that is his description, not mine. He desires the slate wiped clean."
"So he can stick his chive in you another time, more like."
"George, I find your abundant faith in human nature endearing. I can deal with Hewitt in the future. The nub of the matter is that I do have a favor to ask of him that is ripe for a man of his, ah, talents."
George Romley looked suspiciously at his employer. "You ain't founderin' in high seas are you, and need to bring your ship about?"
"I assure you, my purse is intact. I need you to deliver this letter to Mr. Hewitt. He informed me when last we met that he could be reached through a tavern in the City rejoicing in the name of The Pye-Eyed Cock "
"Coo—guv'nor, that's a wicked address."
"I'm sure it is, but not, I believe, beyond your touch, George."
Romley fidgeted in his chair. "Now what would I be doing in a hell-hole like that, I ask you?"
Branstoke raised an eyebrow in unspoken comment.
Romley fidgeted some more, rubbing his nose vigorously with his finger. "More'n likely the bloke cain't read."
"I assure you, Mr. Hewitt's education is wider than you think."
"Why me, sir?" Romley finally blurted out.
"Why, George?" Branstoke shrugged. "Consider it my feeble way to broaden your horizons."
Romley snorted. "All right, sir, I'll take your letter. What am I to do after I delivers it?"
"You will obtain Mr. Hewitt's agreement, and between you work out a method of operation to supply me with the information I desire. I have faith, George, in your inventiveness to pursue this project properly. I am uninterested in the particulars."
George Romley was silent a moment, then he heaved a big sigh. "All right. It'll be as you say, guv'nor." He shook his head dolefully. "I jest hope you know what your doin', sir."
An enigmatic smile curled the corners of Sir Branstoke's lips. "So do I, George, so do I."
Cecilia listlessly turned the page of the novel she'd been trying to read for the past half-hour. It was a light, pastoral romance with some finely drawn characters; unfortunately her mind refused to stay focused on the gentle humor and happenings in the story. Her thoughts drifted unerringly to the mystery she'd set herself to solve.
She wasn't certain she actually ever placed much faith in solving the crime of her husband's murder, or of bringing its perpetrators to book. Her half-formed plans had been more in the way of an impetus to break the lethargy she'd fallen into after Mr. Waddley’s death. Their marriage had been safe and comfortable, something her life had not been as a child.
Her childhood held vivid memories of plate and pictures slowly disappearing, and servants leaving for lack of pay. The sale of her beloved pony was a particularly painful memory. Truthfully, she'd outgrown Penny, but the callousness of her father and brother when they dispensed with her little copper-colored pony had been a raw wound for years. She long felt their attitude toward the pony was equivalent to their attitude toward her, only they could not get rid of her as easily nor as profitably. Until her grandfather, the Duke of Houghton, autocratically fetched her from the slowly decaying manor that was her home, she existed simply. Carefully she darned her clothes and uncomplaining ate what she and Mr. and Mrs. Crontick, the only servants to remain, could scrounge. She was always thankful, however, that her mother never lived to see their lives reduced to such circumstances.
Dispassionately, she wondered why she didn't hate her father and brother. She certainly had every right to. Maybe it was because she'd never known them to be any different. And truthfully, the male relatives on her mother's side of the family were not above reproach either. Her grandfather's history was every bit as checkered as her father's, only he was luckier, and perhaps more skillful at cards, than Baron Haukstrom. She couldn't blame her father for virtually abandoning her, for she'd been a drain on his pocketbook. Nor
"So he can stick his chive in you another time, more like."
"George, I find your abundant faith in human nature endearing. I can deal with Hewitt in the future. The nub of the matter is that I do have a favor to ask of him that is ripe for a man of his, ah, talents."
George Romley looked suspiciously at his employer. "You ain't founderin' in high seas are you, and need to bring your ship about?"
"I assure you, my purse is intact. I need you to deliver this letter to Mr. Hewitt. He informed me when last we met that he could be reached through a tavern in the City rejoicing in the name of The Pye-Eyed Cock "
"Coo—guv'nor, that's a wicked address."
"I'm sure it is, but not, I believe, beyond your touch, George."
Romley fidgeted in his chair. "Now what would I be doing in a hell-hole like that, I ask you?"
Branstoke raised an eyebrow in unspoken comment.
Romley fidgeted some more, rubbing his nose vigorously with his finger. "More'n likely the bloke cain't read."
"I assure you, Mr. Hewitt's education is wider than you think."
"Why me, sir?" Romley finally blurted out.
"Why, George?" Branstoke shrugged. "Consider it my feeble way to broaden your horizons."
Romley snorted. "All right, sir, I'll take your letter. What am I to do after I delivers it?"
"You will obtain Mr. Hewitt's agreement, and between you work out a method of operation to supply me with the information I desire. I have faith, George, in your inventiveness to pursue this project properly. I am uninterested in the particulars."
George Romley was silent a moment, then he heaved a big sigh. "All right. It'll be as you say, guv'nor." He shook his head dolefully. "I jest hope you know what your doin', sir."
An enigmatic smile curled the corners of Sir Branstoke's lips. "So do I, George, so do I."
Cecilia listlessly turned the page of the novel she'd been trying to read for the past half-hour. It was a light, pastoral romance with some finely drawn characters; unfortunately her mind refused to stay focused on the gentle humor and happenings in the story. Her thoughts drifted unerringly to the mystery she'd set herself to solve.
She wasn't certain she actually ever placed much faith in solving the crime of her husband's murder, or of bringing its perpetrators to book. Her half-formed plans had been more in the way of an impetus to break the lethargy she'd fallen into after Mr. Waddley’s death. Their marriage had been safe and comfortable, something her life had not been as a child.
Her childhood held vivid memories of plate and pictures slowly disappearing, and servants leaving for lack of pay. The sale of her beloved pony was a particularly painful memory. Truthfully, she'd outgrown Penny, but the callousness of her father and brother when they dispensed with her little copper-colored pony had been a raw wound for years. She long felt their attitude toward the pony was equivalent to their attitude toward her, only they could not get rid of her as easily nor as profitably. Until her grandfather, the Duke of Houghton, autocratically fetched her from the slowly decaying manor that was her home, she existed simply. Carefully she darned her clothes and uncomplaining ate what she and Mr. and Mrs. Crontick, the only servants to remain, could scrounge. She was always thankful, however, that her mother never lived to see their lives reduced to such circumstances.
Dispassionately, she wondered why she didn't hate her father and brother. She certainly had every right to. Maybe it was because she'd never known them to be any different. And truthfully, the male relatives on her mother's side of the family were not above reproach either. Her grandfather's history was every bit as checkered as her father's, only he was luckier, and perhaps more skillful at cards, than Baron Haukstrom. She couldn't blame her father for virtually abandoning her, for she'd been a drain on his pocketbook. Nor
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