authorities, his suspicions would be confirmed.
Simpkin stole a glance at the banknotes, of which there was an awesome pile, as he helped his master to disrobe. Perhaps his master had come to a belated appreciation of his invaluable services and meant to render a reward.
Lord Warwick lowered himself into the bath. “That will be all, Simpkin,” he said.
“Very good, your grace.” Correct as ever, the valet left the room. He did not, however, then set about the many tasks with which he normally filled his time, such as washing the glass and silver used at luncheon or attending the sitting room fire. Instead he shut himself in the pantry, there to count the banknotes that he’d palmed from the stack on his master’s desk. Simpkin had his own ways of dealing with ingratitude.
Lord Warwick sank into his steaming bath with a deep sigh. He had no complaint of his hotel, which made every concession to his comfort, including a goose-feather bed large enough to contain two or three people, as well as a half dozen wide towels. Indeed, the only fly in Lord Warwick’s domestic ointment was his moronic valet. No matter. After this next interview he would repair to his club, there to mingle with congenial souls and celebrate his cleverness by winning a few rubbers at whist. So lost was Lord Warwick in reverie that when the door suddenly opened he jumped and splashed water all about the floor. Surely the wretched fellow hadn’t come so soon!
Not Lord Warwick’s anticipated caller stepped into the room, nor his valet, but a black-clad woman, heavily veiled. Her ugly bonnet afforded only a glimpse of white hair.
Embarrassed, he sank down to his chin in soapsuds. “ You! Why the deuce have you returned?”
This invasion had not gone unnoticed in the butler’s pantry. Simpkin scurried to the door of his master’s room and put his eye once again to the keyhole. The sight of Lord Warwick interrupted ignobly in his ablutions made Simpkin nearly swoon. His master would have his head on a platter for this intrusion. A knocking on the outer door called him away.
Simpkin was incorrect; Lord Warwick was not considering beheading his valet, but boiling him in hot oil. “Answer me!” he demanded of the female, whose shoulders were shaking with what appeared to be silent mirth. “How dare you burst in here?”
“I’d dare a lot for this,” she said, moving closer. Lord Warwick had no time to do more than stare at the pistol that she held.
The shot, heard throughout the hotel, was loud as thunder in Lord Warwick’s vestibule. Simpkin, who had just opened the front door to admit another caller, gasped and turned pale with alarm. As one, the men hurried down the hallway. The valet threw open the door. There was no one in the room save Lord Warwick, in his bloody tub. “My lord!” gasped the valet and stumbled against the desk.
Lord Barrymore looked somewhat pale himself. “This is no time for hysterics. Fetch a doctor, man.”
Simpkin tore his gaze away from the grisly contents of the bath, which was shaped somewhat unfortunately like a metal coffin. He looked down at Lord Warwick’s desk, bare now of banknotes, and then at the open window. “Oh, sir!” he moaned. “I very much fear that the master has been robbed.”
“Yes,” said Lord Barrymore. “I rather suspect he has.”
Chapter 6
Crump, having fortified himself with a bobstick of rum slim, moved cautiously among the crowds who bustled along Fleet Street. Once this had been a sanctuary for debtors and duelists, thieves and murderers, as well as imprudent poets anxious to escape the pillory. Nor had the situation greatly changed. Those who cast slurs upon the King’s majesty were still in need of refuge. Crump gazed at the timber-fronted shops with swinging signs above their entrances. His wistful eye alighted upon one of the ancient taverns that were so common here. He would need more than a shilling’s worth of punch to fortify him for this
Simpkin stole a glance at the banknotes, of which there was an awesome pile, as he helped his master to disrobe. Perhaps his master had come to a belated appreciation of his invaluable services and meant to render a reward.
Lord Warwick lowered himself into the bath. “That will be all, Simpkin,” he said.
“Very good, your grace.” Correct as ever, the valet left the room. He did not, however, then set about the many tasks with which he normally filled his time, such as washing the glass and silver used at luncheon or attending the sitting room fire. Instead he shut himself in the pantry, there to count the banknotes that he’d palmed from the stack on his master’s desk. Simpkin had his own ways of dealing with ingratitude.
Lord Warwick sank into his steaming bath with a deep sigh. He had no complaint of his hotel, which made every concession to his comfort, including a goose-feather bed large enough to contain two or three people, as well as a half dozen wide towels. Indeed, the only fly in Lord Warwick’s domestic ointment was his moronic valet. No matter. After this next interview he would repair to his club, there to mingle with congenial souls and celebrate his cleverness by winning a few rubbers at whist. So lost was Lord Warwick in reverie that when the door suddenly opened he jumped and splashed water all about the floor. Surely the wretched fellow hadn’t come so soon!
Not Lord Warwick’s anticipated caller stepped into the room, nor his valet, but a black-clad woman, heavily veiled. Her ugly bonnet afforded only a glimpse of white hair.
Embarrassed, he sank down to his chin in soapsuds. “ You! Why the deuce have you returned?”
This invasion had not gone unnoticed in the butler’s pantry. Simpkin scurried to the door of his master’s room and put his eye once again to the keyhole. The sight of Lord Warwick interrupted ignobly in his ablutions made Simpkin nearly swoon. His master would have his head on a platter for this intrusion. A knocking on the outer door called him away.
Simpkin was incorrect; Lord Warwick was not considering beheading his valet, but boiling him in hot oil. “Answer me!” he demanded of the female, whose shoulders were shaking with what appeared to be silent mirth. “How dare you burst in here?”
“I’d dare a lot for this,” she said, moving closer. Lord Warwick had no time to do more than stare at the pistol that she held.
The shot, heard throughout the hotel, was loud as thunder in Lord Warwick’s vestibule. Simpkin, who had just opened the front door to admit another caller, gasped and turned pale with alarm. As one, the men hurried down the hallway. The valet threw open the door. There was no one in the room save Lord Warwick, in his bloody tub. “My lord!” gasped the valet and stumbled against the desk.
Lord Barrymore looked somewhat pale himself. “This is no time for hysterics. Fetch a doctor, man.”
Simpkin tore his gaze away from the grisly contents of the bath, which was shaped somewhat unfortunately like a metal coffin. He looked down at Lord Warwick’s desk, bare now of banknotes, and then at the open window. “Oh, sir!” he moaned. “I very much fear that the master has been robbed.”
“Yes,” said Lord Barrymore. “I rather suspect he has.”
Chapter 6
Crump, having fortified himself with a bobstick of rum slim, moved cautiously among the crowds who bustled along Fleet Street. Once this had been a sanctuary for debtors and duelists, thieves and murderers, as well as imprudent poets anxious to escape the pillory. Nor had the situation greatly changed. Those who cast slurs upon the King’s majesty were still in need of refuge. Crump gazed at the timber-fronted shops with swinging signs above their entrances. His wistful eye alighted upon one of the ancient taverns that were so common here. He would need more than a shilling’s worth of punch to fortify him for this
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