“Such as we are, I suppose,” Sir John said. “Those of us who pursue various interests attend. We often have members of the Royal Society come to present findings before they do so to a wider audience more formally.”
Kitty was delighted. She had thought the call to Mrs. Herschel would be quite usual, but not it seemed not usual at all. An intellectual salon!
Though she found herself delighted, she wondered what her mother would make of it. She doubted the baroness would find the idea as invigorating.
Sir John had excused himself from the table and Kitty turned to Mr. Walker to her right. She was well aware that Lord Grayson kept trying to catch her eye, but she would not indulge him in it.
When Sir John returned, he seemed more relaxed than he had been. He spoke on a variety of topics and Kitty wondered how he’d suddenly become so much more voluble. She noticed his eyes had grown darker somehow; she could hardly see where the irises stopped and the pupils began. It struck her as slightly odd, until she speculated that he’d gone off to have a thimble-full of brandy in the library. She must not fault him for not being so naturally outgoing as Lord Grayson. Some gentlemen needed some liquid help in that direction.
Finally, the evening came to an end and Frederick arrived to collect her. She ignored Lord Grayson’s look of outrage when Sir John bowed and said, “Until Tuesday, Miss Dell.”
*
Giles trotted hishorse through the empty streets in the direction of Crackwilder’s apartment. He knew his old lieutenant would be awake still, the man never went to bed until at least three and it was just past two.
Though he’d been in the habit of dropping in, he’d not seen Crackwilder in some months. If he’d been more diligent, he’d have already known the fellow had taken employment with Miss Danworth’s father.
What had that Sir John fellow meant byuntil Tuesday? Were he and Miss Dell to meet somewhere? Were they to meet to view Miss Danworth’s library? But Miss Danworth’s at-home was Wednesday. If not there, then where? What happened on Tuesday?
Perhaps they were to convene at Lackington and Allen. That would suit the two of them. Sir John could wax on about nonsense nobody cared about while pretending to have read every book in the shop.
Sir John was pathetic.
And what of Miss Dell’s brother? Certainly, he could not approve of the milquetoast Sir John.
Ah, there was the building, and a candle still burned in Crackwilder’s window.
Giles dismounted and knocked on the door, preparing himself to face the landlady and her horde of unwashed children.
It was not many minutes before the sounds of a lock turning reached him. Mrs. Radish, pronounced Ra-deesh if one wished to stay in her good books, filled the doorway. Peeking around her rumpled and stained skirts was one of the Radish offspring.
“Go on, Arfur,” she said to the imp, adjusting her nightcap, “go hold the gentleman’s horse until he comes back out again.”
Giles silently made the guess that the boy’s name must be Arthur, which had been mysteriously transformed into Arfur. The unfortunately named Arfur Radish yawned but did as he was bid.
His horse dispensed with, Giles had only to get past the landlady.
“You’ll be wantin’ Mr. Crackwilder, I reckon?” Mrs. Radish said.
“Indeed, Mrs. Ra-deesh,” he said smoothly. He stifled his laughter over the rather foolish question. Who else could he possibly want in her establishment?
“I don’t fancy the hours he keeps and neither does Mr. Ra-deesh,” Mrs. Radish said with asperity. “He walks, you know. Back and forth, back and forth.” She dramatically looked toward the ceiling of the run-down little foyer. “We can hear ’im. Walkin.’ With that cane clack-clack-clacking across the floor.”
Giles waited patiently for Mrs. Radish to conclude her complaint. As it was always the same complaint, he did not feel compelled to answer her. It was his understanding that aside from the clacking of his cane, Crackwilder was an exemplary tenant. It was also his understanding that Crackwilder had thrown a book at the lady’s head the last time she’d mentioned his clack-clack-clacking, leading her to only mention it to her tenant’s visitors.
Seeing thatthisvisitor appeared insufficiently outraged by the cane-walking, Mrs. Radish sniffed and stepped aside to let him in.
He bowed low, as if she were a duchess, well-knowing it was the only thing that could possibly appease the woman.
“Get on with you, then,” she said, mollified. She turned and marched into her own apartment to face her ill-named collection of children.
Giles took the stairs two at a time and found Crackwilder’s door ajar on the upper landing.
He pushed it open and said, “Have you no care for thieves and reprobates? Anybody might just walk in.”
Jeremy Crackwilder was a man somewhere in his early thirties, though a military career and an injury made him appear older and more careworn than his years. He was the son of a tradesman, though had he been dressed in expensively tailored clothes, his manners might have passed muster anywhere. He was as erudite and refined as he was hardened by war.
His rooms were little more than libraries, any pictures having once hung on the walls disposed of to make room for bookshelves. A desk tucked into a corner was piled high with papers.
