The Lady and the Highwayman Page 6

  “I’ll send you if need be,” Fletcher said dryly. He rolled his eyes as he turned toward Stone once more.

  The man raised his fists in fighting position. Fletcher did as well. They circled, jabbing and dodging. Hollis watched from a battered armchair in a corner. They’d placed the more undignified furniture pieces in this room, comfort trumping appearance.

  “How’s your latest story doing?” Fletcher asked his sparring partner.

  “Publisher wants more.”

  Stone swung. Fletcher ducked.

  “Good sign, that.”

  A jab. A dodge.

  “Mine ain’t selling like it did six months ago,” Fletcher said. “But still better than a year ago.” King was creeping closer to him all the time. “It’s a blame good thing King weren’t on the scene while we was sending funds to the Union cause back in the States. There’d not’ve been enough.”

  Stone nodded, never losing his concentration.

  Fletcher’s dwindling income had impacted a great many things. He didn’t live as comfortably as he had. His future was less certain. Most frustrating of all, the DPS had fewer funds to work with. It haunted him every time he passed street children he didn’t know if he could save.

  “The drawing rooms of the middle class are abuzz with whispers of the climbing boy who ‘went missing’ this last week,” Hollis said. “I’ve heard talk of some of the things we’ve been involved in before, but not like this. It seems that blowhard of a sweep, Mr. Allen, is flapping his gums to anyone who’ll listen to his complaints.”

  “We need to take more care,” Stone said. “We’ll have a hard go if we’re caught doin’ half of what we do.”

  Robbing a tradesman of his apprentice was a crime, and it wasn’t the first the group had committed. Fletcher, himself, had broken a law or two spiriting children away from danger. He’d do it again if needed.

  Stone and Fletcher circled each other, swinging and ducking. Stone landed one, sending Fletcher stumbling back a couple steps. He rubbed at his shoulder where the blow had landed. Stone waited, impatient.

  Fletcher chuckled. “You that anxious to pummel me?” “Always.”

  They resumed their stances and their efforts. Fletcher even managed to land a couple, himself.

  “Kumar has heard rumors a coach is arriving in a few days with a couple of young women whose family has decided they’re done looking after them,” Hollis said. “Word on the street is Mrs. George knows they’re coming.”

  That paused their bout on the spot. Mrs. George made her profits off the misfortune of young girls. Some she sold off to macks; some she kept in one of her many bawdy houses. If she’d sniffed these new girls’ trail, they were in very delicate, but very real danger.

  “A complicated rescue, that,” Fletcher said.

  Mrs. George and her thugs were known to turn violent when directly opposed. Drawing too much attention during the rescue might endanger the girls as it was, keeping them from finding dignified employment.

  Stone wasn’t shaken by the complexity. He never was. “Bring in Milligan.”

  Barnabus “Doc” Milligan was a physician who wrote penny dreadfuls focused on monstrous malpractices. Having a doctor looking out for the well-being of the newly arrived and vulnerable girls would not draw as much attention as any of the rest of them stepping in would. And Mrs. George’s bully­boys wouldn’t realize so quickly they were being thwarted.

  “Brilliant.”

  Stone nodded, offering nothing more.

  “You haven’t managed to belt him a good one all afternoon, Fletcher. Are you off your feed?” Hollis could always be counted on for a spot of heckling.

  “Perhaps you’d care to go a round with the man,” Fletcher said

  “Not on your life.”

  “Listen to this.” Irving shuffled in with no more pre­amble than that. He held in his hands an easily recognizable bit of literature: a penny dreadful offering. But which one? “‘If he and his comrades are doing such gallant and admirable work, then why undertake it in such a way that can’t help but call their admirableness into question?’”

  Stone’s fists dropped, eyes focused on Irving.

  “Who wrote that bit of fanciness?” Fletcher asked.

  Irving held up the purple-covered circular. “Mr. King.”

  He should’ve sorted that in an instant.

  “The bloke’s latest installment. Not badly written. Good plot. Characters ain’t a bore. Almost word-for-word the whispers surrounding the lot of us—wondering why we’re so secretive if we ain’t up to no good.” Irving looked at them all. “What do we make of it?”

  Fletcher wiped the sweat from his face with a towel. Stone stood, hands on his hips as he worked to recapture his breath after their energetic bout.

  Hollis spoke up. “It could be a coincidence.”

  Irving nodded.

  Fletcher wasn’t convinced. “It’s too similar, I say. This King, I’d wager, knows what we’re about, or leastwise suspects. Maybe he’s meaning to tell us he knows what we’ve been doing.”

  “Or who we are,” Irving added.

  That’d be a catastrophe. Even setting aside the trouble they’d have with the law if they were sniffed out, too much of what they did required secrecy. Being made known would keep them from helping and rescuing and doing the good that meant so much to them.

  “He’s warning us, then?” Hollis asked.

  Stone’s response dropped into the silence like a boulder. “Or he’s one of us.”

  For a moment no one said anything. If King was a Dreadful, why hadn’t the man come forward? Many published under names other than their own. But why would he keep this a secret?

  The answer came in the next instant. “What if he’s warning us and is one of us?” Fletcher asked. “He might be dangling a bone, showing us he has the upper hand and could reveal the lot of us iffen he wanted.”

  “Then we’ve a bad hat to sniff out,” Irving said.

  Stone moved to his neatly folded shirt on the stool. “We need to know for sure and certain.”

  That was as true as the day was long. “How?” Fletcher asked.

  “There’s a certain elevated quality to Mr. King’s writing,” Hollis said. “I’ve suspected for some time now that he might actually be a silver-fork or literary writer penning penny dreadfuls. We can start there, see what we’re able to discover.”

  “How do we ‘start there,’ I’d like to know.” Irving shook his head, mustache trembling. “We can’t simply walk around saying, ‘Hand over King or we’ll keep abducting children.’”

  “Miss Black showed something of an interest in Mr. King,” Hollis said. “And she is familiar with the community of silver-fork writers, being one herself.”

  “Wouldn’t pressing her for information spark her suspicions?” Fletcher didn’t know her well enough to be sure.

  “I’d fit the bill,” Hollis said. “Except I’m not supposed to be connected to the penny dreadful authors beyond our specific friendship. But you’ve already broached the subject with her. She’d not think twice hearing you bring it up.”

  “I’d be willing.” Fletcher wouldn’t relish it; fine ladies weren’t his cup of tea. They generally felt themselves decidedly above his touch. “But seeing as this might spin into sniffing out one of us Dreadfuls, I’ll need approval from the Dread Master.”

  Irving and Stone simply nodded in understanding, but Hollis raised a brow. Though Fletcher served as the figurehead of the group, he was not its actual leader, and Hollis had been rather annoyed that Fletcher wouldn’t tell Hollis the details of the man behind the DPS.

  “Once I get direction, I’ll move forward.” But he knew permission would be granted. If they had a traitor in their midst, they had to know.

  Calling on Elizabeth Black would be interesting at least. She’d given th
e impression of cleverness and hadn’t been entirely snooty toward him. He suspected street urchins never fully grew accustomed to finding any degree of acceptance anywhere other than in the gutters.

  Ana was a gifted musician, far too talented to be teaching such indifferent students. Some were sufficiently grateful. Most hadn’t the least understanding of their good fortune. Elizabeth stood at the door of the music room, listening to one of their oldest students work her way through a particularly complicated piece. Her skills were improving, thanks to Ana.

  Elizabeth hoped Ana felt some degree of fulfillment in her work. Teaching had not been her first choice in life. It likely hadn’t been her tenth or eleventh, either. Her family had fallen on difficult times, and with no dowry and very few connections, Ana had lost all hope of marriage. With her family’s fortune gone, likely forever, she’d no longer had the option to remain at home, living on her father’s meager income.

  It was far too familiar a tale. Most of Thurloe’s teachers hailed from fine families fallen on hard times. Elizabeth, herself, did.

  As the pianoforte offering came to a close, young Miss Georgiana happened to look up and meet Elizabeth’s eye. Uncertainty hung there. Elizabeth had discovered early in her time as headmistress that her opinion mattered to her students. While she was often required to be the voice of order and, at times, discipline, offering support and encouragement was far more her preference.

  “That was lovely, Georgiana,” she said. “You and Miss Newport have certainly worked very hard.”

  A pleased blush spread over the girl’s face.

  “Play through the piece again, please,” Ana instructed. “I need a moment with Miss Black.” She rose and moved to the doorway.

  “Is something amiss?” Elizabeth asked, keeping her voice low.

  “Nothing too concerning.” Ana motioned for her to step into the corridor. “The sticking keys are growing worse, and the harp has lost another string.”

  Something always needed repairing at a school. “Is there anything else?”

  “A few of the chimneys are smoking.”

  While Thurloe Collegiate School was not awash in endless funds, Elizabeth wasn’t overly worried about paying for the ever-present list of items. Between the income from her silver-fork novels, her students’ tuition, and the contributions of a handful of patrons, she had enough to breathe relatively easily.

  “Miss Black.” Mrs. Hale stood a few paces down the corridor.

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve a visitor in your office.”

  Her office? A business-related visitor, then. “Did it seem an urgent matter?”

  She thought on it. “He didn’t seem worried or anxious. I’d say he was happy to be here.”

  “He?” Ana repeated with a laugh.

  Elizabeth smiled at that. “Had the visitor been a woman, she would have been shown to the parlor. A man calling outside of official visiting hours is, no doubt, here on business.”

  They walked together down the corridor, speaking briefly of a newer student and her interest in the violin. Fortunately, that instrument was in good repair. Elizabeth would look over the ledger that evening and make certain her accounts were as healthy as she thought. And then she would spend an hour or two losing herself in poor Lucinda’s adventures. “Mr. King” was her only escape from the tedium of her very respectable life.

  As they reached the door to her office, they both glanced in. The man sitting inside was immediately recognizable: Fletcher Walker.

  “What next and next?” she muttered.

  A bit of mischief tugged at Ana’s mouth. “He is very handsome.”

  “He is trouble.”

  Ana shrugged a single delicate shoulder. “Is that so bad?”

  Elizabeth could not hide her amusement. “Certainly nothing I cannot handle.”

  Ana’s laugh drew Mr. Walker’s attention. He rose, as was proper, and faced them, offering a dip of his head. They responded with quick curtsies.

  “Mr. Walker, this is Miss Newport, our music teacher. Miss Newport, may I make known to you Mr. Walker, a writer.”

  Ana took a step toward him, her customary enthusiasm as endearing as ever. “You are a writer? Miss Black is a writer.”

  “I know it,” he replied. “And quite revered, she is.”

  “Are you?” Elizabeth could not fully tell if Ana was bantering or in earnest.

  Mr. Walker met Elizabeth’s eye with a glimmer of amusement.

  Elizabeth let her smile show. “Well, are you?”

  He took it in stride, looking back to Ana. “I’d not say ‘revered,’ as such, though I’ve enjoyed a spill or two from the teapot of good fortune.”

  It was a surprisingly humble evaluation. Mr. Walker was, at least until recently, the most successful in his area of literature. He could not have been unaware of the significance of that achievement.

  “I do need to return to the music lessons,” Ana said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Walker.”

  He dipped another well-executed bow. “Meeting a beautiful lady is always a pleasure for me. So, I thank you for obligin’.”

  That bit of flirting earned him the tiniest, loveliest blush on Ana’s cheeks, a sight few men could resist. To his credit, he simply smiled and made no attempt to keep her from leaving the room. Too many men considered themselves fully entitled to a woman’s time and attention regardless of her feelings on the matter.

  Elizabeth crossed to her desk and sat. He resumed his seat across from her. Though his posture was not truly lax nor inappropriate, there was an ease to it that spoke volumes of his confidence even in an unfamiliar setting.

  “Miss Newport seems a fine sort,” he said with every indication of sincerity.

  “She is, and she is an exceptional teacher as well.”

  He nodded. “That’s important, that is. A good teacher is the only reason I made anything of myself. Though you’d likely argue whether or not I succeeded.”

  She leaned her forearms on her desk, watching him more closely. “Why do you think I so hardily disapprove of you?”

  “Most above m’ place in life do. And most writers have solid ideas of whose writin’ is worth praise and whose is the dregs.”

  He wasn’t wrong, generally speaking. His assessment was, however, misapplied. “I am familiar with the penny dreadfuls, and I have never offered a dismissal of them. They may not be my area of focus, and you and I don’t necessarily share readers, but I have never, nor will you ever hear me, speak ill of a fellow writer simply because he does not publish silver-­forks or highbrow literature.”

  Mr. Walker’s surprise was less shock and more relief. “I’ve hopes your generosity extends to presumptuous favors likewise.”

  “You’ve come to ask a favor?”

  His eyes twinkled. “A right, regular lout, ain’t I?”

  She leaned back, keeping her posture proper even as she eased into a more comfortable position. “I thought, for a moment, upon hearing I had a visitor, that the new arrival”—she motioned to him—“was someone come to offer patronage to our school.”

  He grinned. The man had a wickedly handsome smile, there was no denying that. “I ain’t got brass enough for patronizing anything but my own flat, the butcher, and the costermonger, and, if one’ll have me, a dog-cheap gentleman’s club somewhere.”

  “Will no others have you?” She hoped her comment sounded more amused than investigatory. From the moment Miss Vance and Mr. Headley had mentioned the mysterious Dread Penny Society, she had wondered if Mr. Walker belonged to that “club.”

  “I concoct penny dreadfuls and was born in the gutters. Gen’lmen ain’t exactly clamoring to rub elbows with the likes of me.”

  She knew that to be an overly pessimistic and simplistic evaluation. “Garrick’s was established specifically for artists and writers. I can’t imag
ine you wouldn’t be welcomed there.”

  He smiled once more. Elizabeth ignored the way it flipped her heart around. “I’ll make m’ application for membership just as soon as I leave here.”

  She doubted that. “If you have not come to offer my school a generous largesse, what has brought you?”

  He sat up straighter. “Have you any familiarity with Mr. King, the penny dreadful author?”

  “I know of his work.” How she hoped she kept her amusement hidden.

  “He’s a mystery I cain’t sort. No one seems to know who he is despite everyone readin’ his stories.”

  Mercy, this was not a reassuring turn to the conversation. “Does his secrecy concern you?”

  He waved a hand, half dismissively, half in amusement. “Never could resist a mystery. Besides, all us low-life authors”—his brow quirked upward in a show of laughter—­“know each other. It’s an odd thing having one so prominent in our field who don’t belong to that brotherhood.”

  Brotherhood. Was that his secretive way of referencing the Dread Penny Society? Might Mr. King be welcomed into the group, included in their adventures and missions? Of course, were she to discover their activities were nefarious rather than gregarious, she wouldn’t have embraced that membership. As it was, she hadn’t the option.

  “Why is it you feel I would have information that you and your ‘brotherhood’ have been unable to unearth? Were you looking for a silver-fork novelist, I might be of more help.”

  He bent his elbow against the arm of his chair and leaned his temple against his fist. “There’s the infernal rub, though. I suspect, Miss Black, I am looking for one.”

  A lump formed in her stomach. “We are still speaking of Mr. King, are we not?” She filled the question with enough surprised doubt to convey the impression that she found his declaration odd at best.

  He, however, did not appear the slightest bit put off the scent. “I’ve been studying his stories. He don’t write the same as the rest of us. He’s got more class, more sophistication.”

  “You think Mr. King does not know his audience?” She tried not to be offended by the evaluation, both on her own account and on behalf of her readers. She put tremendous effort into meeting the expectations of that particular style of storytelling, and she thought it insulting to assume that the working classes could not enjoy a story that included anything but low phrases and simplified vocabulary. She did not use the same voice as she did in her silver-fork novels, but she did not think it so misguided to occasionally sprinkle a higher word into her narrative.