‘Of course not.’ Johnny smiled at me, his eyes twinkling. ‘But thanks for the warning. I’ll lie low in here until the coast is clear. You’ll let me know when I can come out of hiding, won’t you?’
I nodded. ‘Of course. And yes,’ I added slyly before I shut the door behind me, ‘she still is as pretty as ever.’
I met the party of visitors by the main entrance. They had come in two carriages and on horseback. In the lead was Lord Francis with his friend, the Honorable Charles Hengrave, on a pair of fine geldings, accompanied by a footman.
‘Here she is!’ exclaimed Lord Francis in delight as he bounded up the steps to me, shaking my hand vigorously. ‘You should’ve seen her, Charlie! She flattened that bully and saved my skin. She made a splendid boy.’
I blushed as Charlie gave me a bow and a grin. It appeared that news of our recent exploits had travelled.
‘I hope, Miss Royal, you’ll record your adventures for us,’ Charlie said politely. ‘I am eager to hear all about it from your pen.’
Lord Francis clapped his hand to his head.
‘That reminds me!’ he cried. ‘Father was very impressed by your manuscript. He told me to tell you that he’ll support your first venture into print when you finish it.’
‘In that case, she’d better get a move on.’ This was from Pedro who had ducked out of the rehearsal to greet his friend. Surrounded by the silk waistcoats and velvet jackets of the young nobles, he looked most out of place in his sailor’s costume of blue jacket and white trousers. He was playing and dancing a hornpipe in the musical interlude that night.
Lady Elizabeth arrived on the arm of the young Marchmont. From the pained expression on her normally serene face, she appeared to be doing her best to humour the boy. It was a lost cause: he had come intending to despise everyone and everything. He wrinkled his nose at the tawdry gilt of the auditorium. Drury Lane was in need of renovation and it never looked its best by daylight.
‘Poor Lizzie,’ muttered Lord Francis to Charles Hengrave, ‘she keeps on trying to be polite to Marzi-pain for Father’s sake, failing to comprehend that he’s beyond saving.’
‘Marzi-pain?’ I whispered.
‘Marzipan . . . Marzi-pain Marchmont . . . because of the hair,’ Lord Francis explained in a low voice.
I still looked puzzled.
‘You know, marzipan, that yellowy-white almond stuff you get on cakes?’
He may get it on cakes, but I had never been so lucky. The closest I’d come to confectionery was with my nose pressed against the baker’s window.
‘Oh, of course,’ I said, trying to appear perfectly familiar with all details of the confectioner’s art.
I hadn’t fooled him. ‘I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. Next time you come to tea, I shall ensure that you sample every sort of marzipan under the sun, Miss Royal. Our French cook is a master.’
Marchmont’s voice now reached us. Lord Francis grimaced.
‘It is not a patch on Covent Garden,’ he was saying loudly. ‘Father has a private box there, you know.’
He had better pipe down or he might find himself rudely ejected by one of the crew, I thought sourly.
‘But Mr Marchmont, I’m sure you’ll agree that it is not the gaudy wrappings, but the content that counts. The acting here has no rival with Mr Kemble, Mrs Siddons and Mrs Jordan to call on,’ said Lady Elizabeth as she approached us.
Bless her, I thought.
Marchmont sniffed at this statement but said nothing.
Pedro bowed to the ladies. I curtsied.
‘I was just telling Miss Royal about Papa’s admiration for her manuscript,’ said Lord Francis loudly. He had evidently not forgotten Marchmont’s disapproval of my work and was happy to trump it with a duke’s approbation.
Marchmont gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Your father has peculiar taste, Lord Francis. I grant that she writes a fair enough hand for a girl of her class, but as for the contents . . .’ he left his disapproval hanging in the air. ‘The drawings, however: thinking about them afterwards, I was most intrigued. You surely did not do them yourself, Miss Royal? The style was very distinctive. I could almost swear it was . . . familiar.’ He looked hard at me, his smile as false as a stage moustache. Had he guessed too much?
Unfortunately, Pedro was oblivious to the sensitivity of the subject.
‘No, she didn’t. That was Johnny Smith, the prompt,’ he said. ‘Cat’ll introduce you to him if you’re interested. He does really wicked likenesses, really clever.’
Not for the first time I could have kicked Pedro for his over-eagerness to show off before prospective sponsors. The last thing Johnny needed was for Pedro to go patron-hunting for him.
‘Wicked likenesses?’ said Marchmont coolly. ‘I’ve no doubt of that.’
‘But he doesn’t draw much,’ I added quickly, trying to warn Pedro with a look. ‘In fact, it was probably the first time he’s put pencil to paper when he drew for me.’ Pedro looked surprised and was going to dispute this, but I ploughed on. ‘And unfortunately, he’s been called away suddenly to . . . to see a sick uncle. He’s not here. Not in the building.’
I raised my gaze to Marchmont’s heavy-lidded eyes. He was now looking at me with a sceptical curl to his lips.
Guiding the young people around Drury Lane was more difficult than I anticipated. The phrase beloved of Mrs Reid came into my head as I extricated Charles Hengrave and Lord Francis from the basket of the balloon backstage: it was like herding cats. No sooner had I headed off one group from doing something they shouldn’t in one department then a new crisis would erupt elsewhere. Hardest to manage was Marchmont. He seemed determined to open every door and every cupboard. I could’ve sworn he was looking for something and I thought I could guess what it was.
We were approaching the greatest danger: the corridor containing the prompt’s office. I had to think of a diversion before he burst in upon Johnny.
‘Oh, sir,’ I cried quickly as he approached the door, ‘you can’t go in there.’
He turned to give me a bitter smile, scenting his quarry to be nearby.
‘Why not, Miss Royal? Mr Sheridan has given us the passport to roam. He said we were to go anywhere we liked.’
‘Did he?’ I replied, silently cursing my over-generous sponsor. ‘Well, I’m sure he did not intend the permission to include the ladies’ powder room.’
Marchmont flushed and removed his hand from the handle as if it had burned him.
‘There’s no sign,’ he said hotly.
I shrugged. ‘Of course not. Those who need it know what it is. If you require the privy, I could ask one of the stagehands to take you.’
I enjoyed watching Marchmont’s cheeks turn red. ‘No, no, that won’t be necessary,’ he said, striding purposefully off down the corridor.
Just as I was about to congratulate myself on my cleverness, disaster struck. Lady Elizabeth, waiting for the young gentlemen to leave, whispered aside to me, ‘I’ll call in here for a moment and catch you up.’
‘No!’ I protested, trying to stop her. But it was too late. She had opened the door and stepped inside, closing it swiftly behind her.
‘Miss Royal!’ called Lord Francis from the scenery lot at the back of the stage. ‘Miss Royal, tell us again how this balloon thing works.’
I stared at the door in agony, expecting Lady Elizabeth to rush out screaming at any moment.
‘Leave Lizzie; she’ll find us all right,’ Lord Francis continued.
Not daring to imagine what was happening inside that room, I tore myself away and joined Lord Francis, Miss Jane and Mr Charles by the deflated splendours of the balloon. I don’t know what they made of my mechanical explanation: I was so distracted that I must have talked utter rubbish.
‘What do you think, Charlie?’ wondered Lord Francis. ‘Shall we test it out on old Marzi-pain and leave him up there? It would be doing the world a favour.’
Charles Hengrave laughed. ‘Good idea. You still haven’t got you
r own back on him for snitching to your father about that coach you drove around the Square.’
‘You’re right! How had I forgotten that?’
‘Your problem, Frank, is that you’re too good-natured to bear a grudge,’ said his friend approvingly.
‘Or too absent-minded to remember anything for long,’ added Miss Jane with an indulgent smile at her cousin.
Soft footsteps behind me and Lady Elizabeth appeared at my elbow. She looked a little shocked but managed to give me a small smile.
‘Unusual powder room, Miss Royal,’ she said softly. ‘As I was unable to avail myself of its facilities, perhaps you would be so kind as to guide me to the appropriate chamber?’
‘Of course, Lady Elizabeth,’ I said, feeling a wave of gratitude towards her.
Leaving the rest of the party under Sarah Bowers’ capable eye in the Sparrow’s Nest, I led Lady Elizabeth to the privy.
When she re-emerged, she took me to one side.
‘Do you know who that is, Miss Royal? I assume you do as you were trying to prevent our paths crossing.’
I nodded.
‘So how did Lord Jonathan Fitzroy come to be here?’ she whispered.
‘So he is a lord,’ I said half to myself as her question confirmed my suspicion. Johnny’s knowledge of the Avons and their friends had given me a hint that he had moved in higher circles than the one he was currently occupying. I should have put two and two together when I heard Mrs Reid’s story about the Earl of Ranworth and his troublesome son. The rift between Johnny and his father could be explained by the predilection of the son for treasonous cartoons. And why else had Mr Sheridan despatched Mr Salter off to the other end of the country? My patron knew better than to send a fool like that to find someone. He’d been sent out of the way to stop him recognising his cousin. But Johnny’s identity as Captain Sparkler must be preserved as a secret, even from the Avons.
‘I think Mr Sheridan is helping him until a reconciliation can be arranged with his father,’ I explained. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
She shook her head, her neat ringlets whispering like silk at her neck.
‘No, I’ve given him my word. He said I could tell my brother if I wished, but no one else. He also said I could trust you.’ Her cheeks were now blushing. ‘He said that you’d pass him any messages I might care to send him and you’d bring any word from him to me.’
Clearly there was much more to the history of Lord Jonathan and Lady Elizabeth than I knew. As Johnny’s friend, I felt it my role to blow his trumpet for him.
‘Certainly. I’d like to be of assistance to you both, especially since Johnny saved my life last night.’
‘He did?’ Her eyes glowed with pride to hear of her sweetheart’s courage.
‘Yes, he saved me from certain death, armed only with a brace of unloaded pistols. I had a razor held to my neck at the time.’
Lady Elizabeth frowned and took my arm in her gloved hand. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you? Someone did this to you?’
I hadn’t meant her to set off on this track. I tried to shrug but the shock in the eyes of a girl who had only ever known the comfortable life of the affluent made me realise just how far below her I was. My life was a series of buffets and blows, hers a round of tea parties and pretty dresses. I felt ashamed of myself. But, to my surprise, Lady Elizabeth said, ‘You are the bravest girl I’ve ever met, Miss Royal. I admire your courage.’
I met her gaze and saw that she was not looking at me as the scruffy commoner, but as the heroine of my own tale. As her equal.
‘Please call me Cat,’ I said. ‘All my friends do.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, I’d like that. And call me Lizzie . . . that’s what Papa and Frank call me at home.’
Our friendship sealed, we returned to the Sparrow’s Nest to find the rest of the party decked out in a fantastical selection of robes and crowns. Lord Francis had Pedro’s turban perched drunkenly on his head and he was making Sarah howl with laughter as he tried to imitate Pedro’s spinning dance.
‘Lawd love us,’ said Sarah. ‘You’d go down a treat on the stage you would, sir.’
Lord Francis stopped twirling and gave her a wobbly bow.
‘Ma’am, may you be blessed a hundred times for your kind words. An actor’s life for me, it is!’
‘How many dukes do you know who combine their duties with clowning in front of the rabble?’ asked Marchmont as he toyed contemptuously with a patched cloak.
‘Not enough!’ cried Lord Francis, making Miss Jane and Sarah giggle.
‘I think I’d better take my brother away, Cat,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘before he does himself an injury. Thank you for your kind attention this morning.’
Her thanks were followed by the warm farewells of the rest of the party . . . excepting the Marchmonts, of course. Still, I had to remove an ostrich feather that the younger Miss Marchmont had inadvertently slipped inside her reticule, much to the chagrin of her brother. I wondered if he had put it there.
‘Well,’ said Sarah, rocking in the armchair with a pile of mending on her lap, ‘if all lords were like that Lord Francis, England would be a fine place.’
I heartily agreed with her. Unfortunately, there were too many Marzi-pain Marchmonts to make that a reality.
SCENE 4 . . . SNOWBALLS
‘So, what’s the story behind you and Lady Elizabeth?’ I asked Johnny as I sat over the slate of sums he had set me. It was mid-afternoon and the sun was pouring obliquely through the grimy windows of his office, lighting his face with a pale golden glow. What a fine couple he and Lady Elizabeth would make if fortune smiled on them. No longer needing to conceal his activities from me, he was inking in a cartoon he had done about the complicated love life of one of the princes. He looked up at me and brushed a stray strand of dark hair off his face.
‘A short story, I’m afraid, Cat. Not enough to satisfy your voracious appetite for information. We met in the autumn at her coming-out ball.’
‘Her what?’
‘Her first venture into society as an adult. They call it coming out. When you see a young lady, you must ask yourself, is she in or is she out?’
‘Sounds like cricket,’ I said glumly, remembering a tedious afternoon I had once spent with Syd’s gang when they had played against a rival team from Smithfield. Johnny laughed.
‘Not really. It’s a kind of code, meaning is she on the marriage market or is she not?’
‘And are you bidding for her?’ I teased.
‘I might’ve done . . . had circumstances been different. That was before I fell out with my father. He discovered all this.’ Johnny gestured at the cartoon lying on the table before him. ‘Didn’t take too kindly to it, staunch royalist that he is. He failed to understand how his son could be a republican at heart.’
The earl could be forgiven his confusion. How did the son of an earl end up rejecting the system that so favoured him and his kind in exchange for the new ways of France and America? I wondered. Well, the only way to find out was to ask.
‘Why are you?’
‘Why am I what?’
‘A republican.’
‘Ah.’ Johnny put his pen down and wiped the ink from his fingers with a rag. ‘It’s all thanks to Mr Shore, my old tutor. He taught me that all men are equal. Titles are nothing when you place man beside man in the wild. What is important then is character and intelligence. He told me how many so-called savage races around the world live noble lives, free of our corruption, greed and envy. It’s not the man’s title but his qualities you should look to.’
‘Or woman’s.’
‘Quite so.’ He acknowledged my correction with a slight bow. ‘That’s why I despise Billy Shepherd as much as I do the prime minister. It is nothing to do with Shepherd’s lowly station in life; it’s his cruelty and greed that brings him into contempt. And it’s why I admire Lady Elizabeth. Her rank is nothing, but her mind and her heart are everything. She’s so different from all the other young la
dies I’ve met. When you talk to her, you know she understands you, follows your thoughts through all their fancies and wanderings.’
He meant she’d put up with him rambling on about his revolutionary ideas, I thought with a smile, picturing him talking earnestly to her in some corner at her coming-out ball. But he was right: she had the air of someone intelligent and thoughtful. Not to mention her beauty. I could see how he had fallen hopelessly in love with her.
He rolled up the cartoon he had been working on and looked at me thoughtfully, tapping the end of the tube of paper on his chin. ‘Cat, are you happy to venture outside now? Do you think you are in any danger?’
‘Not now I’m prepared. Not during the day,’ I replied. I wasn’t going to let a steaming pile of dung like Billy Boil stop me getting a breath of fresh air. He wasn’t going to make me a prisoner in my own home.
‘Then would you mind running this to Mr Humphrey, the printer in Gerrard Street?’
‘Of course.’ I jumped up eagerly, not least because Johnny appeared to have forgotten that I had an unfinished slate of sums to do.
‘Good girl. I’ve used Caleb too often. What I need is a confidential messenger.’ He pressed a sixpence into my hand. ‘Keep a weather eye for danger, Catkin. Stay on the main streets.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said with a grin. I hardly needed the warning but it was nice to hear that someone cared.
‘Oh,’ he said, as if an afterthought, but I could tell he had been planning to say it all along. ‘If you bump into Mr Sheridan, deny all knowledge of this one.’
I unrolled it and took a peek at the picture.
‘I suppose he wouldn’t be too pleased to see you’ve drawn his best friend in his underwear.’
‘No, he wouldn’t.’ Johnny smiled grimly. ‘Sheridan may be my friend . . . and a good friend in times of trouble . . . but he hasn’t bought my conscience. I serve no party but the truth.’
‘And,’ I added, ‘it’s a good way of throwing people off the scent. Who would look for Captain Sparkler under Mr Sheridan’s wing when this is printed?’
‘You are a sharp one, Cat. What are we going to do with you?’