Waiting Game by Sheri Cobb South Page A

for the Drury Lane Theatre. He dressed the great Nell Gwyn, and when she became the, er, when she found favor with King Charles, she gave my ancestor the money to establish himself in business.”
    “ ‘Linen-draper to the Quality since 1668,’ ” Pickett quoted, recalling the sign over the door.
    “Just so,” said Miss Robinson, beaming at him.
    “I suppose I must feel honored to have been bitten by a dog with such a distinguished theatrical history,” Pickett said, as his nurse tore a strip of cloth and began wrapping it around his hand. “But your patrons might not feel the same, if Brutus should choose to distinguish them with the same attentions.”
    “Oh, but he isn’t allowed in the shop where he might molest the customers,” she assured him, neatly tying off her work and snipping away the excess cloth.
    “I see,” Pickett drawled. “That honor is reserved for me.”
    She dimpled at him. “Well, you were trespassing on his property, you know, for he considers the back room his own. Although the fault is mine,” she allowed generously, “for failing to put him out into the alley behind the shop until you had finished. I hope you will forgive me.”
    Pickett did so readily enough, but his assurances were somewhat mechanical, as a thought had just occurred to him. “Tell me, Miss Robinson—”
    “Oh, pray call me Nancy.”
    Pickett suddenly realized that although she had finished bandaging his hand, she still held it cradled between both of her own—and that she was gazing up at him with a warm glow in her eyes. Gently but firmly, he withdrew his hand from her grasp. “I, er, I think I’d better not,” he said, and took his leave with, perhaps, more speed than grace.
    * * *
    So hasty was his departure, in fact, that he all but ran over a tall, cadaverous man just entering the premises as he was leaving.
    “I—I beg your pardon,” Pickett stammered, grabbing the man by the arms to steady him until he had regained his balance.
    “My fault entirely, for not watching where I was going,” the man assured him quite untruthfully. “I’ve had much on my mind of late, and have not been minding—and we see what has come of it.”
    As Pickett stooped to pick up the hat that had been knocked from his head in the mêlée, it occurred to him that here was the man he had been trying for two days to see.
    “Mr. Robinson? George Robinson?” He gestured toward the sign hanging over their heads.
    “Guilty as charged,” the older man said, sketching a bow.
    Pickett shifted his hat to his injured left hand, so that he might offer his whole right one to the linen-draper. “How do you do? I’m John Pickett, from Bow Street. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance at last, although I do regret the violence of the meeting.”
    “Ah, yes, Mr. Pickett. My daughter told me about you,” said the linen-draper, regarding the caller with so speculative a gleam in his eye that Pickett wondered exactly what Miss Robinson had said about him. “Tell me, have you anything new to report regarding our robbery?”
    “Not yet, sir, although I hope to make some progress very soon,” Pickett told him. “In fact, I should like to ask you a few questions, if there is some room where we may speak uninterrupted.”
    “Yes, yes, of course. Come inside, and we’ll go to the back room. Nan, you and Andrew may keep an eye on things out front, there’s a good girl.”
    “Yes, Papa.” Nancy had apparently descended the stairs to the shop in Pickett’s wake (albeit at a more sedate pace), and now hovered about the door. If she was disappointed at not being invited to join their conversation, she gave no outward sign, although Pickett felt her eyes following him as they passed through the showroom into the storage room at the back of the shop.
    “Now, Mr. Pickett, what can I do for you?” the linen-draper asked, once they were alone in the back room with the door firmly closed behind them. Brutus emitted a low growl, and Mr.