The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (22 page)

Still reeling from her ecstatic quivers, Elizabeth managed to wrap her legs around Rand's hips and take him even deeper. She heard her own throaty mews of pleasure as the perfect harmony of their flesh conjoined in a mutual burst of satisfaction. She felt the proof of his passion, yet he remained silent, and his silence was louder than his usual moans of capitulation, louder than any endearments he might have uttered.

Afterwards he held her tightly, almost desperately, while she nestled her body against his and feigned sleep.

The sign “Dealer in Foreign Spirituous Liquors” was found in front of almost every shop in the Strand, whether grocer's, milliner's, haberdasher's, or furrier's. While each shop specialized in specific items, most carried a variety of goods.

Elizabeth entered a pewterer's shop. The hour was early, the establishment newly opened. Once she sold her necklace, she would buy a couple of greatcoats so that she and Rand could pretend to be merchants. He, along with his cousins, had gone to purchase supplies and a pack mule. Later they would meet back at the inn.

Although she wore a brown woolen gown and a black shawl, as did dozens of other women, Elizabeth felt exposed, vulnerable. When the shopmaster approached, she gingerly removed her necklace from her purse and placed it on top of the counter. The very touch of the golden rope was now loathsome to her.

“How much will you give me for this?”

The master turned the necklace over in his hand. “Fifteen pounds.”

“But I paid seventy-five.”

He held the necklace up to the window's light. “'Tis not worth seventy-five. Its workmanship is crude, the style is not popular, and I'd have trouble selling it.”

Snatching the necklace from his outstretched hand, she returned it to her purse. “Thank you for your time.”

When she reached the door, he said, “Twenty pounds.”

She turned around. “Not enough.”

“Twenty-five. That's a goodly amount for a woman, even in London.”

Elizabeth walked out.

She repeated the scene several times. All the offers were insultingly low.
They believe I'm stupid,
she thought, entering an ironmonger's establishment, cluttered with kettles, pots, and watches.
If I were a man, they'd offer me double.

The ironmonger offered her ten pounds.

Next, Elizabeth tried Harold Harvey's Toy Shop and Miscellanies. In addition to toys, the shop sold jewelry, trinkets, bucklers, clothing, umbrellas, and snuffboxes.

Mr. Harvey himself serviced her. He was short, pear-shaped, and wore his own hair, which was thick and gray and fell over his ears. “Ah!” he exclaimed, after she handed him the necklace.

“'Tis lovely, isn't it?”

“Aye,” Harvey agreed. “I've always liked this particular piece of jewelry. I sold it myself, you know.”

“You did?” Elizabeth's heart plummeted as she recalled Walter's comment about finding the necklace inside a toy shop. Glancing over her shoulder, she fully expected a watchman to emerge from the corner, shaking his clapper to summon assistance.

“A very unusual necklace,” Harvey said. “I wouldn't be likely to forget it.”

Though Elizabeth wanted to flee, she hesitated. Mr. Harvey's revelation might mean nothing at all. Would Walter have been astute enough to visit the toy shop on the off chance that she might, out of all the shops in London, enter this particular establishment? Why would he even dream that she'd sell her necklace? She had read lists in the
Public Advertiser
and other papers, detailing the items Rand had stolen, and the necklace had never been mentioned. As far as Mr. Harvey was concerned, what difference did his previous ownership make? Walter had not personally bought the necklace. He had sent a servant. Harold Harvey had met Lord Stafford once, and their casual chat was probably no more unusual than a dozen other brief conversations.

The threat was negligible. “I must sell my necklace,” she said, summoning a deep sigh. “My mother has taken ill and I am in need of funds.”

“I'll give you twenty pounds.”

“My mother's servant paid seventy-five.”

Harvey studied her. Elizabeth sensed he was eager to complete the purchase.

“It graced my window for a very long time,” he finally said.

“I must have at least fifty pounds. Even at that price you'll make a fair profit.”

“All right. But I don't have fifty pounds on hand. Come back in an hour.”

“I can't do that, Mr. Harvey.” She retrieved the necklace. “I need the funds immediately.”

His gaze wavered between her and the necklace. “I'll send a prentice for the money. A half hour. No longer, I swear.”

Elizabeth considered. Too risky. She shook her head.

“One moment, please. I just remembered that I have money in my lockbox upstairs.” Harvey scooped the necklace out of her hand. “I'll be back directly. While you're waiting, peruse my goods. Perhaps you'll see something of interest.”

Before she could refuse, he disappeared into the back room. Elizabeth glanced around the shop. Beneath shelves that contained cloth dolls and wooden animals was a rack of clothing. She picked through the meager selection, contemplating a worn but heavy greatcoat that looked to be her size.

The shop bell rang. An elderly woman entered, picked up a silver sand box for drying ink, peered inside, set it down, and began rummaging through a box of lace. All the while, she hummed a monotonous tune that set Elizabeth's nerves on edge.

Finishing with the lace, the woman held some whalebone stays against her generous stomach.

Damn! The shopmaster was taking much too long. Elizabeth considered walking out, but she didn't want to leave her necklace. “Mr. Harvey!” she called.

He appeared, his face shiny with perspiration. “I'm having a bit of trouble,” he said. “I seem to have misplaced the key to my lockbox.”

“I don't want to wait any longer. My mother—”

“Now I remember where I put the key.” Harvey removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, streaking his face powder. “Please, I crave your patience. This time I'll only be a moment.”

“I don't care. I've changed my mind. Please return my necklace so that I might go elsewhere.”

“All right, if you insist.” He licked his lips and wiped his palms on his vest. “But I really would pay you top price.”

“Mr. Harvey, I want my necklace. Now!”

At that moment the elderly woman waddled toward the counter, waving the whalebone stays.

“If you'll just wait while I take care of this lady,” Harvey implored, “I'll give you some lace for your mother. It might cheer her up.”

“Please hurry, Mr. Harvey.”

He dawdled over the woman's transaction so long Elizabeth thought she would scream with frustration. She watched him fumble with the wrapping paper and string, and she decided she couldn't linger any longer. Mr. Harvey was either an incredible bumbler, or he was deliberately stalling.

“I'll return in an hour,” she fibbed.

“Wait,” he protested. “I'm nearly finished.”

Elizabeth made an about-face.

The shop bell rang, an ominous sound.

She heard Harvey expel his breath on a long sigh of relief.

Walter Stafford entered the establishment.

Elizabeth stood there as if paralyzed, but her mind raced. She should have known. She
had
known. The moment Mr. Harvey disappeared into the back room, he must have sent a prentice for Walter. This toy shop was, without doubt, one of the first places Walter had contacted.

Why do I always underestimate him?

Walter was holding out his arms. “Elizabeth, dearest!”

She forced herself to run toward him, even embrace him, as if she were indeed his fiancée and had been captured against her will. “I'm so glad you've found me,” she said to Walter's diamond buttons. “I've been so terrified.”

He patted her back and made appropriate soothing sounds. Elizabeth raised her face. Behind Walter stood a Goliath of a man dressed in the Stafford livery.

Two of them! Oh, God,
what am I going to do?

Rand had said to denounce him. Although the very thought was odious, she'd try. After all, her own survival was at stake. She would stall, as Mr. Harvey had successfully stalled, so that she might devise a plan of escape.

“It was horrible, my lord. I prayed every night that you'd rescue me.”

“I have men searching from Scotland to Plymouth, Elizabeth. Did that blackguard harm you? Rape you? Where is he? I swear I'll kill him.”

“Kill him,” she echoed weakly.

“I've been frantic, dearest. How did you ever get away from John Turpin long enough to sell your necklace?”

“He… drank sometimes. He took opium, too. He even inhaled ether.” Rand had described such drug dens, a common part of London's underground, and it sounded sufficiently debauched to possess the ring of truth. “He threatened dire consequences if I escaped, but this morning, while he slept, I slipped away and wandered the streets until I happened upon the Strand. I was so frightened, nearly out of my mind. Then I remembered what you said about the toy shop. I didn't know you had contacted Mr. Harvey. I told him I needed money for my sick mother. That way if John searched the Strand for me…” She stared beseechingly into Walter's face. “He let me keep the necklace…”
Why?
she thought frantically.
Why would he do that?
She remembered Zak's hanging, the first one, where the hangman had strangled Zak with a silken cord. “John oft twisted the necklace round my throat if I would not do his bidding, until I was nearly dead from strangulation. Then he would laugh.”

Forgive me, my love.

“John was bigger, stronger,” she cried. “I tried to escape countless times, but he always found me. Once he lashed me to my horse. He didn't beat me, but I was beaten in spirit, unable to shout for help, or even beg assistance from strangers. I feared every man. I think I might have shunned the very men you sent in pursuit, the ones who read your handbills…” She swallowed the rest of her words, aware that she was revealing far too much information.

“There, there, you're safe now. We'll go directly home, to my residence. The carriage waits outside. I'll have a servant retrieve your necklace.”

If he gets me in his coach, I'm doomed!
As Walter led her from the shop, she saw a constable's wagon parked directly behind Walter's carriage. Armed guards bristled from the wagon's rooftop, while a half dozen mounted men surrounded it.

“Now that you're safe, you must tell us where John Turpin is,” Walter said. “I assume he's near here.”

Elizabeth swayed against him. “I feel faint, my lord.” Collapsing on the shop stoop, she put her head between her knees.

While Walter sent his servant Grosley for vinaigrette, Elizabeth desperately tried to devise some way to give approximately fifteen men the slip.

Kneeling beside her, Walter said, “My brave darling, you're going to be fine.” He accepted the vinaigrette from Grosley and waved the bottle in front of her nose.

Elizabeth coughed and jerked her head aside. The smell was powerful enough to revive a platoon of swooning elephants.

Walter helped her rise. “Sit in the carriage, dearest. Soon you'll feel better.”

She shook her head. “I prefer to walk. The cold air might revive me.”

“Grosley and I will walk with you. But first you must tell me what you know about Turpin's whereabouts. You must remember something, Elizabeth.”

“'Tis difficult. I've been so confused. We never went out, except at night. During the day he never left me alone. Oh, I can't talk about it. The memories are too painful.”

“I understand completely. But you must have some idea. Does he bide near the toy shop? The Thames? St. Paul's? Use your powers of observation. As a writer, you must have them. Think, Elizabeth. Where did Turpin keep you?”

She pretended to ponder his question while she pondered escape. How the bloody hell could she obtain more favorable odds? First, she would have to get rid of the lawmen.

“I do remember something about our lodgings, my lord. From my window I could see Covent Garden. We were in a tiny side street, near a flash house,” she added, making up details as she went along. “I cannot recall the name of the inn, but it had a bay window in front with two broken panes. That's all I remember, except for an abandoned baby near the gate.”

Walter conversed with the lawmen, who immediately departed for Covent Garden. Now she would only have to rid herself of Walter and Grosley. With one man on either side, she walked along the footpath. Walter also maintained his arm around her waist, ostensibly for support.

“Would you buy me a pastry from a vendor, my lord? I find that your protection has rejuvenated my appetite.”

Walter snapped his fingers and Grosley scurried toward a vendor.

Her serene expression never faltered, never betrayed the trepidation that grew with every step they took. “Wine,” she said. “There's an inn. A glass of wine might—”

“I have an even better idea. Why don't we all eat dinner?”

She managed to choke down a venison pie and a glass of claret, hoping fate would intervene. Rand would be expecting her return, and by now he'd realize something was amiss. Walter's carriage, parked outside the inn, had the Stafford coat of arms painted on its doors. To further stall, she ordered a roast leg of lamb, peacock steaks, and rice pudding.

“Didn't that monster ever feed you?” Walter asked.

“Of course he did, but I couldn't eat. I feared he might—”
get caught,
she almost said, just before she clamped her mouth shut.

“You feared his attentions. I understand. Turpin twisted the necklace?”

“Yes.”

“Strange. You have no marks on your throat.”

“I did at first. After John broke my spirit, he merely threatened.”

“I can't imagine anyone breaking your spirit, Elizabeth.”

“I told him I preferred death, but he wouldn't let me die.”

“
He
shall die, and that's a promise. You look so pale, my dear. Does Turpin's pending death distress you?”

“No. The memory of my ordeal has made me unwell.” Rising, she clutched her belly. “Perhaps another glass of wine might settle my stomach.”