Henry Laxton could not be described as handsome. He had, though, an engaging face with undistinguished features made attractive by the fact that he was a rich banker who had the good fortune to be married to a beautiful woman.
This morning he was to be found in his study. A letter from Charles Cordell had just been delivered. It should have reached him two days ago, but the messenger had been held up by bad weather and a lame horse. He now read with increasing alarm that a boy called Yann Margoza was due at the Boar Inn, Fleet Street at three o’clock that very afternoon, giving him no time to prepare for his arrival.
Henry Laxton stood by the fire lost in thought. Taking on such a boy would, he knew, be a challenge, especially as he and his wife had no children of their own.
He rang the bell and his valet entered the room. “Is my wife still in her boudoir?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“And does she have any visitors with her?”
“One, sir, Lady Faulkner.”
Henry Laxton smiled inwardly. He knew how bored his wife would be. Lady Faulkner’s sole aim in visiting her friends was to pick up the latest tittle-tattle and add it to her cauldron of malicious small talk. He went up the stairs to his wife’s boudoir.
Juliette Laxton was the younger sister of Isabelle Gautier, who had married the Marquis de Villeduval. Their father, a widower, was a wealthy bourgeois businessman, and the marriage was seen as beneficial to both sides. The Villeduvals would have an injection of much-needed money and land, and Monsieur Gautier would see at least one of his daughters settled with a title, and could claim an aristocrat as a son-in-law.
Only Juliette had had any idea of the depths of Isabelle’s misery, married to a much older man who cared only for himself.
Then, shortly after the death of Monsieur Gautier, Isabelle was killed in an accident when a coach was overturned. The only survivor was three-year-old Sido, whose leg had been badly broken.
After his wife’s death the marquis did something so strange, so out of character, that the only rational explanation was surely insanity brought on by grief. For it had turned out a double tragedy: His half brother, Armand, his father’s favorite, had gone missing at the same time. All attempts to find him had failed.
Isabelle was not buried in the family vault in Normandy. Instead, her coffin was taken to a small church by the sea. There were no mourners and little ceremony. She was placed in a simple grave and the headstone merely recorded her name, Isabelle Gautier, without title, inscription, or date.
The marquis was never to speak of his wife again, and his half brother’s disappearance proved to be the death of his father.
Juliette had never gotten over the loss of her beloved sister. Her only consolation had been the hope that she might be allowed to bring up Isabelle’s daughter, Sido, but it was not to be. For reasons Juliette had never understood, Sido’s father, the marquis, had written to say that he wanted nothing more to do with the Gautier family.
For Juliette it had been a double bereavement. Not only had she lost her sister and her closest friend, but shortly after this she had had a miscarriage and been told that there was little hope of her conceiving again. It had been her greatest sadness, for she had always imagined herself surrounded by a large and noisy family.
She sat now in front of her dressing table mirror, wishing her visitor would leave. Not for the first time, Lady Faulkner was giving Juliette the benefit of her advice.
“My formula for looking perpetually young is to avoid laughter and excessive use of the facial muscles. That, I can assure you, leads to wrinkles and the falling of the flesh. Best by far to keep one’s face emotionless. Only by such a means can one hold back time’s cruel hand—”
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Juliette’s face lit up with a charming smile when she saw her husband enter the room, while Lady Faulkner’s remained masklike and rigid.
“I trust your family is well?” said Henry Laxton with a bow.
“Quite well,” replied Lady Faulkner stiffly.
“And does your son still spend all his time at the theater, sporting with pretty actresses?” The question was designed to speed the guest’s departure.
Lady Faulkner’s features knew not quite how to react to this. Her lips longed to purse themselves together in disgust at such a suggestion, but lines, as she had just informed Mrs. Laxton, must be avoided at all costs.
“I have no idea what you mean, Mr. Laxton,” she said, standing up and waving her fan vigorously. “Jack is at Oxford, where he is studying diligently. Now I must leave you. I have other calls to make where I will, I know, be very welcome.” And with great indignation she swept out of the room.
The Laxtons waited until they heard the front door being closed, then both burst out laughing.
“She seems more absurd every time I see her,” said Henry Laxton, pouring himself a cup of tea. “Jack hasn’t been near Oxford all term, from what I can gather. The woman is a fool.”
Juliette sighed. “
Mon chéri,
please remind me to laugh and smile and to use every muscle my face might possess, lest I end up looking as sour and miserable as that woman.”
“That would be an impossibility. Now, on a more serious note, I have had a letter this morning from Charles Cordell, and I have news that will hearten you. It relates to Sido de Villeduval.”
“To Sido? What is it?” asked Juliette urgently.
“Apparently Sido was brought home from her convent for a party that her father was giving in honor of Count Kalliovski.”
“That odious man!”
“Quite. That odious man had a whim to see her, and has persuaded the marquis not to send her back to the convent.”
“How do you know all this? It’s incredible!”
Henry Laxton grinned. “I have my spies.”
“No, don’t joke. Tell me. I know! You heard it from a client of the bank.”
“Not quite, but tonight you will be able to ask after Sido yourself. You will meet someone who spoke to her only a few days ago.”
“You’re talking in riddles! Who is it?”
Henry Laxton walked toward the window and then turned back.
“Cordell has asked if we would be willing to take in a boy for a few months. He is fourteen years old, an orphan, brought up by a contact of Cordell’s in Paris, a man called Têtu.”
“But what has this boy to do with Sido?”
“Aha!” said Laxton. “I am coming to that. Têtu and the boy are traveling entertainers—”
“Traveling entertainers! What strange company Mr. Cordell keeps,” Juliette exclaimed.
"—and a couple of days ago they were invited, with a magician called Topolain, to perform at a party the marquis was giving.”
“The same party that Sido was at?”
“Precisely. And at this private performance the magician Topolain performed the bullet trick for which he was famous in Paris. It was Kalliovski who fired the pistol, and he shot the magician dead.”
“But why?”
“Why indeed? He claims it was an accident, a trick gone wrong, though neither Cordell nor Têtu believes that. Têtu is certain that it was because both he and Topolain knew something about his past. Whatever the reason, Têtu is now terrified that Kalliovski will come after him and the boy. He went to Cordell for help. Cordell has asked that we look after the boy for a few months.”
“And this boy met Sido?”
“Yes. Evidently she helped them escape.”
“And what is the boy called?”
“Yann Margoza. He hasn’t had many advantages in life. Maybe we can help him, give him some education. If we are true to the principles of enlightenment, then a pauper is fit to be a king, and there is no reason why this boy cannot live on equal terms with us and learn to be a gentleman.”
Juliette’s face lit up with excitement. “There’s no question of it. This boy met Sido! He will live with us as a part of the family, not in the servants’ quarters.”
Henry Laxton came over and kissed the nape of his wife’s very white neck.
The carriage bringing Yann to this rough dark diamond of a city made its way over Blackfriars Bridge. Mr. Tull, whose job it had been to transport the boy here, had one last stop to make, at the inn on Fleet Street where he had been instructed to wait for Mr. Laxton’s carriage.
The courtyard of the Boar Inn was full of stagecoaches and horses, ladies and gentlemen, assorted parcels and trunks, all taken up with the hectic business of arriving or leaving. Mr. Tull decided upon a well-earned breakfast. He stopped at the door of the inn and looked woefully at the boy. It struck Mr. Tull as nothing short of an insult to have to take a foreign ragamuffin into this decent God-fearing place. He sighed. Orders were orders. He was to hand the boy over to Mr. Laxton. Until that was done, he would have to keep him close by, for the boy had the look of one who might scarper. He took Yann by the scruff of the neck and steered him, as one would a dog, into a seat by the window.
Yann shook himself free of Mr.Tull’s clutches and sat huddled up in the corner. The journey had been a blur of misery and grief. He didn’t like his jailer, for that was how he had come to think of Mr. Tull, a bulldog of a man who had made it quite clear that the feeling was mutual. He had said as much in very bad French. “
Stupide garçon
. All this trouble! For what? For you?”
After that they had traveled in silence. It suited them both, for Yann needed time to think about what had happened. Never had he felt more alone and wretched than he did now. He regretted that he had ever agreed to come to this country, brought here by a man he didn’t like and didn’t trust, to stay with a man he had never met.
The inn with its low wooden beams was paneled and stained near black by tobacco. Smoke filled the air as well as the sharp smell of burned fat and stale ale. It was full of hungry people, travelers’ appetites demanding constant satisfaction.
“Bring me a tankard of the finest ale, a steak, and a dozen oysters,” said Mr. Tull to the innkeeper.
The innkeeper looked at Yann as he might look at a dirty plate. “The same for him?”
Mr. Tull reluctantly nodded his head. “Only a small beer for him, mind you.”
When the innkeeper had gone Mr. Tull said angrily, “I don’t know why a gentleman like Mr. Laxton would be wanting to give a street urchin like you a roof over your head. If you were to turn up on my doorstep, I’d have you taken down to the workhouse without a second thought. I wouldn’t want one of your kind near me or my kin.”
Yann might not have understood the language, but he got the gist of what Mr. Tull was saying all too clearly.
Mr. Tull fidgeted impatiently as he waited for his ale, tapping his short stubby fingers on the table.
They ate in silence. Mr. Tull mopped his plate clean with the last of his bread, finished his ale, and burped loudly.
“I would say ‘Excuse me, Your Honor,’ if I were in
good
company,” he said, emphasizing the word
good,
“which I ain’t, so I won’t be saying nothing.”
He stood up and shook himself.
“Now you stay put while I see if the carriage has arrived.” He leaned across the table, grasping the lapels of Yann’s coat. “If you so much as move one of them there miserable muscles of yours, you’ll be in for it and no mistake. Do you get my drift?”
Yann watched as Mr. Tull wove his way across the courtyard and in that instant he decided to take his chance. His one aim was to get back to Paris to find where Têtu had been buried, and kill Kalliovski. The idea of doing away with the count was all that had kept him together on the long journey here.
In his haste to leave, he ran into the innkeeper.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going, you blasted scallywag?” the man shouted as the tray he was carrying went flying. There was a loud crash as pewter tumblers and plates of food fell to the floor. For a moment the whole room fell silent, and heads turned to see a boy running for the door as if his life depended on it.
Yann didn’t stop to look back at the mess he had caused. Quickly, he swerved past a coach driver who made a desperate attempt to catch him. He ducked and dived around horses and carriages. Turning back he ran straight into a well-dressed man who firmly but kindly put his hand on his shoulder.
“Yann Margoza, I take it?” said Henry Laxton in flawless French.
Mr. Tull came panting and puffing after him, shaking his fist.
“Where’s that ruddy boy? That little heathen, I’ll wring his scrawny neck, I will. He’s been nothing but trouble since I first clapped eyes on him.”
“You will do no such thing,” said Mr. Laxton, still holding firmly on to Yann. Pushing him into his carriage and climbing in after him, he nodded to his coachman, who handed Mr. Tull an envelope with his money in it.
Mr. Tull started counting.
“It is the agreed sum,” said Mr. Laxton.
By now the carriage was making its way out through the arch, disappearing into the main thoroughfare.
“Wait a minute! Not so ruddy fast!” shouted Mr. Tull to the disappearing wheels. “I need money for the breakages.”
Mr. Tull was not in a good mood as he walked toward the Fleet River and the Red Lion Inn, a tavern renowned for the company of rogues.
If you couldn’t make an honest penny by hard work, then perhaps it would be more worthwhile to make a dishonest pound instead. “Where is the justice?” said Mr. Tull to himself. “The rich get everything and do nothing for it, and all the while they expect the likes of me to risk life and limb for them. And they don’t even pay for breakages.”
He had heard the talk of clever people in Paris and in the London coffeehouses, people who knew what the tomorrows of life had in store. Civil war, that was what they were predicting. As far as he was concerned it couldn’t come soon enough. There was money to be made in upheavals.
chapter twelve
The savagery of grief tore at Yann, filled him with rage, stripped him of his gift for reading people’s minds. All that was left was the silence of heartache. His past and his future had vanished, had been gobbled up and spat out again as if the very marrow had been sucked from his soul with the murder of Têtu.