“For heaven’s sake, Freddy, keep up,” Maria Butterfield muttered at her spindly cousin as she strode down the muddy street. The clerk ahead of them was setting a rather brisk pace. Bad enough that they were forced to endure this miserable English weather; if they lost their quarry, they’d have no way to find Nathan Hyatt. She wasn’t about to risk that after traveling all the way from Dartmouth, Massachusetts, to retrieve her fiancé.
“Are you sure that fellow’s satchel belongs to Nathan?” Freddy wheezed.
“It has lettering on both sides, just like the one I had specially made for him. And the man carrying it was in the same area as London Maritime, where Nathan was last seen three months ago. I need only get a closer look at it to be sure.”
“How’re you supposed to do that? And don’t think I’ll do it—I’m not tangling with some English devil just at your say-so.”
“I thought you were wearing that sword to protect me.”
Freddy had donned Father’s old sword and scabbard every day since they’d arrived in London. It drew attention wherever they went; no one carried a sword these days.
“It’s to protect me,” Freddy countered. “I hear tell that they duel for fun here. I didn’t come all this way just to see my favorite sword nicked in a fight.”
She snorted. “You came because your older brothers had families to look after, and Aunt Rose would have boxed your ears if you hadn’t.” When Freddy colored, she softened her tone. “Besides, there’s no need for any dueling. We’ll convince the fellow to let us look at the satchel peaceably—after we see where he’s going. I’m hoping he leads us to Nathan.”
“I’m hoping he leads us to a pie shop. It’s been nigh on three hours since we ate.” As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. “Didn’t know you meant to starve me.”
She sighed. Freddy lived in a perpetual state of starvation. Aunt Rose said that all young men of twenty-one ate like bulls, but right now, Maria would rather they ate like chickens and fought like bulls. Given how Freddy was eating up their funds, he was proving a rather costly protector.
How she wished Nathan had stayed in America, where he belonged. How she wished Papa hadn’t died . . .
Grief stabbed her as she stepped over an ice-laced puddle. She still couldn’t believe it. Papa hadn’t been his usual robust self in some time, but she hadn’t expected him to die in his office of sudden heart failure at age sixty-five.
A disturbing thought occurred to her. If Nathan hadn’t received her most recent letters, then he didn’t even know Papa was dead. He didn’t know he was now sole owner of New Bedford Ships, assuming he married her as planned.
And what if he didn’t marry her? Was that why she hadn’t heard from him in months? Had he taken his chance to escape their betrothal?
Any man would have tired of Papa’s incessant demands that Nathan prove himself worthy of running the company before he married the woman who would inherit half of it. Those demands had sent Nathan to England to negotiate a lucrative sale of clipper ships to London Maritime. Maybe once he’d arrived here, he’d reconsidered their engagement.
Tears welled in her eyes. No, he wouldn’t do that. He was an honorable man. Their relationship might be less passionate than that of some betrothed couples, but surely he cared for her, as she did for him. Something dreadful must have happened—he would never shirk his responsibilities. She had to find him. She couldn’t lose both him and Papa.
Yet that satchel in another man’s hands didn’t bode well for Nathan’s being all right. Nathan would never have given it up. The man had to have stolen it.
Her heart pounded in time to her quickening steps. Nathan was probably lying dead in some field, done in by the treacherous English. And if he were . . .
She couldn’t think of that right now or she’d surely shatter.
“Mopsy—” Freddy began in an undertone.
“Don’t call me that. We’re not children anymore.” Besides, Nathan thought it unbecoming to a lady. He was particular about such things, having been raised in Baltimore high society before moving to tiny Dartmouth six years ago to partner with Papa.
“Sorry, Mop— . . . Maria,” Freddy mumbled. “I keep forgetting.” He edged closer. “But I’m thinking we shouldn’t stay out past dark. This part of town doesn’t seem very nice. And those ladies up there look a little . . . well . . . naked.”
She’d been so focused on not losing the man ahead that she hadn’t noticed their surroundings. As she glanced about, her heart faltered. Scantily dressed women hung out of the windows above them, their bosoms spilling out of their bodices. They had to be freezing, but clearly that took second place to their purpose.
Memories of fetching Papa from such places when no one else could go after him made her stiffen.
“See here, sir,” one of them called to Freddy, her breath a puff of mist, “I got a tuzzy-muzzy that’ll bring you to a cockstand right quick.”
“You can sample my quim for only half a quid, love,” added another.
Maria didn’t understand their words, but judging from the blushes darkening Freddy’s freckled cheeks, they were rather . . . salacious.
“Let’s go back to the lodging house,” Freddy said.
“Not yet. Our quarry is stopping up ahead, and all we have to do is get a look at that satchel. We might not have another chance.”
They hung back until the man entered the building. Then they approached the front. Raucous laughter spilled into the street, along with the gay tunes of a fiddle playing a jig. Through the open door, she could see couples engaged in dancing and . . . naughty behavior.
While the lamplighters trudged by with their torches, Freddy’s brown eyes studied the house. “You can’t go in there. It’s no place for respectable women.”
“I can see that.” She shivered in her black redingote as a cold gust of wind hit her. “It appears to be a brothel.”
“Mopsy!” His cheeks shone as red as his wildly disordered hair. “You’re not supposed to talk about such things.”
“Why? We both know Papa went to one every Saturday night.” She turned to him. “Why don’t you enter? They won’t notice another man in there. Just find the satchel, and see if it’s Nathan’s.”
“And if it is? Then what?”
“Then lure the man out here so I can speak to him. Tell him that his mother is outside, and she’ll come in if he doesn’t come out. No young man wants that.”
Freddy looked skeptical, and she sighed. “If you do as I say, I’ll buy you as many pies as you want.”
“All right.” Drawing his sword, he handed it to her. “You’d best hold on to this. You shouldn’t be standing on the street without protection.”
That he’d give up his precious sword for even a moment touched her. “Thank you.” She gave him a push. “Now go find out if that satchel is Nathan’s.”
With a heavy sigh, Freddy trudged up the steps. Trying not to look conspicuous, she slid into the shadows and stifled a laugh as he hesitated before going in. Any other male Freddy’s age would be dying to enter a brothel, but as usual, all he could think about was food. Yet no matter what he stuffed in his mouth, he stayed thin as a toothpick. Meanwhile, if she so much as added sugar to her tea for a week, she started popping out of her stays. It wasn’t fair.
But then, life generally wasn’t fair for women. If she’d been a man, she would have inherited Papa’s company. He would never have brought in an outsider.
Not that she didn’t like Nathan. He was clever and quite handsome, the sort of husband most women would walk over coals to catch. And she had little chance of finding another good husband in Dartmouth. It was a small fishing town with only a handful of educated unmarried men, and Papa’s colorful background made her ineligible to wed a true gentleman.
She sometimes wondered if Nathan would even have considered her as his wife if not for her connection to New Bedford Ships.
No, that wasn’t fair. He’d always been perfectly lovely to her. It wasn’t his fault that their few kisses had been underwhelming—she must have done something wrong. Or expected too much from them.
Maybe Papa was right. Maybe she did read too many of those Gothic novels by Minerva Sharpe. After all, no man could be as dashing as the Viscount Churchgrove, or as heroic as the Duke of Wolfplain. Or even as fascinating as the villainous Marquess of Rockton.
She scowled. How could she think of Rockton at such a time? Bad enough that she’d been secretly pleased when he’d escaped justice at the end of the novel. The intrusion of such a wicked villain in her thoughts when she should be thinking only of Nathan was most alarming.
Maybe she wasn’t a normal woman. She was certainly more outspoken and opinionated than most women she met. And she did so love reading about murder and mayhem. Papa had called it unnatural.
A sigh escaped her. It was true that other ladies didn’t seem to listen with avid interest to men’s tales of fighting in the Revolution, or pore eagerly over every dark crime reported in the newspaper. They didn’t pray to solve an enigmatical murder.
A sudden cry of “Stop! Thief! Stop him!” from inside the house jerked her up short. Oh no, surely Freddy had not . . . he wouldn’t have . . .
But of course he would have. Freddy didn’t think.
Racing up the steps with sword in hand, she hurtled inside just in time to see a man block Freddy’s path on a staircase as Freddy clasped the satchel to his chest like a shield.
“We’ve got you now, thief,” said the man.
Her heart plummeted into her stomach.
Several steps above Freddy stood their quarry, red-faced and half-dressed, and behind him other men crowded around the stairs to see what was happening. Meanwhile, women in various stages of undress emerged into the hall.
“Polly, go fetch the constable,” the man called to one of the women.
Oh no! This was a disaster!
The two men closed in on Freddy, with him stammering that he just “wanted a look at it, is all.”
Hefting Freddy’s sword, she brandished it at the nearest fellow. “Let him go! Or I swear I’ll spit you like an orange!”
To her right, a voice drawled, “An orange? That’s your dire threat, my dear?”
Panic seized her as she caught sight of the tall man who’d emerged from the front room. He wore no coat, waistcoat, or cravat and his shirt was opened down to the middle of his chest, but his commanding air said he would be in control of any situation, regardless of his attire. And he stood much too close.
“Stay back!” She swung the sword at him, praying she could actually use the curst thing. She hadn’t realized that swords were so heavy. “I merely want my cousin, sir, and then we’ll leave.”
“Her ‘cousin’ tried to steal my satchel, my lord,” cried their quarry.
My lord? Her pulse faltered. The tall fellow didn’t look like the elegant men she’d imagined from Miss Sharpe’s novels, though he did seem to possess their arrogance. But his skin was darker than she would expect, and his eyes bore a deadly glint that shot a chill down her spine. If he was a lord, then she and Freddy were in even bigger trouble.
“You take the woman, Lord Stoneville,” said the other fellow, “and we’ll seize the man. We’ll hold the thieves until the constable arrives.”
“We’re not thieves!” She swung the sword between the two men, her arm aching from its weight as she glared at the man at the top of the stairs. “You’re the thief, sir. That satchel belongs to my fiancé. Doesn’t it, Freddy?”
“I’m not sure,” Freddy squeaked. “I had to bring it into the hall to get a look at it. Then this fellow started shouting, and I didn’t know what to do but run.”
“A likely tale,” their quarry sneered.
“I tell you what, Tate,” Lord Stoneville said, “if Miss . . .”
When he arched one raven eyebrow at her, she answered without thinking, “Butterfield. Maria Butterfield.”
“If Miss Butterfield will hand me the sword, I promise to arbitrate this little dispute to everyone’s satisfaction.”
As if she could trust a half-dressed lord in a brothel to arbitrate anything fairly. The English lords in books fell into two categories—honorable gentlemen and debauched villains. This man seemed more of the villain variety, and she wasn’t fool enough to put herself into that sort of man’s power.
“I have a better plan.” With her heart thundering in her chest, she darted forward to thrust the point of the sword at Lord Stoneville’s neck. “Either you tell them to let my cousin go, or you’ll be wearing this sword in your throat.”
He didn’t even flinch. An unholy amusement lit his face as he closed his hand around the blade. “There’s no chance of that, my dear.”
She froze, afraid to move for fear of slicing his fingers.
“Listen well, Miss Butterfield,” he went on in a voice of frightening calm. “You’re already guilty of attempted theft, not to mention assaulting a peer. Both crimes are punishable by hanging. I’m willing to be reasonable about the assault, but only if you release the sword. In exchange, I’ll let you argue for yourself and your ‘cousin’ concerning the theft.” He said the word “cousin” with skeptical sarcasm. “We’ll sort this out, and if I’m satisfied you’re blameless of theft, you and your companion will be free to go. Understand?”
He had her now, and clearly he knew it. If she hurt him, her life would be worth nothing among this crowd.
Trying not to let her fear show, she said, “Do you swear on your honor as a gentleman to let us go if we explain everything?” If he agreed to be reasonable, then perhaps he wasn’t a villain. Besides, he gave her little choice.
A faint smile quirked up his lips. “I swear it. On my honor as a gentleman.”
She glanced to Freddy, who looked as if he might faint. Then she met Lord Stoneville’s gaze. “Very well. We have an agreement.”