Ruston!” he shouted.
“Sorry, m’lord!” his driver returned. “But some bloody fool jus’ cut ‘is team right in front of— ‘Ere, you!” The coachman broke off and grabbed his whip. “You can’t—”
The right hand door sprang open and a small man dressed in gray city clothes climbed into the carriage and seated himself opposite Lesley, who was still hanging out the window. Planting the walking stick he carried between his knees, he folded his hands on top of it, nodded, and said, quite conversationally, “Good afternoon, Lord Earnshaw.”
Wishing he had his rapier or a pistol, or at least his cane, which lay out of his reach on the banquette, Lesley eyed the intruder balefully, swung himself back inside and observed forcefully, “Cut purses have certainly grown bold in my absence.”
The man’s laugh was interrupted by the appearance of the bewhiskered Ruston, brandishing his whip, and the groom Tom, his fists doubled and his square jaw clenched, in the still open carriage door.
“A moment, if you please.” The man held up a hand to them, reached inside his coat, and produced a card, which he handed to Lesley.
He scanned it quickly, then eyed the intruder again, this time incredulously. “Bow Street! What is the meaning of this?”
“If you would instruct your men to carry on, my lord—” the Runner paused to glance significantly at Ruston and Tom “—all will be explained by the time we reach Mayfair.”
He could, of course, have the man—Mr. Gerald Fisk, according to his card—summarily tossed into the gutter, but his curiosity was piqued. “Very well,” Lesley acquiesced. “Get us under way, Ruston.”
“Can’t, m’lord. Our way be blocked.”
“If you will remount your box, coachman,” Fisk told him, “my associate will remove our carriage from your path and follow at a discreet distance.”
Ruston frowned suspiciously and glanced at Lord Earnshaw. He nodded, and the two servants withdrew, closing the door behind them.
“Are the methods employed by Bow Street always this unorthodox?” Lesley asked, slipping the card into his inside pocket.
“Rarely, my lord.” Fisk smiled and refolded his hands atop his cane as the barouche rolled forward. “But because the matter I wish to discuss with you will require a good deal of discretion, I felt the means justified. In the excitement of our near collision I doubt anyone noticed me slipping into your coach.”
“For the sake of discretion you risked life and limb? Not to mention my cattle?”
“There was very little risk.” He shrugged dismissively. “My associate is quite a skilled driver.”
“You are aware that I will verify your credentials?”
“Of course. If you don’t, my lord, I’ll be forced to reassess your character.”
Satisfied, at least for the moment, that Fisk was who and what he said he was, Lesley settled back against the banquette.
“Now what is this discreet matter you wish to discuss?”
“The robbery—or rather, the attempt at robbery—that was made last evening at your mother’s home.”
“I cannot help you, for I was not on the premises at the time.”
“Were you not, my lord?” Fisk smiled and leaned forward on his cane. “In questioning Her Grace’s guests—-in particular the Baroness Matilda Blumfield—I heard a most preposterous story regarding a man in a black mask.”
“Really?” Lesley rejoined lazily, covering the jolt of surprise he’d just been given with a feigned yawn. “One of the thieves, I’m sure.”
“Are you, my lord?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you sure it was one of the thieves?”
“Of course I’m not sure. How could I be, since I’ve just told you I was not at my mother’s house last night.”
“How odd.” Fisk pursed his lips perplexedly. “I could have sworn your younger brother Theodore told me he’d arranged to meet you with fresh clothing in the stables.”
Lesley laughed, though it sounded a bit forced even to him. “What a
“Sorry, m’lord!” his driver returned. “But some bloody fool jus’ cut ‘is team right in front of— ‘Ere, you!” The coachman broke off and grabbed his whip. “You can’t—”
The right hand door sprang open and a small man dressed in gray city clothes climbed into the carriage and seated himself opposite Lesley, who was still hanging out the window. Planting the walking stick he carried between his knees, he folded his hands on top of it, nodded, and said, quite conversationally, “Good afternoon, Lord Earnshaw.”
Wishing he had his rapier or a pistol, or at least his cane, which lay out of his reach on the banquette, Lesley eyed the intruder balefully, swung himself back inside and observed forcefully, “Cut purses have certainly grown bold in my absence.”
The man’s laugh was interrupted by the appearance of the bewhiskered Ruston, brandishing his whip, and the groom Tom, his fists doubled and his square jaw clenched, in the still open carriage door.
“A moment, if you please.” The man held up a hand to them, reached inside his coat, and produced a card, which he handed to Lesley.
He scanned it quickly, then eyed the intruder again, this time incredulously. “Bow Street! What is the meaning of this?”
“If you would instruct your men to carry on, my lord—” the Runner paused to glance significantly at Ruston and Tom “—all will be explained by the time we reach Mayfair.”
He could, of course, have the man—Mr. Gerald Fisk, according to his card—summarily tossed into the gutter, but his curiosity was piqued. “Very well,” Lesley acquiesced. “Get us under way, Ruston.”
“Can’t, m’lord. Our way be blocked.”
“If you will remount your box, coachman,” Fisk told him, “my associate will remove our carriage from your path and follow at a discreet distance.”
Ruston frowned suspiciously and glanced at Lord Earnshaw. He nodded, and the two servants withdrew, closing the door behind them.
“Are the methods employed by Bow Street always this unorthodox?” Lesley asked, slipping the card into his inside pocket.
“Rarely, my lord.” Fisk smiled and refolded his hands atop his cane as the barouche rolled forward. “But because the matter I wish to discuss with you will require a good deal of discretion, I felt the means justified. In the excitement of our near collision I doubt anyone noticed me slipping into your coach.”
“For the sake of discretion you risked life and limb? Not to mention my cattle?”
“There was very little risk.” He shrugged dismissively. “My associate is quite a skilled driver.”
“You are aware that I will verify your credentials?”
“Of course. If you don’t, my lord, I’ll be forced to reassess your character.”
Satisfied, at least for the moment, that Fisk was who and what he said he was, Lesley settled back against the banquette.
“Now what is this discreet matter you wish to discuss?”
“The robbery—or rather, the attempt at robbery—that was made last evening at your mother’s home.”
“I cannot help you, for I was not on the premises at the time.”
“Were you not, my lord?” Fisk smiled and leaned forward on his cane. “In questioning Her Grace’s guests—-in particular the Baroness Matilda Blumfield—I heard a most preposterous story regarding a man in a black mask.”
“Really?” Lesley rejoined lazily, covering the jolt of surprise he’d just been given with a feigned yawn. “One of the thieves, I’m sure.”
“Are you, my lord?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you sure it was one of the thieves?”
“Of course I’m not sure. How could I be, since I’ve just told you I was not at my mother’s house last night.”
“How odd.” Fisk pursed his lips perplexedly. “I could have sworn your younger brother Theodore told me he’d arranged to meet you with fresh clothing in the stables.”
Lesley laughed, though it sounded a bit forced even to him. “What a
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