Climbing down, Darcy flipped the driver a coin, which the man snatched handily out of the air and immediately bit. “Remember.” Darcy put a hand on the reins. “Back in a half hour and safely to my lodgings and twice that shall be yours.”
“Aye, gov; me an’ ol’ Bill be right ’ere, awaitin’.” The cabbie nodded. Darcy released the reins as the cabbie flicked them. “Gee-up now, Bill.” The cab moved on into the night. Watching it pull away, Darcy took a firmer grip on his walking stick, the heaviest he owned. Unfortunately, it was also the most ornate and contrasted mightily with the plainest of attire in which Fletcher could be convinced to dress him.
“I see a light, sir.” The valet pointed up to a small corner window on the second floor. “It must be the sexton’s quarters.”
“Good — now to find the door.” Both men stepped forward, only to be immediately accosted out of the darkness by a beggar pleading for enough coin for a bit to eat. Before her plea was finished, two others joined them, little more than children. She turned on them, kicking them away. In moments the street was thick with urchins and derelicts, some interested only in the brawl while others were attentive to the strangers who were its cause. “On your life, show no fear,” Darcy hissed to Fletcher, “and follow my lead.” Slowly he backed up to and along the church’s wall, being careful to display the fact of the walking stick as he did so.
“I’ve found the door, sir,” Fletcher gasped. “It is locked!”
“Knock, man!” Darcy brandished the solid brass knob at the crowd that was now hooting and calling out insults as well as demands. It was most likely the noise of the crowd rather than Fletcher’s knocking that attracted the sexton’s attention, for the door opened suddenly behind them, and heavy hands on both their shoulders drew them in and behind a man of stunning proportions. Cries of disappointment rose from the mob.
“Do no behef so,” the giant called out in heavily accented English. “Trit straungers lack dis? No! Go home; pray Fadder forgif. Go!” With that advice or command, Darcy knew not which, the man closed the door, turned to them, and held his candle to their faces. “Who?” was all that composed his simple question.
“Darcy. I am a friend of Lord Brougham.”
“Lordt Brougham?” The giant was clearly at a loss.
“Lord Dyfed Brougham,” Darcy tried again.
“Oh, Mr. Dyfedt!” Relief shone on the man’s face. “Yes, I know Mr. Dyfedt, but I not know Lordt Brougham. Brudder, maybe?”
Darcy smiled. “Perhaps.” Of course Dy would not be known by his real name here! What was he thinking? “Mr. Dyfed told me to find you if I needed his help. Can you contact him for me?”
The sexton drew back. “Name again, please.”
“Darcy…and this is my man, Fletcher. Mr. Dyfed knows us both,” he said and pulled out the slip of paper Dy had given him. “Here is his pledge.”
The sexton took the paper and held it up to the candle. Nodding, he returned it to Darcy. “Yes, Mr. Dyfed.”
“Can you get a note to him?”
The giant shook his head. “Ach, no. Ist business?”
Darcy shook his head wearily. “No, a young woman in danger. He knows people here who might be able to help me find her and restore her to her family.”
“Yong voman? Hmm.” The man’s brow furrowed. “Not business?”
“No, not business; a personal matter in which I know he would wish to lend assistance.” Darcy sighed.
“Then perhaps I can help you,” came the reply in perfect English. Both Darcy and Fletcher stared at the smiling giant. “But first let me offer you gentlemen some refreshment. You have had a hard night of it, I think.”
Drawing back, Darcy stared up into the amused eyes of their rescuer and tightened his grip once more upon the brass-crowned walking stick he had brandished at the unruly lot outside the door. The giant’s rumbling laughter in response filled, then echoed off the circular stone walls of the stairwell. “Please, sir, come up. If Mr. Dyfed sent you to me, you can have nothing to fear at my hands. Please…” He indicated the steps. Still uncertain as to the wisdom of accepting, Darcy cast a glance at Fletcher, but his manservant was otherwise engaged.
“Tyke? Tyke Tanner?” Fletcher stepped toward the giant, whose regard now swung to him in surprise.
“Who…?” he began, then stopped, his eyes nearly starting out of his head. “Lem? Lemuel Fletcher? I’ll be!” Reaching out a great paw of a hand, he clapped Darcy’s valet a hearty slap upon his back. “Ten years, has it been? Unbelievable!” That observation summed up Darcy’s sentiment as well. How in the world did his valet know this man? “And your parents! How are Mr. Farley and Mistress Margaret? Still atread the boards, I’ll be bound!” Treading the boards? Darcy turned to his man, his brow cocked, awaiting Fletcher’s answer with more than a little interest.
“Ah, no.” Fletcher glanced at his employer nervously. “They have retired to Nottingham.” He cleared his throat. “But how did you come to be here and sexton of a church? Not your sort of role, Tyke.”
Tanner’s gaze flicked back to Darcy, and he hesitated. “Perhaps your gentleman would welcome that refreshment and a seat to enjoy it in, Lem. Sir.” He tugged at his forelock in Darcy’s direction. “I am completely at your service.”
Darcy nodded, not at all satisfied with his understanding of what had just passed, but his cause for being in this unlikely situation was too pressing to puzzle it out now. “Lead on.” Tanner ducked his head in polite response and started climbing the winding stone stairway. A partially open door lay at the second landing, and at this he stopped and waited for them to precede him into the room. Darcy looked back at Fletcher, one brow quirked in question. The valet’s assuring smile was not entirely gainsaid by the wariness in his eyes, but it was a consideration. There was nothing for it but to trust to Dy’s instructions and the contacts those instructions offered to him. Really, given what he now knew about his friend, the odd nature of his contacts should not have been surprising. He looked up into their guide’s eyes again and wished to Heaven that this one were not so odd and so blasted large at the same time!
Gathering his resolve, Darcy stepped past the giant and into the room, Fletcher treading behind him, and then their host. Tanner paused to close the door and took the further precaution to lock it and hang the key on a hook to the side. Turning, he smiled at them and hurried over to the fire to swing a kettle above the embers, then began a search for the apparently rare clean cup. In an instant the man’s large frame became comic rather than threatening as he hurried awkwardly about his hosting duties in the confines of the low-pitched room that served as kitchen, sitting room, and bedchamber, all the while apologizing for its cluttered, unkempt appearance.
“Please, sir, have a seat.” He dusted off an ancient chair. “The water’ll be hot in no time. Lem, can you lend me a hand?” Fletcher looked down at Darcy. He nodded, and Fletcher followed Tanner to a table that served all its owner’s needs for a flat horizontal surface. Evidently, they had interrupted their host’s meal, for a plate with an enormous haunch of meat lay at one end while a mound of papers, pens, and an inkwell graced the other. True to Tanner’s word, a cup of hot tea appeared at Darcy’s elbow in record time. After handing Fletcher another, the great man stepped before Darcy and tugged again at his forelock. “Sir? How can I help you?”
“Tanner.” Darcy looked up into the curious eyes of Dy’s contact. “Mr. Dyfed gave me to know that any time I needed to find him, I was to come here, but he is not to be found, you say.”