curricles crowded his path crossing New Bond Street and their destination was still a fair distance. How long would it take a jug-bitten blaggard to stagger to their doorway and force his way in?
A rare panic surged within him. He’d not hunted out Evelyn for two days, thinking to just watch and learn. To find out more about her circumstances or whether she was part of a larger hoax. Whether she was still married and who visited the sisters.
But the lad had reported nothing amiss. No male callers, nor burly villains knocking on her door at night or mysterious outings by day. She and her sister worked finger to the bone till the candles gutted, ate scant meals and had foregone coal, even though the May sky refused to warm.
As they approached Leicester Square, a bloody great vegetable cart lumbered from the main thoroughfare, and then halted as it realised the alley was unnavigable. Two clay-headed lob-cocks scratched their heads and muttered whilst the carthorse stood bemused, facing a brick wall.
“Remove yourselves,” Casper bellowed. “I’m a duke.”
“Course you are. And I’m the Queen of England,” the chap bawled in reply, nudging his cohort and chuckling.
Casper narrowed his eyes. Seeing as the Queen was in fact his step half second cousin thrice removed, that seemed unlikely. He really did not have time for this, so he swung his horse about-turn and cantered halfway down the alley, swung again, and galloped at full tilt.
The vegetable sellers dived to the ground as Pegasus leaped the cart, potatoes tumbling as hooves clipped, and they sailed over, clattering to the cobbles on the far side.
“Bleedin’ hell,” yelled Horatio, who now clung to Casper’s coat with an eagle-like grip. “It’s like King Arfur and his knights.”
Casper had foregone the sword. But he did have a 38-bore Manton flintlock pistol with scratch-rifled rebrowned twist, octagonal sighted barrels, figured walnut half-stocks, trigger-plates complete with pineapple finial and silver escutcheons.
“Yer turn right ’ere. The one with the half-broken window.”
Yanking the reins whilst Horatio jumped from the horse’s back, Casper surveyed his surroundings. He knew these alleyways existed, knew people lived in such squalor, but even so, the stench of rot and the sight of scrawny women heaved his stomach and shamed his heart.
The lad darted through an open door and ran up wooden stairs, the bannister loose. Casper followed, vaulting the steps two at a time, hearing angry shouts and a wailing cry.
A small door at the top lay open and Horatio motioned with waving hand.
Shoving his way through, he encountered a thin young girl with bright red hair, crying out as a hefty lout hauled her about the waist, bellowing of money and wrenching at her ripped gown. The fake maid from Clipstone Street was tearing at his hands, and Evelyn was beating upon his back, hair loose and wild. Her fight and courage inflamed him, but then he noticed the red palm print emblazoning her cheek and cold ire replaced all else.
The fiend raised his hand once more.
Casper darted forward, wrenched him around by the stained neckcloth and smashed a preliminary fist into the whoreson’s jaw.
Chapter 15
“The very purpose of a knight is to fight on behalf of a lady.”
(Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur)
“Cor, that were better than King Arfur.”
Casper straightened his cuff, flexed his hand and regulated his breathing.
In the event, the landlord had crashed to the floor in a heap at the first blow, but then Casper practised this craft once a week at the exclusive Hawkins Boxing Club, so he expected some expertise in return for his money.
Blood seeped from the oaf’s cheek where the Rothwell signet ring had caught, and surrounded by shocked eyes and gaping mouths, Casper now felt rather unsure. Which was absurd. So, he took command.
“Mrs Swift, and I presume this is your sister. Gather your belongings and come with me.”
No one moved.
