Authors: Jo Beverley
A door opened and an elderly, bowlegged groom came out leading a saddled gray. He touched his hat. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“I am curious about how horses are managed in the city.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not one of them reformers, are you?”
His reaction told her that there was something that should be reformed. “Merely one who likes to understand how things work.”
His look said that she was loose a great many screws, but he touched his tricorn again—“Got to get Hannibal to Mr. Greeves, ma’am,”—climbed nimbly into the saddle, and rode off, the horse’s hooves clattering.
But now another man appeared, a younger, bigger one with huge forearms exposed by his rolled-up sleeves. Cressida’s nostrils flared, aware of his maleness as she would never have been before. He wasn’t a particularly handsome man, she wasn’t attracted to him, but by heaven she was aware of him!
“What can I do for you, miss?” he asked with an edge of impertinence.
Though he hadn’t made a threatening move, Cressida wanted to step back. She stiffened her spine. “I’m curious about how a mews like this works.”
“Those who ‘as a need to know, know, miss.”
“Now where would the world be if everyone took that approach, sir? Curiosity spurs invention. It creates wealth and conquest!”
His eyes widened a bit at the word
wealth
. Cressida pressed her advantage. “After all, someone’s curiosity doubtless led to the invention of—” She searched for something to do with horses. “—horseshoes!”
His heavy brows rose. “That were a long time ago, miss.” But he seemed amused, and the sense of threat lessened.
“Very well, tell me something that has improved recently.”
“Bits. And coach springs. And I did hear tell that the horse collar was a mighty change long ago. Horses can’t pull with a yoke like oxen, you see.”
“Fascinating,” Cressida said, and it was. “My father told me that coaches now are much more comfortable than when he left for India in the last century.”
“India, eh?” The young man’s eyes lit. “Always fancied travel, I have.”
“Then you should do it. You could find employment with a gentleman going out to India. My father could perhaps help you…”
Cressida realized that her enthusiasm was carrying her into perilous waters. The logical step here was to give her father’s name and direction. Oh, well—she could see no way to retreat, and the young man looked so bright-eyed, so excited, that she wanted him to have his chance to see the world.
“Sir Arthur Mandeville, Twenty-two Otley Street. My father is unwell at the moment, but if you leave your name, I will see if he can put you in contact with suitable gentlemen.”
The man was rubbing his chin looking a bit dazed. “Well, I dunno, miss. It’s a big step…”
“Of course it is, and there’s no need to take it if you don’t wish to. India can be an unhealthy climate for Englishmen, though my father thrived on it.”
“Sir Arthur Mandeville,” the man repeated to commit it to memory. “Twenty-two Otley Street.”
“And your name? Then I will know to admit you.”
“Isaac Benson, miss. Do you want me to show you around here?”
Cressida hadn’t been angling for this, but it was proof that virtue was not always its own reward. “Mr. Benson, I would like that very much.”
Her natural curiosity delighted in the tour of the stables and coach-houses, where she also met a young lad who was busy cleaning out a stall. She was aware of indulging herself with no real purpose, however, unless she could find out more about Miranda Coop.
As she suspected, the place was more like a livery stable, with stabling for horses belonging to residents, but also with horses and three carriages available for hire. Isaac Benson always spoke of gentlemen.
“What of ladies? I don’t see any sidesaddles.”
“Don’t get much call for them, Miss Mandeville. If we do, there’s a big stable over in King Street that we can send to. We does have to do that sometime—get something from elsewhere for our people here.”
“And ladies don’t travel alone.” Cressida wondered if Miranda Coop preserved an appearance of propriety. Surely she must.
“Well, it depends a bit. There’s a very nice lady lives on Tavistock who’s of an independent turn. She’ll call for a carriage and go off on her own. A widow, you see. Mrs. Coop.”
“Ah.” But if La Coop took one of these carriages, wouldn’t the driver talk about where he took her? Not to mention her costume! “I’d think she’d want to be very sure of the driver you provide.”
“Has her own, miss. A manservant who does footman or driver as called for. Can’t say as I liked it at first, but Mr. Jarvis knows the ribbons.” He touched his forelock. “I’d better get back to my work, miss, but look around some more if you’d like.”
Cressida indicated that she would like, but when he left the saddle room, she pulled a face. It had been a more interesting morning than expected, and learning was never useless, but she was no closer to recovering the figurine than before.
She walked through the feed room and into the stables, grateful the big horses were all inside high-walled boxes. At the end of the room, she paused in the open doorway to the yard. This spot gave a reasonable view of the back of Tavistock Terrace. The house numbers were painted on the back gates, but it still did no good. The statuette was not conveniently sitting on a windowsill in number 16. And if it were, what could she do?
Break in? She was not brave enough for that.
As she watched, the gate opened and a solid older man in riding clothes walked out. Cressida stepped back so as not to be seen.
“Morning, Mr. Jarvis,” she heard Isaac Benson say.
“Morning, Isaac. Mrs. Coop would like the traveling chaise if it’s available. If not, she’ll need you to get her one from elsewhere.”
“It’s free, sir. When does she want it?”
“As soon as possible.”
“One pair or two? I’ll have to send for two.”
“One’ll do. Just a jaunt to a friend in St. Albans.”
“Right then. Jimmy!” Benson called for the lad to help and went into the carriage house. Jarvis came toward the stable.
Cressida almost ran, but she couldn’t get away before he came in, and she mustn’t seem furtive.
He walked in and stopped, then touched his tall hat, looking, if anything, amused. She realized that he thought she was Benson’s young lady. She stifled a clarification and dropped a curtsy. He winked and walked by to check on the horses.
Cressida racked her brain for something to ask to get information. “I have an aunt in St. Albans,” she lied.
“Do you, pet? If you’re angling for a ride out there, forget it. My mistress wouldn’t consider it.”
“I wasn’t! I was just making conversation.” Cressida heard herself sliding into speech like Sally’s and wanted to giggle.
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“Not today. My mistress is away.”
“Lucky you.” He turned to study the horses.
“Mr. Benson said you drive the coach for your mistress.”
He went into a stall to inspect a big brown horse. “Mr. Benson shouldn’t be gossiping.”
Cressida prayed she wasn’t getting the young man into trouble. “He only said it because he admired you, sir. You being able to do so many things.”
“That’s true enough. Held up by a highwayman the night before last. I had my pistol and could have picked him off, given a sign.”
Cressida didn’t have to feign excitement. “Not that Le Corbeau!”
“The very same.” He looked at her. “You another totty-headed admirer of the rogue?”
“No, but he is exciting.”
What sort of crazy twist was this? Miranda Coop had been held up by the real Le Corbeau on the way home from the orgy?
“I thought he was under arrest,” she said.
“Got the wrong man, apparently.” He came out of one box and went into another. “Didn’t get much for his pains, though. My mistress only had a little statue she’d been given as a present.”
Cressida thanked heaven that he was inspecting a horse’s hooves and not looking at her. “He surely didn’t take that.”
“Said it would spoil his reputation not to take something.”
Benson came in then and looked taken aback to find Cressida still there.
“Sorry, Mr. Jarvis…”
“No matter. Your young lady’s a lovely lass. I’ll have this one and that.” He indicated his choice of horses. “I was just telling her about us being stopped by the Crow.”
Benson gave Cressida a puzzled look, but he didn’t contradict Jarvis’s assumption. “At least you’re in no danger from him during daylight, Mr. Jarvis.”
“True enough.” Jarvis went out to the coach, leaving Benson to deal with the horses. Young Jimmy dashed in to help.
Benson looked a question at her.
“I’m sorry. He assumed I was a maidservant here to see you, and I couldn’t resist playing along.”
He shook his head. “You’re a right one.”
“No, really. I’m normally a pattern of propriety. I’ll leave you to your work now. If you wish to travel, please do take up my offer.”
“I appreciate your kindness, Miss Mandeville.”
Cressida went to the doorway, but paused there. “Mrs. Coop truly was held up by Le Corbeau?”
“Unless Jarvis is telling a tall tale.”
“And lost only a small statuette.”
“Aye, but from something he said, she was right put out about it.”
I
am not at all surprised
, Cressida thought as she crossed the mews and headed for the wider streets, head whirling.
La Coop was using the statuette she no longer possessed to force St. Raven to escort her to an orgy. The woman had to be desperate to get it back.
And she was going to St. Albans at this hour. A whore—who didn’t know what morning was. Did Miranda Coop know where Le Corbeau’s hidey-hole was?
Cressida stood in the street, breathing deeply, trying to decide what to do. So tempting to walk down Tavistock Terrace again, but that would do no good.
She had to follow Miranda Coop.
But she couldn’t just disappear like that.
She had to get word to St. Raven. What was the quickest way?…
She wasn’t looking at anything, but then her eyes focused. Was she dreaming, or was that the man himself walking along the other side of the street in his groom’s costume?
It was! With Mr. Lyne alongside, similarly dressed, and they were turning to cross the street, heading for Tavistock Terrace. She stifled an urge to call out to them, but walked briskly to intercept. Tris turned and saw her just as she reached the corner.
Did she see the same breath-catching moment in him as in herself?
“Cressida—!”
“She doesn’t have the statue.”
“What?” He looked as if she’d hit him over the head with it.
“Miranda Coop doesn’t have the statue,” she repeated, glancing around to see if anyone was watching this strange encounter.
“Don’t worry.” Mr. Lyne sounded amused. “I’m on lookout. You just tell your tale.”
“Yes,” Tris said, “tell us what the devil you’ve been up to.”
“Language, sir!”
“I’m a rough groom. The sort who wouldn’t know any better. Spill it.”
Cressida glared at him, but this was no time to argue. “Miranda Coop was held up on the way back from Crofton’s, and Le Corbeau stole the statue. She’s ordered a coach to take her to St. Albans, and it has to be to try to get it back.”
“It doesn’t
have
to be, but it’s a thought. How did you find this out?”
“I was in the mews when her man came to arrange it.”
“In the mews?…” He came to the alert. “Did anyone see you?”
“Of course. I was talking to them. That’s how—”
“Then get away. As soon as that coach drives around to the street, they’ll see you.”
“Why would that matter?”
“More to the point,” Mr. Lyne said, “they’ll see you talking to two disreputable characters.”
“Oh.” She glanced around. “But what are we going to do?”
“You are going to do nothing.” Tris turned her to face down the street. “You are going to go home and behave like a lady.”
Cressida whirled back. “Only when you go home and behave like a duke!”
She heard his friend stifle a laugh. “Why don’t we all get out of the line of fire? There’s nothing to do here.”
“Right.” Tris took Cressida’s arm to march her up the street away from Tavistock Terrace. Then they heard hooves.
Tris shifted to stand in front of Cressida. His friend stood beside him to make a solid barrier. Heart pounding, Cressida untied her bonnet, which might be visible, and took it off.
She hated not being able to see. She hated having nothing to see but his broad shoulders. His broad shoulders…
She knew what they looked like naked. Her body softly melted at the memory of what he looked like naked. She slid a hand under his jacket and up to the coarse shirt covering his beautiful back…
“Stop that.”
She bit back laughter. She did stop, but literally. She kept her hand there, drawing something magical from the warm contact as the clop of hooves and rattle of wheels moved away into Tavistock Terrace, to collect Miranda Coop.
As he turned to her, she snatched away her hand. “What are we going to do?”
He looked angry—or something. “You are going home, and I am going to find Le Corbeau.”
“He’s in St. Albans.”
“Why should Miranda know where he is? She’s doubtless going to someone who might know, but I already have a couple of ideas.”
“On the other hand,” said Lyne, “it would be as well to follow her in case it leads to anything. I could get a horse in time.”
“Good idea.”
Lyne strode away, and Cressida thought to question things. “What are you doing here?” But then she guessed. “You were going to try to break in and steal it!”
“True,” he said.
“You’re mad! I thought she promised it to you for your escort.”
“I dislike having my hand forced. And what precisely were you up to poking around the mews?”
“I wasn’t poking. I couldn’t help but come to see the house. In case there was anything…”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re Miss Mandeville of Matlock, remember? She of impeccable behavior?”
“Yes, Your scruffy, ungrateful Grace.”
He shook his head but laughed. “Very well. Your ill advised adventure was fruitful, but please don’t do anything like that again. I couldn’t bear for you to come to harm.”