Immediately we halted. I glanced out and saw we’d reached the end of Fleet Street, at Temple Bar, the gate to the city designed by Sir Christopher Wren to replace the more ancient gate destroyed in the Great Fire.
“Good day to you, Captain,” Denis said.
There were shouts behind and around us as the coach blocked traffic. Brewster wrenched open the door, reaching in big hands to pull me out, not bothering to bring down the steps.
The snarls quieted a little when Brewster glared, but whether the passers-by understood who was in the coach or not, I could not be certain. The carters and draymen of London cared little who got in their way—they were evil-tempered to one and all.
Brewster slammed the door, half dragged me aside, and Denis’s coach moved on.
***
Because I was relatively close to Covent Garden, I decided to walk to my rooms, on the off chance that Hartman himself had sent word to me there.
When I reached it by way of Drury Lane and Russel Street, Mrs. Beltan, who kept my mail in my absence, handed me letters, but told me no shopkeeper had come to call. Nor had she received any message from one, written or otherwise.
I was about to leave the warm, bread-scented shop when she stopped me. “There was a young lady, however. I say young—perhaps getting on for middle age.”
“A lady?” I lifted my brows. “Did she leave a name?”
“She did not,” Mrs. Beltan said. “Refused to. But she said she’d try again today. I offered to send for you, but oddly, she did not wish me to do that either.” She shook her head, turning back to the line of women purchasing bread for the day’s meals.
Mrs. Beltan was too busy to give me the particulars of the lady, so I ascended to my rooms to see if she’d left me some message.
She had. I found scrawled on a scrap of paper, set in the center of my writing table, Will return at 11 am.
It was ten of the clock now. I crumpled the paper, thrust it into my pocket, and sat down to read the rest of my letters and wait.
Chapter Fifteen
I heard Brewster haul himself up the steps. He entered without knocking, balancing two mugs of coffee in one great hand.
“So you’re waiting, then.” He thunked a mug to my writing table, the hot coffee splashing droplets to the letters.
“Go if you like,” I said. “She left a note that she’d return at eleven. Time for you to do your morning shopping.”
Brewster gave me an evil look. He moved to the door and leaned against the doorframe, sipping the hot brew.
“She might be someone come to do you ’arm,” he said.
“I will attempt to defend myself.” I began opening the letters and sifting through them.
“She might bring help to best you. I was watching the rider yesterday, Captain. It could have been a woman.”
I thought of the lithe and athletic way the fellow had ridden, light in the saddle, agile with the reins, moving as one with the horse. “One hell of a good rider,” I said. “Perhaps, in addition to finding the horse, I should inquire about the reputation of skilled horsemen. Even the best might have found those moves difficult.”
“His nibs has it aright. You are too trusting of the fairer sex.” Brewster made the pronouncement decidedly. “I’ve seen women vaulting onto and off horses like nothing, hanging upside down from their bellies even. Acrobats and traveling performers can do it. I’ve seen women dressed as men do all sorts of riding feats, and then reveal themselves to be ladies to the astonishment of the crowd.”
I believed him. Brewster and his wife highly enjoyed entertainments, whether inside theatres or on the streets, or performed by strolling players at outlying inns.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” I gave him a nod. “Thank you.”
“So this lady what ran down your son might be coming here to shoot you.” Brewster dug his shoulder into the doorframe. “I’ll stay.”
“Why did you tell Denis you’d found the surgeon for me?” I asked curiously. “I did not plan to mention it to him.”
“He’d have found out, one way or another. He always does, don’t he? Best it came from me, straight up, than he visits my house and asks why I lied to him.” Brewster gave a slight shiver. “Facing him down and confessing is much better.”
“My apologies. I know he was angry with you. I’ll speak to him.”
Brewster barked a laugh. “Won’t do no good. The deed is done, he is angry, he’ll punish the both of us, and we’ll not do it again. That is the way of him. Straightforward.”
“Unreasonable. Even I see that the world is not black and white. Some things must be done, whether we, or Denis, like it or not. A man’s actions do not always reflect his motives, or what is in his heart.”
“He’s always had to see it, though, as you say, black and white, hasn’t he? Or he’d have been dead a long time ago.”
I agreed that Denis’s early life had been difficult, and he’d been saved only by his quick mind and complete ruthlessness.
“He and I will always disagree about many things,” I concluded. “Still, I will speak to him about you. You’ve been of great help to me.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Brewster said darkly. “The point is, he pays a good wage. I’d rather not lose my post, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Very well.” I returned to my letters. “See that you don’t pocket anything priceless while you’re here, won’t you?”
I heard the grin in his voice. “You ain’t got much, I have to tell you, Captain.”
He knew exactly what incident I referred to. A glance at him showed he’d folded his arms tightly, as though ready to prove he wasn’t touching anything.
My first few letters were nothing remarkable—a bill for meals at a nearby public house, a note from my father’s man of business answering a question I’d asked him about my property in Norfolk—namely, how much land around the house was actually still mine.
I also had a breezy but polite letter from one Frederick Hilliard, an actor and famous travesti from Drury Lane theatre. He thanked me for my introduction to Leland Derwent, and told me they’d become good friends.
Leland still grieves, and always will, I am afraid. I have taken it upon myself to cheer him, but not to chivvy him, if you understand. He can speak to me of the one he loved, as he can speak to no other. He regards you fondly, sweet lad.
Freddie Hilliard was a tall, solid-bodied, deep-voiced man who could transform himself into a woman onstage with amazing verisimilitude. He had his audiences roaring with laughter, or weeping when he portrayed a woman of deep sorrow. I admired his talent, and he’d been of great help during Leland’s tragedy earlier this year. I agreed Leland would find comfort in him.
I pocketed the missive to share with Donata, broke the seal on the last letter, and froze.
You fought well in the park, proved yourself to be a fine cavalryman. But this does not mean the man who came back from the dead is the true Gabriel Lacey. The price of my silence has increased.
I could not stop a sharp intake of breath. Brewster was at my side in an instant, his large fingers pulling the letter from my grasp.
“Ye see?” He said, reading the words. “It was a woman in the park, and she slipped in this letter when she was up here.”
“It came by post.” I indicated the mark that the letter had been pre-paid.
“Hmm,” Brewster said, unconvinced. “What does it mean, the man who came back from the dead? When did you die?”
I shrugged. “On the Peninsula. Captured and dragged off by French soldiers and made sport of. It’s when I got this.” I tapped my ruined left knee. “But I assure you, it was I who made it back to camp, after a long struggle. Part of me did die on that journey, but not in the way the writer implies.”