A Fox - a sharp, cunning fellow

- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

 

"Enough is enough," Inspector Formby said with a furious mutter, though he appeared to be speaking to no one in particular. The inspector leant back in his chair, staring out of the window at an unpredictable grey-blue sky with a determined mien.

Peter Greenly, his young colleague, kept his trap shut, knowing full well what the problem was and that it would do him no good whatsoever to ask questions about it. He never invited trouble if he could help it and the reason for his superior’s black mood was clear enough.

Mr Formby's nemesis, in the formidable and handsome personage of Viscount Rennard, had just taken a house close to their office in Bath. A younger Mr Formby had begun his career in Bath before heading off for some years to the bustle of London. Now, however, he had returned to settle down to a quieter life than could be found in the big city.

Recalling this troubling history, Formby spoke as if to himself. “I first encountered the Viscount, Lord Todd that is, in an alley with a bloody sword and a corpse, and my opinion of him hasn’t improved any.” Greenly watched as his boss recalled the past and knew that Formby’s humiliation at Todd getting away with murder was as fresh now as it had been then. “He was guilty as hell and we both knew it,” Formby continued, folding his arms and scowling as he looked up at Greenly. “The corpse had been his lover’s husband, poor devil.” Formby’s lips settled into a grim line, his expression dark and angry. “You should have seen Todd,” he added, clearly still seething over it. “He laughed in my face. He seemed to believe the law was only for others. Turned out he was right an’ all.”

Mr Greenly shook his head in sympathy at the bitterness of the words but didn’t venture any comment. He knew the story off by heart in any case. It was a thorn in Mr Formby’s side that was often recalled when his boss was in a bad mood.

Having come late to his career, Formby had been new to the force, and Lord Todd a young, powerful and vastly wealthy nobleman. The result had been inevitable.

Formby had taken a keen interest in Lord Todd’s life ever since and in the fact that the murdered man's wife soon after became the victim of a robbery, during which her finest jewels were spirited away. Then there was his marriage to an heiress, where she sadly died in a riding accident not long after the birth of a daughter. Ten years ago, the man had remarried, this time to a wealthy widow, who then also died suddenly and inexplicably in what looked to Formby like very shady circumstances. Yet no one had rung any alarms and Formby was left to simmer in fury.

And now the devilish Viscount was back.

Mr Greenly understood that his unhappy employer had established, from a discreet amount of digging, that Lord Todd had run through his money, and then some, with the costs of his dissolute lifestyle. His pockets were to let, in fact, and he would need another fat pigeon quick-sharp to bear the costs of keeping his expensive person.

He was hunting another unfortunate victim.

Bath was indeed a fertile hunting ground for those seeking to ensnare the wealthy and lonely widows who came for gentile society and the improving waters when the season was over. Much cheaper, too, to find your quarry without having to endure the expense of a London season.

Formby’s thick, grey eyebrows drew together with a determined slant, and sharp eyes turned to rest on Greenly. "I won't have it, Mr Greenly. That man is a menace, and this time I mean to find a way to stop him."

Mr Greenly nodded but made no comment, still feeling that none was required of him, until his own thoughts fell on a piece of information that he had heard himself just that morning.

"I've ‘eard his daughter is with him."

Formby looked up with interest and approval at Mr Greenly, who preened just a little.

"Is she, now?" Mr Formby mused, getting to his feet and going to stare outside at a day that could not yet decide between rain or shine. "She must be twenty or more, by my reckoning."

"So I've ‘eard, an’ pretty as a picture, too," Greenly added, warming to his theme.

Formby's approving expression darkened a little at this frivolous piece of information and Mr Greenly decided he'd said enough.

"Hmm," the inspector mused, clasping his hands behind him and rocking back on his heels. "I wonder what the daughter of such a man would be like?"

***

Keziah Todd looked around at the chaos of half-unpacked boxes, of dark, damp corners that scurried with thick-bodied black spiders, and the glamorous figure of her father as he closed the door on it all.

Glowering and muttering curses that a young lady of her station really ought not know, she returned her attention to the job at hand. She knew she ought to be thankful that they'd found such a good house for their purposes: putting on a good front while, in truth, everything crumbled. The outside was elegant and well-placed, facing onto Abbey Green. It was a three storey house with a mansard roof, and the top two thirds of the building were clad in Bath stone. The sash windows on the first storey were full height, making the rooms bright and airy, but also freezing cold and dreadfully hard to heat at this time of the year, even when the chimneys didn’t smoke. If the place had been in good order on the inside, they'd never have afforded it, though. As it was, Keziah just hoped she could get rid of the damp and musty smell that was clogging her throat alongside the dust.

Her hands were already chapped and red from scrubbing floors and cleaning windows, but no amount of complaining would change her lot. They were stuck here until her father changed their fortunes, and she was stuck with him until he did.

The thought did nothing to lift her spirits.

"Should I make some tea, Miss?"

Keziah looked up at the anxious face of her abigail, who'd become a maid of all works over the past few years as their finances had continued to flounder.

"Oh yes, do, please, Molly," Keziah replied with a sigh, pushing thick blonde hair from her eyes. "My throat is full of dust and I'm quite sure I've swallowed a spider."

Molly gave a shriek of disgust at the idea as her mistress had known she would, and hurried away as Keziah gave a wicked chuckle.

That the girl had stuck with them, despite the work load and the poor - and often late-in-coming – wages. was nothing short of a miracle. Not to mention Keziah's black-hearted papa terrifying the poor girl half to death. If told that the young woman stuck with her mistress with such devotion out of love for a good and kindly soul, Keziah would likely have laughed in ridicule. That her father was a monster was something that she knew well and accepted; that she was tainted, by both her blood and experience, was simply inescapable.

Outwardly, she thought she must look like any other girl of her age. She considered herself tolerably attractive, with a profuse tumble of golden locks, an elegant, somewhat classical profile, and blue eyes that would have given anyone with a poetic soul the urge to write of cornflowers or summer skies. Those eyes, however, were harder and rather more cynical than any other girl of her age, and her belief in love and happily-ever-afters was scornful at best.

It did not sit easily with her that the likelihood of her ever profiting from her looks and finding herself a supportable husband relied entirely on her father duping some poor woman to have the misfortune to marry him. But there was no money in the coffers to afford such morals. This house, such as it was, had been rented on finances borrowed for the purpose, and their situation was becoming increasingly desperate.

Keziah had given up longing for pretty clothes and ribbons and parties many months ago. She was too inclined to think of her stomach first now, as it was mostly empty and clamouring. In order to outfit her father in a manner to suit his title, and to make people believe that he wasn't as hard up as rumour might have it, they had borrowed heavily. They had used what furnishings and artworks remained of any value from a once grand house as security for the breathtaking loan. Keziah did not want to consider their chances of repaying it if her father’s plan failed.

The last of the furnishings still in their possession would make this hovel look somewhere close to respectable, and Keziah would simply keep out of sight until their fortunes turned. At that point, her father had promised her a proper come-out, where she would emerge like a butterfly from a chrysalis ... and grab the first opportunity to get out from under his roof.

Then, perhaps, there would be an end to this drudgery and boredom, of endless days where there was little to occupy her besides her growling stomach and wistful thoughts of cream cakes or a hearty lamb stew.

Though she would be the first to admit to having lost any girlish ideas about love and romance, Keziah wasn't entirely immune to daydreaming. She had spent many a lonely night dreaming of a big, strong, rugged man who would sweep her off her feet, preferably murdering her hated sire in the process and taking her away from all this. A towering, muscular hero that even her father would cower before and beg for mercy, only to be shown none. That such dark and violent thoughts would shock any of her contemporaries, she had little doubt, but then they were safe in their gilded cages, whilst she was locked behind iron bars with an angry bear.

So who were they to judge?

With trepidation, she raised her hand to her cheek and touched the swollen flesh there, finding it tender and hot. Her father's temper, never docile, was becoming increasingly dangerous. As much as she pitied the woman he chose to tangle in his web, she could not help but wish she was discovered soon. For if her father became desperate ... she dreaded to think what might come next.

***

For the next week, Keziah did her best to stay out of her father's way. That his endeavours had been fruitless of yet was only too obvious. His drinking was becoming heavier, and his temper increasingly fragile. Even his valet, Martin, who had never been much of a friend to Keziah, had given her warning to get clear when his master had returned early last night from another futile outing.

This morning, however, when she looked out to see her father in a furious altercation with a small boy on their very doorstep, she was moved to intervene. Lord Todd in a temper was something she would go a long way to avoid, but the skinny little boy looked terrified and she could not turn away from the sight.

Keziah threw open the front door, increasingly aware of the stares being drawn in their direction as her father raised his hand.

"Father!" she shouted, rage in her heart even though she was quaking already at the idea of his retribution. "Do you really think such behaviour estimable of a gentleman," she demanded, folding her arms and praying he would not hit her in public, "particularly one looking for a wife?" she hissed in an undertone.

"The boy tried to lift my watch," Lord Todd retorted, his dark eyes hard and angry.

At this, the young fellow snorted, glaring up at his captor with disgust, even as his scrawny arm was held in a cruel and uncompromising grip.

"I didn't. Wouldn't bother wiv’ it," he said, angry and indignant as he tried to wriggle away. "Any bleedin' fool can see those sparklers ain't nought but paste, I wanted that big ruby on ‘is finger."

Keziah gave a startled little laugh at this courageous and all too true observation. The viscount’s ruby signet was one of the last genuine pieces they owned. Her father, however, was unamused.

"Why, you little ..."

"Father!" Keziah said, leaping forward and grasping the man’s arm, suddenly frightened for the child. "Isn't that Lady Brandon?"

"Where?" Lord Todd spun on his heel, dropping the boy like a hot coal.

"She went that way," Keziah said, pointing vaguely behind her and watched in relief as her father set off in pursuit of the wealthy widow. She was broader than she was high and had terrible teeth, and it was a measure of her father’s desperation that he actually lowered himself to vie for her. Usually, the young and the beautiful were the only ones to attract his attentions.

He made an impressive figure, that was to be sure. Lord Todd stood over six feet tall with broad shoulders and thick black hair, still without a trace of grey. At forty nine years of age he still had the power to make women swoon. His wicked reputation did nothing to lessen his attraction; indeed, the women seemed to fall over themselves for him. Keziah felt her stomach roil at the idea.

Turning, she looked down to find that the boy hadn't run at the first opportunity as she'd imagined, but was staring up at her with concern.

"That your pa?" he asked, frowning at her with obvious concern in his eyes.

"It is," she said, not bothering to hide her dismay at the fact and feeling rather touched by the worry she sensed from the lad.

"’E's a wrong’un, miss,” he said, turning a rather battered hat in his hands and shaking his head with a mournful expression. “If ye don't mind me remarking it?"

Keziah felt her eyebrows raise in amusement despite the fact she felt quite sorry enough for herself already, and that was before a street urchin had been moved to pity her.

"You're a man of strong opinions, mister?"

"Jimmy, miss,” the boy replied, grinning at her now as she mentally placed him at about eight or nine years of age. "Jimmy Light-Fingers, they call me," he said with obvious pride.

"Is that so?" she said, folding her arms and giving him a stern look that he’d do well to heed. "Well then, Jimmy. Providing you promise to keep those fingers, light or otherwise, to yourself, I might be induced to offer you some bread and jam. How's that?"

Jimmy grinned at her, his eyes alight with pleasure. "Reckon that'd be grand, miss ..." he queried, repeating her earlier manner with one eyebrow quirked.

She smiled at him and began to walk back to their front door. "Lady Todd is how you ought to address me, but …" Keziah glanced down at her faded dress and sighed with chagrin as she turned back to him. "But Miss Keziah will do for you, Jimmy."

***

The next morning, on the rare occurrence of finding her father at breakfast, she was given good news.

It appeared that Lord Todd, rather than break the habit of a lifetime and rise early, had just come in, and was in high spirits.

"Aha, Keziah," he said, his dark eyes glittering with satisfaction as Keziah took her place at the table. "Our troubles are over."

"Are they, my lord?" Keziah replied, her tone placid as she reached for a slice of bread. She’d grown tired of her father’s mood swings; more often than not, they were fuelled by brandy, and she could smell the fumes of a night’s dissipation even now, swirling around his large frame in decadent waves. Tobacco and alcohol, perfume and debauchery: it was an all too familiar stench, and one she wished she need never breathe in again.

"Yes, and you might trouble yourself to look a little more pleased at the prospect," he said, the dark words rolling over the table and filling the space between them with anger.

Keziah paused with her hand over the bread and returned it to her lap. She focused her attention on her father instead, looking him in the eyes. "Forgive me, my lord," she replied, keeping her tone even and wishing she wasn't so compelled to rile him. If only she were a sweeter-natured soul, they all might have an easier time of it. "In what manner have our troubles been alleviated?"

Lord Todd snorted, well aware that she was mocking him but apparently too well-satisfied to allow her to prick at his good mood.

"In the manner of the recently widowed Lady Ashwicke, that's how," he said, grinning and showing too many teeth.

Keziah looked away, reminded too strongly of predators that tore at raw flesh to hold his gaze. Instead, she sifted through her memories of long abandoned scandal sheets to find to whom the name belonged.

"Lady Anne Ashwicke?" she replied at last, feeling really rather startled at his audacity. "The Duchess of Chartley?"

"Well, I don't mean the dowager," her father said, gesturing impatiently to Martin, who had just come in with a pot of coffee. "And the daughter is a mere chit of eighteen, won't get a penny until she's twenty one, so no point dallying with her."

Keziah swallowed down her revulsion at the fact that this was the only reason her father would not try his luck in that direction. Instead, she tried to look pleased for him, though it strained her features to even make the attempt.

"Then I must congratulate you," she said, though she could only feel a shiver of regret for the poor Lady Anne. If only she were brave enough to stop him, but they were so close to utter ruin, and Keziah had to admit that her sense of self-preservation made her long for a full belly and a soft bed and a home where bailiffs weren’t forever at the door. Reaching for the bread again in the hopes that it might settle her stomach, she tried once more to sound positive. "I believe Lady Ashwicke is a vastly wealthy woman,” she said, rewarded by a self-satisfied smirk from her father that turned the bread to dust in her mouth.

There came a discreet cough and Lord Todd looked around at his valet with a scowl.

"What?" he demanded, glaring at the him. Martin Snyder was almost as bad as her father, in Keziah’s view, but at least he didn’t hit her. Not that he wouldn’t, given the chance, but only her father reserved that pleasure for his own fists. "If you've got something to say, Martin, damn well spit it out."

Martin gave Lord Todd a thin smile, his eyes glittering with malice. "It is only, my lord, that you may have overlooked one small detail. She has a son, I understand, the new Duke of Chartley. It is he who holds the purse strings, I believe."

Keziah watched with misgiving as her father's face darkened and he got to his feet. Cursing Martin for not holding his blasted tongue until she'd finished her breakfast at least, she leapt from her seat. Keziah watched with contempt as her father swept his arm over the table, sending coffee and bread they could ill afford to the ground and smashing what little remained of their china.

He stood straight, then, his eyes shadowed and his face bearing an expression that made Keziah fear for what he might do next.

"Perhaps a duchess is a little above our touch, in any case, Father," she said, trying to keep her tone light as she bent to retrieve the bread. She didn't see the foot that caught at her side and sent her sprawling across the ground. Even Martin stepped forward in shock, though he checked himself and stood unmoving, staring into space as Keziah fought to regain her breath as pain bloomed in her stomach and ribs.

She looked up at her father, furious to discover that she was trembling, and saw only a monster reflected in his eyes. Hatred boiled in her gut alongside the pain, not only for the fact that he hurt her, but that he was able to make her afraid. He was a vile, despicable man but she must live in terror of him, for she had no other option. Not unless she fancied a career on her back to keep a roof over her head.

Her pride revolted at the idea.

"A duchess might be beyond your touch, girl,” he said, sneering at her, his voice laced with menace. “But I am Viscount Rennard, and she'd be lucky to get me, by God."

With that, he stalked out of the room with Martin following his steps, without so much as a glance in her direction.