Into Thin Eire Page 3

  “If I may say so, sir, it is a foolishness that has done Mrs. Pickett a great deal of good, and one that has considerably endeared you to the staff.”

  “Thank you, Rogers.” Pickett gave the butler a grateful, if self-conscious, little smile, and returned to the bedchamber to finish his packing.

  But much later that night, upon completion of a very protracted and private farewell, he felt compelled to say, “Julia, you will be careful, won’t you? Take care of yourself, I mean. Don’t go out alone. If you must go anywhere, take Betsy with you, or the new footman—the fellow who replaced Thomas—what was his name again?”

  “Andrew. And if it will make you feel any better, I promise not to leave the house without one or the other,” she added, laying a protective hand on the gentle swell of her abdomen in the mistaken assumption that this sudden concern on his part was due to her delicate condition. He might have informed her of her error, but the bedroom was dark and so he could not see the gesture. “Better still, I shall take both. Then, too, I can invite Rogers to come along, and I shall parade through London like Good Queen Bess going on progress.”

  “Julia—” he protested feebly.

  “Never mind, darling, I was only funning.” In a more serious vein, she added, “I know you must go, and I promise not to beg you to stay, or tease you to take me with you, or plague you with a show of tears, but am I allowed to say that I shall miss you?”

  “I hope so,” he said, reaching for her again, “because I’ll miss you. Very, very much.”

  3

  Which Introduces Mr. Harry Carson

  of the Bow Street Horse Patrol

  Pickett arose before dawn and reached for the clothes which he’d allowed Thomas to lay out for him the night before. The fact that he had to grope in the darkness before locating them was, in his estimation, further proof of the advantages of performing such tasks for oneself rather than leaving them to a manservant, but he had long since yielded to Julia in the matter, and had been rewarded so sweetly for his capitulation that the inconvenience of fumbling for his clothes had seemed a very small price to pay. He wondered if she now felt the game had not been worth the candle; a rustling of the sheets beside him gave him to understand that his search had not been conducted as quietly as he might have wished.

  “I didn’t mean to awaken you,” he said in an apologetic whisper. “Go back to sleep, and I’ll see you when I return.”

  “And when will that be?” she retorted a bit sleepily. “I intend to spend every moment I can with you until you are obliged to leave, so you might as well save your breath.”

  It was exactly the response he had expected—and, in truth, he would have been disappointed in anything less—so he made no attempt to persuade her. Having dressed, shaved, and packed the last of his things in a battered valise, he ushered Julia out of the room. Together they descended the stairs to the breakfast room, where Julia had instructed the cook the night before to set out a selection of pastries. Conversation was desultory; Julia was not a creature of matutinal habits even at the best of times, but quite aside from the early hour, both were too conscious of the approaching separation to incline either toward loquaciousness.

  “What time will you reach Dunbury?” Julia asked at last, feeling some attempt at normality was in order.

  “Tomorrow afternoon, barring any accident on the road. Tonight we’ll be stopping in Reading.” He gave her a reminiscent little smile. “I don’t expect to enjoy it as much as I did my last stay there.”

  “Oh?” she challenged him. “And just how much to you remember about your last stay there? As I recall, I was obliged to dose you with laudanum as soon as we reached our room, and you fell asleep almost as soon as your head hit the pillow—hardly the wedding night every woman dreams of.”

  “Let me point out that an extended visit to his new in-laws is hardly the honeymoon every man dreams of, either,” he responded in kind.

  In fact, neither of their recollections told the whole tale, for the wedding Julia spoke of was essentially a legal protection, necessary only insofar as it prevented her first husband’s influential family from nullifying the marriage by declaration they had unintentionally formed in Scotland some three months earlier. As for the honeymoon, they had enjoyed a week of wedded bliss in Pickett’s Drury Lane flat before the legal ceremony and the trip to her parents’ house that had followed.

  “Still,” Pickett continued, “I would gladly suffer another cosh on the head if that would mean exchanging my traveling companion on that occasion for this one.”

  “Perhaps Harry Carson won’t be so very bad,” she said bracingly.

  “Yes, and perhaps pigs will fly,” he agreed.

  She gave him a reproachful look, but said no more on the subject. All too soon, the abbreviated meal was finished, and there was no more reason to linger. With some reluctance, Pickett pushed back his chair and rose from the table. Julia followed, and hand in hand they made their way to the foyer. When they reached the front door, Pickett stopped, took her in his arms, and kissed her lingeringly.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

  “The sooner you leave, the sooner you can return,” she pointed out, although the arms she kept wrapped around his waist gave the lie to this encouraging farewell. “In the meantime, it gives you a little time to consider the matter before giving the prince your answer.”

  “Sweetheart, you will be careful, won’t you?”

  She smiled a little at the concern in his voice. “I think I’m supposed to be the one telling you that.”

  “And you have—many times. I promise to try, but I have to do my duty, even if it puts me in danger. But you—Julia, if you ever feel unsafe, or if anything just feels wrong, don’t hesitate to go to Mr. Colquhoun. He and his wife will put you up for a few days if need be, until I come back.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “John, what is it that you think might happen?”

  Pickett, realizing he was overplaying his hand rather badly, hastily demurred. “Nothing, really. It’s just that I’ve never had to go off and leave you like this—not knowing how long I might have to be gone, I mean,” he finished lamely, knowing she was remembering, as he was, the one time since their marriage that they had been apart for more than a few hours. On that occasion, they had parted in anger, and then spent the next thirty-six hours in abject misery.

  Julia’s arms tightened around him, and she laid her head against his chest. “Very well, then. If it will put your mind at ease so you may concentrate more fully on your investigations, I promise to go to Mr. Colquhoun at the first sign of trouble, real or imagined. Now, do I have your promise that you will do your best to return to me with a whole skin?”

  “Believe me, I have every reason to come back to you in one piece.”

  “The prince,” she agreed, nodding.

  “No, not the prince,” he retorted, dropping a kiss onto the golden curls tickling his chin. “Now, is there anything else I should do before I go?”

  The question was strictly rhetorical, spoken more to himself than to her, but she took advantage of it nonetheless.

  “You could always make me that proposal of marriage, you know.”

  He gave her a speaking look, but said, “I suppose I’d better be going, then. It looks like rain, and I have no desire to spend the next twelve hours sitting on the roof of the stagecoach.”

  “What an excellent way to change the subject,” she said approvingly, and lifted her face for another kiss.

  Pickett was nothing loth, and all too soon it was time to release her and step outside, where Thomas waited with his own bag as well as Pickett’s.

  He gave Thomas a smile and tried to act happier than he felt. “Well, Thomas, are you ready?”

  JULIA STOOD ON THE front stoop, watching them go—watching him go—and mentally chiding herself. What sort of wife was she? He’d been offered the opportunity of a lifetime, and she seemed determined to subtly turn him against it. If you found this house overwhe
lming, only wait until you see the grand staircase at Carlton House, she’d told him upon first hearing the news, knowing full well of the feelings of inadequacy that, she suspected, still plagued him on occasion. She hadn’t even given him a proper goodbye without inserting the Prince of Wales into the conversation, implying that he was being asked to choose between them.

  And then, when he’d refused to take the bait, she’d badgered him about making a wholly unnecessary gesture for no greater reason than the sentimental pleasure of seeing him go down on one knee. It was not as if she’d never received a marriage proposal at all; Frederick had uttered all the flowery phrases any romantically-minded young lady could ask for, and only look how that had turned out. No, she and John had something deeper, something that went beyond mere words; why, then, did she insist on hearing those words, when one of the qualities she found the most endearing in him was his tendency to become somewhat inarticulate whenever he spoke of his love for her? What sort of woman wanted to put her husband at a disadvantage?

  As if he’d read her thoughts from a distance, he turned back and raised a hand in farewell. In answer, she pressed her fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss, silently vowing to remove to Carlton House with all the eagerness he might wish, if only he would come home safely. She watched until he disappeared from view, then stepped inside, closed the door, and climbed the stairs to her room and her empty bed.

  IN THE MEANTIME, THOMAS had hefted his own bag with his left hand and Pickett’s somewhat heavier bag with his stronger right, politely but firmly rebuffing Pickett’s offers to carry his own bag as he cheerfully speculated on what sights they might expect to see on the road. Pickett listened to him with only half an ear, knowing from experience that most of the valet’s expectations would die of sheer boredom after a few hours on the road. When they reached the point where Curzon Street intersected with Chapel West, he glanced back for one last look. Julia still stood on the front stoop, a small, pale figure in the gray dawn light. He lifted one hand in farewell, and when she put her hand to her face and blew him a kiss, it was only through a strong sense of duty and sheer force of will that he resisted the urge to turn around and go straight back to her, leaving Thomas standing on the street corner with the two bags he was determined to carry.

  The quiet residential streets of Mayfair still slept, but by the time they reached Piccadilly, the darkness had lessened and the more commercial sections of London were stirring to life in spite of the rain that had indeed begun to fall. The vehicle that would convey them to Reading stood in the yard of the coaching house, the four stout horses stirring restlessly in their harnesses. Pickett, feeling something of the same impatience, suspected they wouldn’t be nearly so eager once they were actually on the road. As for the driver, he was overseeing the several underlings who fastened onto the boot various valises, bandboxes, baskets, and even a crate containing live chickens. Clearly, they would have plenty of traveling companions on the journey. Pickett instructed Thomas to leave their bags with the driver, and then the two young men went inside, where Pickett handed their tickets to the booking agent and glanced about the room at the others waiting to board the coach. He was displeased, though hardly surprised, to find no sign of Harry Carson.

  “If he’s not here by the time we’re allowed to board, we’re going ahead without him,” Pickett told Thomas. “I have no intention of sitting on the roof in the rain, all because Harry Carson can’t get his carcass to the coaching house in time for us to get an inside seat.”

  “I’ll sit up top,” Thomas offered. “I don’t mind.”

  “I won’t let you get a wetting because of Harry—er, Mr. Carson’s tardiness,” said Pickett, hastily reverting to the title by which Thomas would be expected to address his master’s colleague.

  “It’s still a few minutes yet,” Thomas said doubtfully, glancing up at the big clock. “Maybe he’ll—”

  “Sorry I’m late,” a breathless voice interrupted.

  Pickett, turning toward the sound, thought Harry didn’t look very repentant. In fact, “smug” might have been a better description. He’d exchanged the blue coat and red waistcoat of the Bow Street Horse Patrol for a rather gaudy tailcoat of mustard-colored wool with wide lapels and a double row of large gold buttons—Pickett would have bet his entire week’s wages that they were really pinchbeck—worn over a blue waistcoat made of what Pickett suspected was some of the cheaper silk produced in Spitalfields. Although these showy garments bore every appearance of having been donned in a hurry, the smile on Harry’s handsome face could only be described as self-satisfied.

  “What took you so long?” Pickett asked, making no attempt to mask his displeasure.

  Harry Carson shrugged. “Couldn’t disappoint a lady, could I?”

  Yes, Pickett thought, definitely self-satisfied.

  “Not that she’s a lady in the same sense as your wife,” Harry continued, “but—well, we can’t all have viscountesses.”

  “You’re out of uniform,” Pickett said, uncomfortably aware of his own workaday brown serge and how it appeared next to Harry’s more colorful ensemble. The contrast, along with the fact that he was by some few years the younger of the two, would have led any casual observer to deduce that Pickett was there to assist Carson, rather than the other way ’round.

  “I’m supposed to be taking the place of a Runner, aren’t I? You lot don’t wear uniforms, so why should I?” Seeing that Pickett was not convinced, he added with a disarming grin, “If you’re worrying about what the boss might say about it, well, I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  Determinedly ignoring the suggestion that he might deliberately mislead his magistrate, Pickett turned to Thomas. “Thomas, this is Mr. Carson of the Bow Street Horse Patrol. Harry, meet Thomas, my—my valet,” he mumbled self-consciously.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Thomas, obviously much impressed with Carson’s attire.

  If Harry was aware of Pickett’s faux pas in presenting him to Thomas, he didn’t show it. Instead, his blue eyes widened. “Your valet? You travel with servants these days?”

  “Not usually,” Pickett said hastily. “But I’ve been putting Thomas off for too long already, and—”

  “This ought to be fun!” Carson said, his grin widening. “ ‘Thomas, my good fellow, go fetch me a cup of tea.’ ‘Thomas, shine my shoes.’ ‘Thomas—’ ”

  “You’re not to be ordering my valet about like he’s your personal drudge,” Pickett interrupted, halting Thomas in mid-step just as that conscientious young man was about to go in search of the requested cup of tea. Just to prove a point, he turned to his valet. “Thomas, go outside and find out how long it will be before we’re able to board. Reserve three seats inside, if they’ll let you.”

  “I don’t mind sitting on the roof, sir,” Thomas offered, unwilling to be the cause of any dissension.

  “You’re not going to sit on the roof! You’re going to sit inside, and you’re going to sit next to the window, so you have a good view.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Thomas, much gratified.

  As it happened, Thomas was spared the necessity of carrying out this duty, as a general stirring in the room indicated that it was time to board the stagecoaches for the journey. They were fortunate enough to secure three seats inside, and Pickett, true to his word, made certain that Thomas was seated in the window; he’d put off his valet far too long not to make sure he got the most out of the long-awaited journey. Unfortunately, this seating arrangement had the unhappy effect of leaving Pickett with no more pleasurable alternative than that of making desultory conversation with Harry Carson.

  “So,” Harry began, after they had crossed the river Thames, and Newington and its environs had given way to open country, “how did you do it?”

  “How did I do what?” Pickett asked, fearing the worst.

  Harry shifted impatiently in his seat. “How did you marry a viscountess?”

  Pickett, having no intention of recounting for Harry’s edif
ication the events that had led to his marriage, merely shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “Dixon said you kept her from hanging for her husband’s murder. Is that so?”

  It was—at least, as far as it went—so Pickett nodded. “Yes.”

  Harry let out a long, low whistle. “Wish I could get promoted to principal officer. You fellows have all the luck.”

  Pickett might have pointed out several events in his career for which “luck” would have been a very peculiar description, but at that moment Thomas, having caught his first glimpse of an oast house, nudged his master and pointed at this curious structure, demanding to know what it was.

  In such a manner the miles slowly passed. Pickett, his protracted farewells to his lady the previous night having left very little time for sleep, leaned his head back against the wall of the stagecoach and tried to make up for the deficit.

  In this he was only partially successful, awaking at one point to hear Carson recounting to an enthralled Thomas, “ . . . so there I was, facing three of them down, each one with two barkers apiece, and me with nothing more than a cutlass . . .”

  “What did you do?” Thomas demanded breathlessly.

  “He served the summons like he was supposed to, and then reported back to Bow Street,” Pickett finished without opening his eyes.

  “Much you know about it!” retorted Carson, perhaps justifiably goaded at having had his thunder stolen at the dramatic peak of his narrative.

  Pickett opened his eyes. “I should think I do, considering that I did the work myself for almost five years.” Turning to Thomas, he explained, “I’m afraid it isn’t nearly as exciting as Mr. Carson makes it sound. In fact, any investigation is nine parts tedium.”