Unmasking the Thief, page 9
And then he could resign.
In fact, he would have done so already had he not blundered the night he had intercepted the wrong ring and then sensed Thorne’s involvement via Emma Carntree.
Perhaps it was time he had a closer look at the unrest itself. To that end, he decided to attend a couple of reformist meetings that were known to the authorities. At about five o’clock in the afternoon, in working man’s garb, his hair in a tangle and his jaw unshaven, he slouched into an Aldgate hall that was more of a shack, and prepared to watch and listen.
In many ways, the speeches were predictable, and Francisco could not disagree with their aims. If there was a more militant note than usual, that was not surprising. Food and work shortages affected people that way.
What worried him more was the fiery young man who declared, “They can’t keep it from us, not if we storm their bastions together. There are more of us, and they can’t shoot us all.”
“They can if they know when we’re coming,” an older man said derisively.
“But they won’t know. Not until it’s too late. My friends, we can do this with just a little planning. If we’re prepared to drop everything and march when our brothers do, united and terrifying, we can make things right. Who’s with me?”
March with our brothers. United and terrifying…
Francisco followed the men out again, absorbing their excitement, of hope. He exchanged a few serious words with several and eventually walked away with a gathering unease.
It seemed his instructor had been correct. There really was something more organized about this upsurge of unrest. Not least because he knew of at least two such meetings going on at the same time as this one. He hopped on the back of a cart trotting briskly westward and hopped off again near the river, not so far from Westminster and the seat of power. After a two-minute walk, he saw a group of men slouching out of another yard, talking together in low, intense voices about justice and protests and true change. Francisco had clearly missed that gathering, but he knew of another close by.
Francisco, making his way toward that next meeting, felt all his senses tingling at last.
Not that their coordinated efforts would work, of course. The authorities would get word, even without Francisco to tell them. The troops would be out in force, the ringleaders arrested before their march got anywhere near Westminster or wherever they planned to threaten.
What intrigued Francisco was who was pulling the strings and why. At the old warehouse near the docks, he hoped at least to glimpse someone he recognized, some troublemaker or radical known to him, someone with the organizational ability and the connections to coordinate these movements.
This meeting, a larger event, was nearing its end by the time he sauntered into the back of the old warehouse and lounged against the wall. But there appeared to be the same theme of organized and timed marching. Scanning the speakers, he did recognize a well-known rabble-rouser and a serious reformer. And then, among the audience, in plainer, more ordinary clothes than usual, he saw a couple he recognized only too easily.
Young Mr. Holles and Miss Catherine Dove.
They sat close together on the end of a row, and with their heads turned toward the speaker, Francisco could see their faces in profile. Holles was frowning and nodding, his expression both eager and serious. Beside him, Catherine was wide-eyed, drinking it all in.
Francisco’s breath stuttered. A swift quartering of the audience found no trace of Hope Darblay or, thank God, Miss Mather. He did not want her to be the connection between unrest and Thorne, and he most certainly didn’t want to examine the reasons behind that.
In purely gentlemanly terms, though, what the devil was Holles about, bringing a gently bred girl to a place like this? It was as well this meeting, like the last, appeared to be discreet and organized. There were no signs of paid agitators or folk hell-bent on destruction. Providing Holles had transport to get them home, he supposed neither of them were in much immediate danger.
That was before the door beside him opened again, and a female stalked in. A few heads turned toward her, though most stayed riveted to the final speaker. She paused only briefly, her gaze scouring the audience before she started past Francisco, making a beeline for Holles and Catherine Dove.
From sheer instinct, Francisco caught her arm and dragged her back. Her haughty glare should have annihilated him.
Except that alarm bells were ringing in his brain. Was she really the brave, worried governess whisking her one-time pupil out of perceived danger—again? Or could she be the connection to Thorne? If so, he couldn’t understand how or why. He just knew he didn’t like her being here for any number of reasons. And he certainly could not trust her just because she intrigued him, because he wanted her.
Dispassionately, he watched recognition dawn on her face. A twitch of a frown at the unlikely possibility, a slow widening of the eyes as she realized the truth, a mingling of shock and bewilderment before she tore her arm and her gaze free and glanced toward Catherine. Her mouth opened, but whatever she had to say, he could not allow it here.
He took back her arm, jerking her close to him. “Not here,” he breathed in her ear and dragged her back to the door. The fellow minding it cast them a look of amused contempt, clearly gathering, as Francisco meant him to, that an angry wife had come for her husband.
Outside, she shook him off, glaring at him as he strode across the yard, away from the building. He knew she would follow, at least at a certain distance, and she did, even catching his arm and hauling him to a halt.
“Quietly, for God’s sake,” he murmured. “If you don’t want to be accused of spying or worse. What are you doing here?”
She stared at him as though he were stupid. “Looking for Catherine, of course. More to the point, what are you doing here, like…that.” She waved her hand at his disreputable costume. “Thieving again?”
She really did not know him. She was nothing to him, so it should not have hurt.
He refused to let it. “Slim pickings, I would imagine, but it’s a thought. How did you get here?”
“By hackney, of course. The same way she did. What is going on in there? Why is she here?”
“That is a very good question. Almost as good as the other one—how did you know Catherine and Holles were here?”
She blinked. “Holles is here? Holles brought her here? Dear God, what was he thinking?” She swept one agitated hand up to her shabby hat and tugged once, dragging it askew. “Is it better or worse that she didn’t come alone?”
“You tell me.”
She didn’t pay any attention to that, clearly following her own train of thought. “At least I’m here as a chaperone for going home.” Her frown deepened. “Is it a political meeting? Some kind of workers’ combination? No, the former if Holles took her, he—”
“How did you know where to come?”
“What?” Her gaze refocused on him, taking in his implacable tone along with his words. “The crossing boy heard what he told the driver.”
“He?”
“Presumably Holles,” she said impatiently. “I couldn’t see who was with her, and the boy didn’t know. I didn’t wait for a description.”
“So, you got your own hackney?”
She stared at him. “Why are you interrogating me? You have no reason and less right. If you were a gentleman, you would have taken her straight out of that place instead of slouching there, uncaring, like a—a…”
“A what?” he asked pleasantly.
Her gaze lashed him. “I don’t know. No words spring to mind.”
The door of the building was flung open, and people began to spill out.
“Do they know you’re here?” she asked unexpectedly.
“No. But then, I’m not.” He pushed up his disreputable cap, almost like a salute. “If I’m not much mistaken, Holles will have his hackney waiting close by, so you had better seize them as soon as they emerge. And in two hours, you and I shall meet in Barclay Square gardens.”
He strode off before she could speak. He had gauged the mood and tenor of the meeting. She was in no danger here, and neither was Catherine. And yet still, he watched from the shadows until he saw the three of them emerge from the yard, Miss Mather rigid with disapproval, Catherine trotting anxiously by her side, and Holles earnestly explaining. He even followed them along the road to the corner and watched them climb into the waiting hackney. Only then did he slouch away and begin to run.
*
Matty had no intention of going to Barclay Square gardens alone and in the dark, and certainly not at the command of a man whose very appearance was a lie. A man with the insolence to interrogate her, to tell her off for trying to look after her former pupil. Seething, Matty told herself she would have nothing more to do with him in whatever guise.
Besides which, she had lessons to prepare for tomorrow and a serious talk to have with Catherine on the impropriety of her expedition in Holles’s company.
“Well, Mama would not have taken me, would she?” Catherine said reasonably when Matty broached the subject in the hackney going home.
“No, she would not,” Matty agreed. “Can you really not see the reason for that?”
Holles spoke up. “I should not have suggested it. And you are right. By society’s standards, I should not have taken her anywhere unchaperoned. But these matters that Miss Catherine is trying to understand are so important that they eclipse the triviality of mere convention.”
“For you, perhaps,” Matty interrupted. “A man. For a young, unmarried lady not yet eighteen and only just out? You know perfectly well you were courting her ruin should word of this foolishness ever get out.”
Holles had the grace to blush, though he didn’t look like a man who had backed down.
“It isn’t foolishness,” Catherine said intensely. “I had never even thought of these matters, the suffering and endurance and sheer injustice of the things I heard about tonight for the first time. One thing I never thought of myself was ignorant. I cannot be sorry I went. Though I am sorry, I put you to this trouble. But if you had not come, the outcome would be the same. Archie would have brought me home, just like this, and Mama would have been none the wiser.”
“And you are content with that?” Matty pounced. “To mislead and lie to your mother? To sneak about? Have we not had enough of that? I believed I had your promise.”
Even in the fading light, Catherine whitened. She had nothing to say.
But again, Holles did, though with difficulty. “I wish such sneaking was not necessary. But it seems to be the compromise we need to employ.”
“No,” Matty said, fixing him with what Francis would no doubt call her basilisk stare. “It is not. Perhaps I was at fault for not teaching her more about the conditions in which most people live. To be frank, I don’t know the worst of it, myself. I applaud her search for knowledge, and yours, for what that is worth. But this risk to her name and her person, I will not condone. Charitable work, even daytime meetings, chaperoned, I will not challenge. But there will be no more escapades such as this. Am I clear?”
They regarded her with some consternation, then glanced at each other.
“Think,” Matty pursued, leaning forward to make her point. “Here we are, almost home. Anyone could look into the carriage and see us. Anyone could see us alighting and walking up the steps to the front door. Now, imagine I am not here. They see you two unchaperoned in a closed carriage at dusk. They see Catherine handed down by you or fleeing from you as they might imagine and sneaking back into her own house. What would they think? Then where would her reputation stand? If you are ruined, Catherine, so are Arabella and Susan. Apart from anything else, what then is the worth of the expense your mother has gone to for your come out in society?”
“It wouldn’t be like that,” Catherine said weakly.
“Why, do you expect me to lie for you?”
“Of course not!”
“Miss Mather, please stop,” Holles begged. “You are right. I should never have been so thoughtless and selfish. Ruining Miss Catherine will not help the plight of the poor and powerless. I will speak privately with Mrs. Dove and undertake never to repeat tonight’s mistake.”
“Mistake?” Catherine repeated, clearly appalled.
He reached out and caught her hand. “It was a mistake. But I hope we can still talk?”
“I see no way of stopping you,” Matty said wryly. “As for Mrs. Dove, unless she asks me, I see no need of worrying her. But Catherine, I need your word that there will be no more such starts, or I will be obliged to worry her.”
Catherine looked mulish, scowling at Matty as she hadn’t done since childhood.
“There are other ways,” Holles said gently. “This is for the best.”
Catherine sighed. “I suppose you are right. But it is so restricting having to be a lady. I didn’t know what Viola meant when she said much the same thing, but now I do. Very well, Miss Matty, I give you my word.”
And not before time. The hackney pulled up and since Matty was present and Holles’s escort therefore unexceptionable, he alighted and handed the ladies down.
“Make morning calls,” Matty advised him, for in spite of everything, there was something rather appealing about the serious young man. “Take her driving in the park. Unless she is no more than a convert to your cause.”
With that, she sailed up the steps, herding Catherine with her. They entered the house with Matty’s key and were fortunate to find no servant in the hallway. Providing no one had seen her get into the hackney with Holles in the first place, Catherine had probably got away with her latest unwise start. In any case, she was not very recognizable in her old schoolroom dress and a bonnet that looked to have been borrowed from a servant.
Contrary to recent behavior, Catherine was not a stupid girl, so Matty satisfied herself with a short, pithy lecture on the dangers of straying into the wrong parts of town and the irreversible ills of a lost reputation. Beyond that, Matty was satisfied with the promises already given, and leaving Catherine to debate her narrow escape, she was forced to confront her own dilemma. And the danger to her own reputation.
Francis.
Chapter Ten
After all she had said to Catherine, Matty could barely believe she was risking her own safety and her own reputation by going alone into Barclay Square gardens to meet a man.
She was aware that at night, even here in the safer, wealthiest part of town, the pleasant, secluded areas where people walked and let their children play in daytime turned into something rather different at night. And she did not want to go. Aside from the personal danger, her pride rebelled against obeying the curt command issued by Francis.
Let him kick his heels in the garden and be robbed. I have no reason to pay any attention to his orders.
Except, of course, she did. She needed to know why he changed from thief to gentleman to radical worker. And more importantly, what was his interest in Catherine? Twice, he had been there when she had visited places she should not. None of this inclined her to trust him. She had recognized his danger from the outset and had no desire to put herself in his power.
In the end, she made her decision at the last possible moment, springing up from the chair in her bedchamber, where she had been trying to talk herself out of it. She swung her old cloak about her shoulders and drew the hood over her hair. She veered to the rickety little desk, snatched up the paper knife she kept there, and slipped it up her sleeve.
Five minutes later, she was in Barclay Square, her eyes darting about r. From one of the houses on the far side came muffled music, its first-floor windows blazing with candlelight. Most of the dwellings showed lights of some kind, though the square itself was quiet. Residents had presumably already gone to their evening’s entertainment and were unlikely to return for some time. A muttering footman in livery was walking a small pug on a leash around the outside of the garden. Two arguing gentlemen walked out of the square into Bruton Street. A hackney rumbled slowly toward her as though the driver were looking for a particular house.
Dropping the paper knife into her hand, she clutched it beneath her cloak and crossed toward the nearest garden gate. Her heart hammered.
She paused at the gate, listening, but she could hear nothing more threatening than the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Drawing in her breath, she lifted the latch and pushed open the gate.
Only then did she realize the carriage sounds had stopped. She jerked her head around just as a horse snorted only feet away, making her jump.
The hackney had stopped right behind her, blocking her from the view of the nearest houses. The carriage door opened, and a man leaned into the light of the outside lamp.
Francis.
“Miss Mather,” he said and stretched down his hand to her.
Dear God, this was worse than going into the garden. Alone with him in a closed carriage… And yet she sighed with relief that she would not need to enter the garden after all. She hesitated only a moment, then shoved the paper knife back up her sleeve, grasped his hand, and was all but hauled into the hackney. The door slammed behind her and, even before she had pulled free of his grip and sat on the bench opposite him, the carriage moved on.
The rumbling of the wheels on the cobbles was the only sound she could hear. He had changed from his working man’s clothes into the evening dress of a gentleman. He had even shaved.
“I believe I was promised talk,” Matty said.
“Exactly, so don’t look so petrified. I’m not abducting you, just driving around the streets to give us a little more privacy and less alarming surroundings.”
“You mean the gardens are not a superior choice at night?” she marveled and was almost surprised to have reduced him to a short silence.
“You know they were not, and I should not have suggested it.”
“Then why did you? To make sure I would not come and—”
“To see if you would,” he interrupted. “I ask your pardon and applaud your bravery if not your good sense.”
