Dysart positioned himself behind the young man in question. Another poor hand. No high cards and no tricks. He was doing both Fitzwilliam and his partner a favour by taking him out of the game.
‘Fitzwilliam. Losing, I see. Care for a turn round the room with me?’
‘Ah.’ Fitzwilliam turned at the touch on his shoulder. ‘Dysart . . .’
‘Tell me, who is that young man who accompanied you here tonight?’
‘Oh, his name is Gabriel Stanhope. He’s a friend of Hugh Middleton’s.’
‘His Steward’s son, more like.’ Dysart’s dry, creaking laugh was without a shred of humour.
‘How do you know?’ Fitzwilliam turned to him, genuinely amazed.
‘You are not the only spy I have in your ancient foundation. Would that be the same Hugh Middleton who was sent down from his college and is currently residing in Paris, a cowardly traitor to his country?’
‘How do you know . . .’ Fitzwilliam started, but what was the use of asking? Dysart knew everything.
‘My understanding is that his father, Sir John Middleton, has lately joined him there, but that is of no interest to me. At the moment. I’m wondering if you might know something of Miss Sovay Middleton.’ ‘Why, I was just now at her house!’ Fitzwilliam expressed surprise. ‘That is a coincidence.’
‘Perhaps, so.’ Sir Robert gave a thin smile. ‘If one believed in coincidence. I do not. So,’ he went back, calibrating the conversation as finely as if he were operating some exact instrument of measurement, ‘she is in town? When did she travel down?’
‘She arrived today, I believe.’
‘Did she?’ Sir Robert nodded, although Fitzwilliam failed to see any particular significance. ‘Their neighbour, Sir Royston Gilmore, has lately arrived from the country.’
‘Another coincidence?’ Fitzwilliam laughed at a higher pitch than he would have liked. Conversations with Dysart always made him nervous.
‘I told you, I don’t believe in them.’
‘Is he in tonight?’ Fitzwilliam looked about. Sir Royston was even worse at cards than he was and it would be a good excuse to get away from Dysart.
‘Unfortunately not. He is feeling incommoded. He was set about by some ruffian on the road. Used most cruelly, poor fellow. He’s of a mind that this rogue is the very same one who recently attacked his son and several other coaches. A highwayman, new to the trade, who goes by the name of Captain Blaze.’
‘These highwaymen are everywhere. We had a narrow escape coming from Oxford. You should do something about it, Dysart.’
‘Sir Royston’s very words. Much obliged, Fitzwilliam,’ he turned as if to leave him, ‘unless you have anything else for me?’
Fitzwilliam thought hard. It would be good to give Dysart something, but it was like taking a turn round the room with the Grim Reaper; his disconcerting presence tended to put everything out of one’s mind.
‘Wait!’ he said, just as Dysart was about to drift off. ‘Stanhope and Miss Middleton had a bit of an argument, I couldn’t help but overhear, you understand?’ Dysart nodded impatiently for him to go on. ‘Stanhope accused her of consorting with a highwayman – but his name wasn’t Blaze, it was Greenwood.’
‘Was it, indeed?’ Dysart’s death’s-head grin showed that he was pleased.
‘There’s another thing.’ Emboldened by this success, Fitzwilliam had thought of something else. ‘Now I do recall . . .’
‘What, man?’
Something in their conversation was making Dysart impatient. Fitzwilliam was tempted to spin it out, make him wait, but then a look from those cold eyes changed his mind.
‘Their talk turned to a wallet and some papers. I don’t know what was in them, but she was anxious to keep it secret, from me, at any rate.’
Dysart nodded, showing his satisfaction with another skull-like grin. ‘Much obliged, Fitzwilliam.’
Fitzwilliam was just about to ask him, in a roundabout way, whether this information might be worth something, but Dysart was already gliding away.
‘Who was that man?’ Gabriel asked when Fitzwilliam joined him.
‘Sir Robert Dysart. The spy master. Some say he’s the most powerful man in London. He is certainly the most dangerous.’ Fitzwilliam laughed. ‘They call him the Pox Doctor. To be avoided if one can possibly help it.’
If Dysart did not believe in coincidence, neither did he believe in mysteries. There was always a solution. It just required thought, reason – and information. Like any game of chance. Recently, he had been bending his considerable mind to discovering the identity of the mysterious Captain Blaze. This afternoon, Sir Royston Gilmore had dealt him the winning card.
‘I’m loath to tell you, Dysart. Don’t reflect well, if you get my meaning, but with things being as they are, with the state of the country, I can’t let family pride stand in the way.’ He’d sighed heavily and the spindly chaise longue groaned under his shifting bulk. ‘It’s my boy, James. He did well to expose the nest of treasonous vipers, can’t fault him on that, but he let the little baggage best him.’ He told Dysart the story of the robbery. ‘Wouldn’t tell me, too ashamed, I suppose, but then she held up the tipstaff and stole the warrant, well, he knows where his duty lies.’
‘Indeed,’ Dysart had replied. ‘This Captain Blaze, then. You think it is Miss Sovay Middleton?’
‘I know so,’ Sir Royston said with a shake of his head. ‘One can hardly believe it. Unnatural, that’s what it is. Hyenas in petticoats, Walpole calls them. She’s more like a wolf. As bad as the father, or the son. Worse, in my mind, than either one. She threatened violence on me and my officers when we were trying to carry out our lawful duties, then she attacks me and overturns my carriage.’
Sir Royston would have gone on for some time in this vein but Dysart interrupted him.
‘And she is this Captain Blaze? You are sure?’
‘Certain! That horse she rides, the grey. He’s out of my own stables. A betrothal gift, would you believe?’
Dysart had left him, still fulminating. He had found out what he wanted. The mysterious Captain Blaze was really Miss Sovay Middleton. She had taken something of his, Fitzwilliam had confirmed it, and he wanted it back.
After he left the club, he directed his driver to the Old Bell, Holborn, where he hoped to find a Mr Slevin. Dysart had used him on many occasions. Apart from his other talents, he was the best cracksman in London and Dysart had a job for him in Soho, to be carried out tonight.
CHAPTER 9
Sovay woke from thrilling dreams: a plunging ride through wild country had taken her to a narrow warren of streets and a house where every room was a bedchamber and everyone was in a state of undress. It was all very odd because boys turned into girls and girls into boys in an endless confusing parade. An old woman in a bright russet wig counted coin and leered from behind a battered lacquer table, her face a ruin under thick layers of rouge and powder, her teeth brown, streaked stumps in a painted mouth. It was all set to a refrain that she woke up humming and could not get out of her head.
Sovay’s mind had returned to the scenes of the day, but dreams are without compass and dreamers are free to go where they will without the constraints that waking life might put upon them. She had started from sleep in a state of heightened excitement, experiencing again the thrilling danger of that wild chase across the heath and the feeling that this was by far the most exhilarating day that she had so far spent in her life. She found it impossible to unravel what was real and what was not from among the images and sensations that crowded in upon her. Some of the images she had seen that day, the places she had been, seemed to belong more in the realm of dreams, although she knew them to be real.
Captain Greenwood had promised to find her female attire and he had taken her to a tall, crooked house in Covent Garden, full of the most bizarre people. The harridan with the vibrant hair and rotten teeth was called Mother Pierce. Her eyes were small and round, like beads on an abacus, and in her house everything was f
or sale, even if she had never encountered the request before. She had her hand out to the Captain as soon as they came through the door. Sovay had been conducted up the stairs by a pretty young woman in an abundant curling wig. Her heart-shaped face was rouged and painted, the brows above her pale blue eyes plucked to a thin line and she was wearing a low-cut gown. It was not until she spoke that Sovay realised that she was a boy. Such was the order of the day at Mother Pierce’s. Sovay refused to think about the reason for this, or what went on there. The pictures on the walls were hint enough. She was nervous of meeting any customers, but it was still early, so business was slack just yet, the boy informed her. She was mighty relieved about that. The boy laughed and addressed her with easy confidence, as though she was familiar with the ways of such establishments. His name was Toby, he said with a toss of his curly wig, and he was doing this just until he could buy himself an apprenticeship. The Captain had snorted at this, pronouncing that all whores had some story about how they would climb to respectability, but Sovay liked the boy and hoped that he would escape from Mother Pierce’s clutches. He had brought her clothes to wear, the soberest he could find. The gown was still rather gaudy even after Toby had removed most of the frills and flounces, and so low cut that it made Sovay blush.
‘Clean, though,’ Toby announced cheerfully. ‘Just come back from the laundry.’
Sovay reflected that there were some things to be grateful for at least. Downstairs, the Captain was waiting, striding about with impatience. He whistled when he saw her and his face broke into a grin.
‘You were handsome dressed as a boy, but this suits you much better. Come.’ He put his gloved hand out to conduct her. ‘I will find a chair for you. You will be home in a trice. Miss Sovay again.’
‘I’m not normally so attired,’ she replied, looking down at the plunging décolletage.
‘That’s a pity.’ His smile widened and his dark blue eyes gleamed with amusement.
Sovay was searching for some suitable retort when she realised that he was teasing her and it was probably best to keep silent.
Mother Pierce came out of the little booth that served as her office.
‘You off now, Captain?’ She turned to Sovay. ‘I’ll be expecting them back, young lady. I ain’t made of money.’
‘Now, Ma.’ The Captain wagged his finger at her. ‘I’ve paid for those rags twice over.’
‘Rags, is it?’ Mother Pierce’s carmined cheeks reddened further. ‘I’ll have you know my girls wear the finest Mayfair can offer! No better quality anywhere in the Garden.’
‘Oh, Ma,’ the Captain caressed her cheek, ‘your anger inflames me so.’
He seized Mother Pierce about the waist and whirled her round, much to the amusement of her ‘girls’ who stood round cheering and clapping. They made no move to help her. The Captain was the kind of man who could charm any woman; even Ma Pierce was not immune. It was clear that she was enjoying his attentions, despite her loud protests.
He sang as he danced her across the room and back again.
‘Roses and lilies her cheeks disclose,
But her ripe lips are more sweet than those.
Press her,
Caress her
With blisses,
Her kisses
Dissolve us in pleasure, and sweet repose.’
It was an air Sovay recognised, from The Beggar’s Opera, and she joined in the laughter to hear it sung to such a one and by a real highwayman.
‘Desist, you rogue!’ Ma Pierce cuffed him as she finally struggled out of his embrace, careful to adjust her wig. ‘Be off and take your doxy with you.’
The Captain swept off his hat to her and bowed low before conducting Sovay out of the door. When they were outside, he put his arm round her, to protect her from the mill and press of people. Sovay was aware of his closeness, the faint scent about him of leather and horses. He turned to her, his face close, and began to sing again, quietly this time, more slowly, so the words gained significance.
‘Roses and lilies her cheeks disclose,
But her ripe lips are more sweet than those.’
As he sang, he drew one gloved finger down her cheek and across her lips. Quickly, before she had time to think what he was doing, he kissed her hard on the mouth. Nobody looked or even noticed; on these streets embracing couples were a common sight. She knew that she ought to struggle, but did not. The kiss belonged to the Sovay who held up stagecoaches and did outrageous things. She would step out of her at the same time as she shed the whore’s clothing and put on respectability with her own dress. Besides, the kiss thrilled her far more than any caress that she had ever received from Mr James Gilmore.
Greenwood let her go and smiled down at her, one eyebrow raised.
‘You are better at that than I would have imagined. You are full of surprises, Miss Sovay.’
With that he hailed a chair and sent her off to Soho Square. The Captain had a good voice: a powerful tenor, sweet and pure. All the way back, as the chairmen wove their way through the crowded streets, she could hear his singing: Press her, Caress her . . . That was the tune she could not get out of her head.
Her reverie was broken by a tiny sound followed by a slight draught of cold air. Sovay’s heart beat hard and she opened her eyes to see a dark shape, a shadow within a shadow, detach itself from the heavy drapery of the curtain and glide with silent stealth across the room. Sovay was suddenly fully awake. As she did not believe in ghosts, this had to be a burglar set to steal from her. He was dressed entirely in black and could move with no noise at all. Only the gleam of his eyes showed as he moved to the bureau, easing open drawer after drawer.
He failed in his search and turned, looking around as though wondering where to search next. That is when he must have caught a movement from the bed. He came towards Sovay, hand outstretched, as if to stifle any noise she might make.
‘I will not scream, or cry out,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but I have pistols under the covers and I will not hesitate to use them.’
‘Don’t shoot. I mean you no harm but don’t make no noise, I beg of you.’ The boy advanced cautiously. ‘He’s downstairs and he won’t hesitate to kill the both of us if you do.’
‘Who’s downstairs?’ Sovay held the guns so he could see them.
‘Ne’er you mind. Best you don’t know, but he’s a holy terror.’ The boy broke off. ‘Miss Sovay, isn’t it?’ He reached up and pulled off the knitted hat that he’d rolled down over his face. ‘You was at Ma Pierce’s with the Captain. It’s Toby. Toby White. Although they don’t call me that there. It was my dress you borrowed.’
He looked away from her and his pale face flushed, as if he was shamed to admit such a thing in the outside world.
‘I remember,’ Sovay replied. ‘Although you look somewhat – different.’
She remembered his delicate face, the long dark lashes, the pale blue eyes. She really had thought that he was a girl.
‘Out of me molly clothes, you mean?’ He grinned, his white teeth bright in the darkness.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘When I ain’t mollying, I’m a sneaker. A snakes-man.’ He searched for a word she’d know. ‘A burglar, but I come in through upstairs windows. I’m small, see? Good wi’ locks, too. Get in and out of anywhere. Pride myself on it. Don’t do no rough work, though. Leave that to the others.’
‘Others?’ Sovay looked slightly more wary. ‘You mean there’s a whole gang of you?’
Toby sat on the bed. ‘On this occasion, no. Just me and one other. But he’s enough.’
‘What are you after? Jewellery? Silver? Plate?’
The boy shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. He’s after a wallet. Leather. Front latches. About that big.’ He described the shape with his hands. ‘He’s doing the downstairs, I’m doing the up. Ssh!’ He put his finger to his lips. ‘He’s coming! He’s a big man. I heard a creak on the stairs. You pretend to be asleep. I’ll say I ain’t found nothing, but there’s
no telling if he’ll believe me.’ She thought he’d left but then his voice was there, little more than a breath in her ear. ‘Get rid of the thing he’s after, as soon as may be, or he’ll come looking again and if he don’t get it one way, he’ll try another and some of his methods ain’t what you’d call gentle.’
He stole away, as silently as he had come. Sovay did not pretend to be asleep. She sat bolt upright, pistol clutched to her chest. She would blast the first man through the door, even if it was that charming boy. She heard them move along the corridor to search her brother’s room. Having found nothing there, they went on to her father’s apartment on the next floor. From the time they took, they were thorough. At last she heard their tread on the stairs. The boy as quick as a cat with hardly a creak. The other one moving more slowly, with the caution of a heavy man trying to be silent.
When they left, they went empty-handed. She had the wallet safe under her pillow.
She would go to her father’s lawyers first thing in the morning and deposit the wallet into their safe keeping. It was clear that she could not keep it here. Who had known that she had it in her possession? Who had betrayed her? What had Greenwood said? Trust no one. How right he had been.
CHAPTER 10
By the morning, her fear had turned to anger. Someone had betrayed her.
By the time Gabriel was announced, Sovay had decided that there were only two possibilities. Either Gabriel had gone against her instruction and confided in Fitzwilliam, or the culprit was Greenwood. Sovay did not like to think it of him, but the evidence was not in his favour. He knew about the wallet. He knew the whereabouts of her house in London. He consorted with rogues and thieves. He knew what they should look for, and it did not take a mind of great subtlety to determine where in the house the papers might be kept.