He patted the inside pocket of his coat and the folded-up letter from his mother. It was the only thing that was entirely his and the only thing that brought him any comfort when his situation seemed particularly dire.
Cook had been threatening to get him a new coat. He said Shrimps was outgrowing the one he was in. So far, he’d been able to put him off by explaining that the coat he wore had sentimental value. He’d been thinking of taking up sewing so that when the time came, he could carefully remove the paper and resew it into a new coat.
Of course, once they all found out he’d used to be a very bad pickpocket, there would be no new coat. Or food. Or bed.
“We best go inside, Oyster. I want to enjoy my bed for as long as I have it.”
*
Balthazar had directedHenri to dress him all in black, along with his black cape. Naturally, his valet assumed he and the rest of the Queen’s Knights were off to enter the Rats’ Castle to take down a particularly harmful criminal. That had not been where he was going, but Henri did not need to be informed of where hewasgoing.
“Your Grace,” he’d said, “do not get shot or stabbed. What am I to do if you are dead? Am I to train another nobleman on the correct temperature of a bath? Am I to explain to him the necessity of cooled champagne at the end of it? Am I to order a whole new set of clothes to replace the ill-fitting coats that gentleman is just now walking around in? I’d rather throw myself into the Arno! Or worse, the Thames!”
It was the same speech every time—Balthazar’s death would simply be too inconvenient for his valet. With dire warnings of death by Arno or Thames ringing in his ears, Balthazar slipped out of his house.
He did not take his carriage, nor even his horse. He walked along the side streets, avoiding the main avenues where it was too likely to be spotted by someone he knew, passing by in a carriage.
He was well aware that he might have simply hired someone to keep watch on Van Doren’s house. In fact, he had. But when he got word that the lord had arrived to open the house, he’d felt the need to go himself.
Would anybody make an approach to the house? Or was it as Hamill had predicted—had the criminals who’d targeted the residence, on account of a young boy named Shrimps currently inside it, given up the scheme? Had they deemed it too risky now that one of their own, one who knew of the plan, had been taken?
If they hadnotgiven it up, it was possible that whoever turned up could lead him to Harold Mondrian. Some criminals were cautious and some were not. He did not yet know who he dealt with.
He’d arrived in Portland Place after sunset and concealed himself behind a stand of trees across the street from Van Doren’s residence.
Balthazar had stayed still, unseen, as Lord Van Doren and his new bride had walked across the street and into Lord Westmont’s address.
They seemed well-pleased with one another. Balthazar smiled as he thought back to last season and what trouble it had been to get them both to see that they would be.
After that, the street was quiet with only an occasional carriage pulling up and taking away a house’s occupants. Nobody on Portland Place was entertaining this night and once the usual time for departures had passed, it got quieter still.
He’d almost determined he ought to give up his watch and return home when he saw him. A boy emerging from the trees at the end of the road, so badly dressed that he could not possibly be anybody’s servant. Even a stable hand would be given new trousers if the ones he wore had two large holes in them.
The boy walked, cap pulled low to shield his face, hands in pockets. He paused in front of Van Doren’s house. He looked up at the windows and then proceeded on his way.
Balthazar did not know where he’d come from. It was a little too coincidental, however, that he’d paused to have a look at Van Doren’s house. He was determined to see where the boy went.
He allowed the boy to get some distance and watched him intently.
The lad was no fool, he was careful. He occasionally paused to look over his shoulder. When he did so, he covered his face with his hand in case anybody was interested in getting a look at him.
That was a boy who’d been long on the streets and made such moves without even thinking about it.
Balthazar allowed him to turn a corner and then set off. If he, himself, looked toward any house as he exited Portland Place, it was perhaps toward Lady Rosalind’s.
He did not have the first idea of what she and her sisters would do to amuse themselves on such a night, but he had high hopes for Miss Mayton’s alarming duke and governess, and then of course, Lady Rosalind’s absolutely startling pianoforte playing.
The boy was exceedingly cautious as he made his way through London, as he was too.
After a time, Balthazar had no doubt of their destination. First south, then east, they made their way inexorably toward the Seven Dials.
Once he had confirmed the boy’s destination, he turned round and left him to his evening. He would not be entering the Rats’ Castle this night alone. In any case, he had discovered what he wished to know. The question had been: was there any reason to suppose that Van Doren’s house was still a target?
The answer was: yes. He was sure of it.
It was time to return home and alert his valet that there was no cause to throw himself into the Arno on this night at least.
*
