A Lady's Guide to Passion and Property Read online

  “Did the robbers get much?” he asked the bench sitters. He wondered whether he could get some sense out of the old fellow while Lucy Holbrook was away.

  “That’s the puzzle,” said Will, shaking his head. “They only took the horses.”

  “Not Radcliffe’s gold?” Harry knew the animals on one of Radcliffe’s Rockets would hardly be prize horseflesh. Radcliffe ran the kind of coaching enterprise where profits were lean, and his drivers were the kind who drove their beasts until they died in the traces somewhere between London and Dover.

  The bench sitters chuckled. Geoffrey Radcliffe had been knighted for loaning staggering sums to King George when the latter was a mere prince.

  The bench sitters shook their heads. “A gang, they were,” Will added. “Spoke some gibberish.”

  “Coulda been gypsies,” suggested another bench sitter.

  Harry ventured a glance at the blind man. It was a rare moment when Lucy Holbrook left the old man alone. Adam Pickersgill had been Harry’s objective for weeks, but finding him had only deepened the mystery. Adam was tall and gaunt with a shock of white hair above a linen band that circled his head, covering his sightless eyes. Harry guessed his age to be near eighty and credited Lucy with keeping the old man clean and combed and neatly dressed.

  Most days Adam sat on his bench with his brushes and blacking or a pile of silver and a pot of polish. The bench sitters knew little about him and cared less. Most of them simply considered the old man a fixture at the inn. He’d been there next to Lucy Holbrook as long as anyone remembered. Sheepishly, John Simkins, a merchant who sold water flasks, had confessed that as boys they had teased Adam and tried to provoke him whenever Lucy led him out of the inn for a bit of sun and air. How the girl had come to be responsible for the old man no one knew.

  Harry turned back to the bench sitters, who were talking about roads and robberies and boasting that any one of them would have been a better match for the highwaymen than the coachman had been. It was pot-valiant talk, the kind Harry had heard from raw recruits on the night before battle. As the talk grew louder and bolder, the bench sitters glanced often at the door of the inn’s private dining room. Harry suspected that at least three of them were working up the courage to solicit Lucy’s hand in marriage.

  “Where’s Miss Holbrook?” he asked when talk of the robbery lapsed.

  All the heads nodded at the door on the other side of the entry, and Will spoke for the group. “At luncheon with her lady friends.”

  Will wiped the foam from his lip. “Here’s a puzzle for you, Captain,” he said. “Why did Sir Geoffrey send his gold to Hell?”

  Will, a fair-haired giant of man, was the wit of the group, and his companions waited for the punch line.

  Harry shrugged.

  “So he’ll have some when he gets there,” Will said. The bench sitters laughed and slapped their thighs.

  “Geoffrey ran away.” Adam Pickersgill’s deep voice boomed out from his corner, stilling the laughter.

  The men drew on their pipes. Harry nodded to them and turned to the old man.

  “Geoffrey ran away,” the old man repeated. His body shook the bench under him.

  Harry crossed the room and put a steadying hand on the old man’s shoulder, motioning Frank at the tap for a pint of small beer. When it arrived, Harry lifted the old man’s big square hand and closed it around the pewter cup as he’d seen Lucy do.

  Adam drank his beer in long drafts that left a foam moustache above his upper lip. He banged his cup down on the table, spilling ale. “Adam must not go. Adam must stay.”

  Queenie shifted her position in the old man’s lap and jumped down to arch against Harry’s booted calf. He leaned down to stroke the creature’s head.

  Adam stilled and cocked his head to the side. “You like cats very much.”

  “I do,” Harry agreed.

  The old man might be blind, but he was good at detecting a person’s presence and recognizing people even before they spoke. If Harry could get Adam talking, he might eventually say something useful about the case. Harry suspected that Adam’s odd declarations were part of a coherent story, fragments of a narrative in which one man ran away while another stood his ground, perhaps in the face of murder.

  “Geoffrey ran away,” Adam repeated, this time in the volume of ordinary conversation.

  Harry gave Adam’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “How’s the ale today, Adam?”

  Adam’s face crinkled into dozens of lines around the strip of unbleached linen. He reached out his hand for Harry’s and gave it two long energetic pumps, like a man working a tap handle. “Tooth and Nail ale very good. You like yer ale very dark, like coffee.”

  “That I do, Adam.”

  From the benches came another mention of the robbery of Sir Geoffrey’s Rocket passenger coach. Adam stirred, his gnarled hands pulling at the cloth over his knees. Harry sat down beside him, and Queenie leapt up into Harry’s lap. He stroked the cat’s fur and considered how to get the truth out of the old man’s muddled brain.

  * * * *

  The scrape of spoons against dishes sounded loud in Lucy’s ears, and she realized that the conversation had died and her friends were looking at her. She had no idea what they had been speaking of the past half hour.

  “Lucy, child,” Margaret broke the silence. “We really can’t bear to think of you here alone, so far from friends.”

  Lucy held her tongue. Alone? She wanted to laugh at the notion. When was an innkeeper ever alone?

  “A suitable place must be found to be sure, and we will help you.” Cassandra spoke as if the matter had been decided over plates of pudding. “But you must quit the inn as soon as possible. Within a fortnight, at the latest.”

  “Sell within a fortnight? Is it possible?” She was not ready. Her future as a lady had seemed quite distant only a few weeks ago.

  “Of course you will not handle the sale yourself,” said Cassandra. “We will recommend a solicitor to make sure the inn’s assets are properly valued. With the right help, you’ll be ready to begin your London Season in days.”

  Her friends had worked out a solution to her situation. But a dead father was not a situation. The Tooth and Nail was not a situation. And Adam was not a situation. She did not know how she could begin to explain Adam to her friends, but there were things that could not be sold with tables and chairs, plate and silver, and stables and outbuildings. Even if one could sell everything one owned, one could not really sell one’s past.

  Margaret rose and came around the table to take Lucy by the hands, pull her from her chair, and fold her in another embrace. “Dear child, your future has arrived in a way none of us expected. Nevertheless, it has arrived, and your father himself, would want you to seek the best position for yourself in the world.”

  Lucy let herself be held. There was no denying that her father had wanted her to be a lady. When she was twelve, he had given her a painting of just the sort of lady she was meant to be. It hung in her room above the small hearth. Then he had sent her to Mrs. Thwayte’s school, and when she had finished there, he had insisted that she spend Sundays with these very friends to grow accustomed to talk and manners quite different from those of the inn. Now, unexpectedly, the moment had arrived for her to step into the life for which he had prepared her. She simply had never imagined that she would step into that life without him.

  Cordelia stood and once more offered Lucy the brown paper package. “Do open it, dear.”

  Lucy stepped back from Margaret’s hold and tugged loose the string, unfolding the brown paper. A small blue book with gold lettering appeared—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London. She looked up into three bright smiles of encouragement. A hiccup of laughter escaped her. A month ago, two weeks ago, she would have devoured the little book eagerly, ready to learn its lessons. Now she understood that its lessons would be lessons in de
taching herself from home. She wanted to toss the little book out the window and let the rain wash it away.

  “You’ll be brilliant, dear. We can’t wait to help you enjoy a wonderful Season and a triumphant one,” said Cassandra.

  Lucy clasped the book hard lest she act on her first impulse. Her friends wanted the best for her even if they did not know what they asked in return—to detach herself from all that was known and loved. To adopt the ways she’d been learning in South Audley Street and to leave the ways of home behind.

  A startling crash from the taproom interrupted her thoughts, followed by a man’s anguished voice crying, “No, no, no, no, no.”

  The ladies started and looked confused. “What is that dreadful noise?” asked Cassandra.

  The pained cry sounded again, louder still, full of terrible distress.

  “Adam,” Lucy cried. “I must go to him.” She thrust the little book into Cordelia’s hands and dashed for the door.

  The woman of property may, for the most part, immediately dismiss from her court certain gentlemen who seek her out—the gazetted fortune hunter, the younger son, the widower with a needy family, the wastrel who has mortgaged his vast estate, and the handsome half-pay officer of the broad shoulders, gold epaulets, and frayed cuffs. These gentlemen have only one reason for marrying—the repair of their own damaged fortunes. Each of them has a grievance against the unfavorable circumstances that have cast him down. Self-interest both drives them and blinds them. Such a man will bend over the heiress’s hand, thinking only of a new roof for the crumbling ancestral manor, a mother for the ungovernable children, or the grateful smiles of his tailor when his bill is paid. The woman of property must reject instantly any man who cannot see in her mind and spirit those qualities which will, when united with his own character, create a lifelong partnership.

  —The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

  Chapter 2

  From the landing Lucy could see Adam standing in the middle of the room, his gnarled hands raised in fists. The bench sitters had scattered, clearing a space around the old man. There was only one man near him, the red-coated Captain Clare, the inn’s most recent guest. His sharp warning glance checked her.

  Adam stood like a tree on the heath in a gale, his body trembling. The painful memory that lived deep in his blasted, shaken frame roared like a caged beast. Lucy had been expecting an outburst since her father’s death. Now it had come.

  “Geoffrey ran away,” Adam shouted, shaking his head. “Adam saw. Adam saw. Adam saw.” He began to pound his head with his fists, crying, “No, no, no, no, no.”

  Lucy dashed down the stairs, but the captain stepped between her and Adam. She slammed hard against his red-jacketed chest, and he caught her by the shoulders. “He’s not himself,” he said in a low clipped voice. “He’s been swinging those fists at anyone who comes near.”

  “Let me go. I can calm him.” Lucy twisted in his hold and met his stern gaze with a steady one of her own. “I’m the only one who can.”

  The captain’s grip tightened. His unyielding gaze measured hers. “Wait til he quiets.”

  “If he hears my voice, he will.”

  But Adam could not hear her. He repeated his pained cry. Behind her Lucy heard a gasp, from Cordelia she thought. She had not seen Adam so agitated in a long while.

  His shouts rang loud in her ears until his voice grew raw and raspy, and his hands hung at his sides. The episode was over in a few minutes, but to Lucy it had seemed hours. The captain nodded and released her, and she crossed to Adam’s side.

  “It’s Lucy, Adam. I’m here.” She stood close enough that he could sense her presence. “I’m here.”

  After a long moment the old man spoke again. “Adam stay. Adam stay by Lucy,” he said.

  “Yes, Adam.” She took one of the big fists and held it until the fingers relaxed, and she could take his hand. “You and I, Adam. We stay.” She gave the old man’s hand a tug, and he let her lead him back to his bench.

  “Miss Holbrook.” The captain’s voice was low and calm. “Your guests.”

  Lucy looked up to see her friends on the landing wearing looks of shock and alarm. She had not realized how strange Adam would appear to them. A few yards separated Adam’s bench from the little landing, scarcely enough room for five couples to move through the figures of a country dance, but it might as well be a gulf.

  She glanced at the captain. “Adam needs me.”

  “I’ll see the ladies out,” he said. He turned away before she could thank him.

  * * * *

  Harry strode toward the three ladies standing with white, openly shocked faces on the landing. He’d seen them before, the twin sisters who dressed in matching gowns and their friend with the round face and brown curls peeping out from under a matronly lace cap, at the wedding of his friend Viscount Hazelwood. Lucy Holbrook had lofty friends for an innkeeper’s daughter.

  “Ladies, Captain Harry Clare at your service. May I escort you to your carriage?”

  One of the twins, her hands clasping a little book to her breast, nodded earnestly, but the other drew herself up and demanded in a low voice intended for Harry alone, but quite audible in the silence, “Why isn’t that man locked up?”

  “I believe, ma’am,” said Harry, glancing at Lucy leaning against Adam’s shoulder, “that the old man lives here under the care of Miss Holbrook and her father.”

  “Her father is no longer with us. Some other place must be found for that man at once.”

  Harry bowed. “Shall I tell Miss Holbrook so by your request, ma’am?”

  They could see Lucy’s golden head against Adam’s white one. It was hard to say who received more comfort from the contact.

  The lady with the soft curls shook her head and quietly beckoned her friends into the private dining room. Harry followed them in and closed the door.

  “Captain Clare,” said the twin with the book, “are you a relation of Mountjoy?”

  “His younger brother, ma’am.” Harry could not prevent a tightening of his lips at the admission.

  “Ah, we know your aunts.” She seemed pleased to fit Harry into her world.

  “Let me call your carriage, ma’am.”

  The bolder of the twins spoke up again. “You seem to be a man of sense, Captain. Reason with Miss Holbrook. She must not stay another night in such a place. We are prepared to take her with us this afternoon. Aren’t we, ladies?”

  Three faces turned to Harry full of concern and disapproval. They didn’t like the inn, and they looked to be fixed in that opinion.

  Harry did not think they would persuade the girl to leave the old man. What he saw in her was a dogged loyalty that no amount of condescension would dislodge. “I believe, ma’am, that Miss Holbrook regards herself as responsible for the old man.”

  “Absurd! A young woman, such as she, has no business being in charge of...a man. Can’t one of those idle fellows be hired to mind him?” She gestured toward the common room.

  Harry concealed a smile. The bench sitters might look idle, but they considered themselves the backbone of England, the men who did the work of the country. Even Frank Blodget, the inn’s tapman, would regard the role of being Adam’s minder as beneath his dignity. “I doubt it, ma’am.”

  “Please, excuse us, Captain,” said the third lady, the woman of the soft brown curls and round face. “We are understandably concerned for our young friend. Is the old man any relation to Mr. Holbrook or his daughter?”

  “None that I know of, ma’am.”

  “And has he no other recourse?”

  “He’s simple-minded, ma’am, and earns his keep doing handwork for the inn.” It was not Harry’s job to defend Adam Pickersgill from a world that had no use for the blind, but it was his job not to lose his witness.

  “And does he often flare up in such an unmanageable way?�
��

  “I couldn’t say, ma’am. I’ve seen just the one episode.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Will you please summon our carriage?” She turned to the twins. “Let us make a plan.”

  “Ma’am.” Harry nodded.

  As he left the room, the first lady was saying, “We really cannot help Lucy if she remains here, Margaret.”

  He closed the door behind him. If Harry knew tactics at all, the ladies were regrouping for a further attack. They were determined to remove the girl from the inn. His aunts had descended on Mountjoy when his mother died, equally determined perhaps, but when they met his father and his brother, no silken sympathy and no effort to continue his mother’s influence on that house had succeeded. Harry had joined the army within days.

  Below him in the common room, the last bench sitter wiped the ale from his mouth, called a farewell to the tapman, and headed for the door. Harry followed the man out to summon the ladies’ servants. When he had things in motion for their departure, he returned to the inn. Neither the girl nor the old man had moved. Harry approached cautiously until the girl sensed his presence. When she looked up, her eyes were deep pools of self-reproach.

  “Your friends want you to leave the inn with them today.”

  She straightened at once. “They mean well, but I won’t leave Adam.”

  “I’ll sit with him while you say your farewells.”

  “You won’t set him off again?”

  “Talk from the benches set him off.” Harry did not mention what that talk had been.

  She whispered something to Adam and rose. Harry watched her cross the room with a light brisk step, momentarily distracted by the sway and rustle of her skirts. In minutes the ladies emerged from the private dining room, and the murmur of female voices—pleading and stern, and Lucy’s quiet firm replies—reached the bench. Beside him Adam tensed, listening.