Hero let her gaze drift over the crush of gaily painted handbarrows, the rows of donkey carts with cracked harnesses so old they were often held together with wire or rope. The crisp morning air was heavy with the scents of charcoal smoke and dung and earthy vegetables, the pungent aromas from the herb stalls mingling with the sweet fragrance of potted laurels and myrtles and boxes. She smiled at the sight of two little boys chasing each other across cobbles smeared green with discarded leaves. Then one of the boys slipped and nearly collided with a market woman staggering beneath a heavy basket balanced on her head, before careening into Hero.
“Careful,” said Hero, keeping a strong grip on her reticule as she steadied the boy.
He threw her a cocky grin and darted off again.
The number of young children at the market, most of them boys, surprised her. Shrieks rose from a clutch of children washing at the pump, while more could be seen crowding around the fires of the coffee and tea stalls beneath the arcades, or congregating near the narrow lanes leading out of the square. Some looked no older than four or five.
“Why are they queuing?” asked Hero, watching the boys push and shove as they lined up.
“They’re ’opin’ some costermonger without a boy of ’is own will ’ire ’em for the day,” said Lucky. “Some ’as parents what send ’em ’ere to look for work. But a good many of ’em are orphans. They sleeps under the stalls at night and eats mainly specks.”
Hero brought her gaze back to his freckled face. “They eat what?”
“Specks. That’s what we call anything that’s overripe or shriveled, or that the wasps ’ave been at. They’re set aside, ye see, then sold for a quarter the price o’ the rest. Me da always says, if somethin’ won’t fetch a good price, then it must fetch a bad one.”
Hero drew her notebook and pencil from her reticule and began scribbling notes.
Officially, Covent Garden Market was devoted to the sale of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. But she could also see old iron sellers and crockery stalls scattered amidst the produce, as well as countrymen peddling wild ducks and rabbits. Rows of baskets and slippers dangled against the railings of St. Paul’s churchyard, while men and women with rusty trays slung from straps around their necks pushed their way through the crowd, hawking seedcakes and sweetmeats, razors and knives, ribbons and combs.
She was watching a lark at the bird catcher’s stall beat its wings against the bars of its cage when Lucky said, “Ye know that feller?”
“Who?” asked Hero, her gaze scanning the surging, raucous mass of humanity.
“That queer-lookin’ cove up there by the Piazza Hotel-the one with the fancy black boots. ’E’s been staring at ye ever so long. At first, I thought maybe ’e was jist puzzlin’ over what such a bang-up lady’s doin’ at Covent Garden Market. But ’e ain’t no coster, and ’e ain’t no grower neither, from the looks of ’im. So what’s ’e doin’ ’ere?”
Hero could see him now, a slope-shouldered man of medium height, lanky except for a small, slightly protuberant belly. He had a slouch hat tipped back on his head and was leaning against one of the granite pillars of the elevated north piazza, a tin cup from a nearby coffee stall cradled in one hand, the other resting negligently in his pocket.
“How do you know he’s not a costermonger?” she asked.
Lucky laughed. “I know.”
The man took a slow sip of his coffee. He wore neither the blue apron of the greengrocers nor the straw hat, smock frock, and dusty shoes of the countrymen, although his coat and breeches had never been of particularly good quality and were now worn and rumpled and greasy. Only his well-polished, high-topped boots struck a discordant note.
For one long, intense moment, the man’s gaze met hers across the square, and Hero felt her mouth go dry and an unpleasant sensation crawl across her skin. He had an oddly uneven face, with a full-lipped, crooked mouth and one eye that seemed slightly larger than the other. The sun was just cresting the rooftops of the decrepit seventeenth-century houses that lined the square and spilling golden light across the ragged, raucous crowd. The slanting sunlight caught the smoke from the charcoal fires so that, for one eerie moment, the air took on a hellish glow. Then the sun inched higher, and the illusion was broken.
“How long has he been watching us?” she asked Lucky. To her knowledge, she had never seen the man before and could not imagine who he might be.
“I can’t say fer sure,” said Lucky. “But I noticed ’im right after we got ’ere.”
She studied the unknown man’s strange profile. He was perhaps thirty-five or more years of age, his straight black hair worn long enough to hang over his collar, and a two- or three-days’ growth of beard shadowed his face. He kept his head deliberately turned away. But she had no doubt that he was still aware of her, that she was the reason he was here, now.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think ’e followed ye ’ere,” said Lucky. “Only, why would some feller be followin’ ye?”
“I don’t know,” said Hero, shoving her notebook and pencil back into her reticule. “But I intend to ask him.”
Gathering her carriage gown in both fists to lift the hem clear of the muck-strewn paving stones, Hero strode across the square, weaving around weathered, half-rotten stalls and plowing determinedly through the throngs of earnestly haggling purchasers and sellers. She had almost reached the step up to the piazza when the black-booted man pushed away from the pillar and melted into the crowd.
She tried to follow him, shoving past sieves piled high with apples and a thick mass of gawkers gathered around what looked like an upside-down umbrella filled with ribald prints. But by the time she reached the corner of James Street, he had disappeared.
She stared out over the noisy sea of donkeys and barrows and ragged men and women clogging the lane. “Blast,” she whispered beneath her breath.
“Who was he?” asked Lucky as he caught up with her.
But Hero only shook her head, conscious of an unpleasant tingling in her fingertips and a sensation of disquiet that would not be stilled.
Chapter 15
Sebastian was sitting down to a solitary breakfast after a hard ride in the park when he heard the distant peal of the front bell, followed by a young woman’s voice in the hall.
“A Miss Anne Preston to see you, my lord,” said Morey, appearing in the doorway. “She says it’s urgent.”
“Please, show her in.”
Stanley Preston’s daughter came in with a quick step and a determined, almost fierce expression that faded to chagrin as she drew up just inside the doorway. “I’ve interrupted your breakfast. I do beg your pardon. I’ll go-”
He pushed to his feet. “No. Please, come in and sit down. May I offer you some tea? Toast, perhaps?”
“Nothing, thank you.” She took the seat he indicated, both hands gripping her reticule in her lap as she leaned forward. “I’m sorry for coming so early, but I spoke to Jane Austen last night, and she says she told you about Hugh-I mean, Captain Wyeth. I. . I don’t think she realized that when you heard about Father’s argument with Mr. Austen, you might leap to some unfortunate conclusions.”
Sebastian suspected that Jane Austen had been perfectly aware of the implications of what she’d told him. But all he said was, “Conclusions about what?”
“About H-Captain Wyeth, and Father.”
Sebastian reached for his tankard and calmly took a sip of ale, his gaze one of polite interest.
When he remained silent, she said in a rush, “I won’t deny that Father was displeased when he learned Captain Wyeth had returned to London. But there was never any confrontation between them. Truly there wasn’t.” She looked at him with a pinched, earnest face, as if she could somehow will him to believe her.