Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1) Page 8

  “Hoi there! Miss Beauregard! I kept my bargain. Who is Anglethorpe’s horse dealer?” Charles appeared at the gap between the two villas, his clothing askew. He clutched at the solid railings that fenced off the back gardens and cursed.

  Agatha froze. He still wanted to know despite everything? She lurched towards the steps.

  “Where the hell?” Charles climbed over the railings to the next door house, his knees caked in mud. “Where do you think you are going?”

  Agatha froze as Charles managed to negotiate the pointed spikes of the railings and dropped heavily to the pavement. The large black door clicked shut behind her. She was trapped; the only escape route was out onto the pavement and down onto the street. Perhaps she should wait for him. One last look at his form decided her, his jaw was set, and his arms drawn forward in lethal fists. This was the man that had forced her over his knee, a violent, uncontrollable man that she was to marry, a madman even, and one she had very much underestimated.

  Tucking her pelisse under her arm, she scurried down the steps. Without looking at Charles again, she lengthened her stride and ran down the pavement.

  Great thundering steps behind her pushed her to increase her pace. Her hair whipped in her face as she stumbled forward. The pounding grew closer; there was no way that she would be able to outrun the outraged man.

  A cab for hire stopped next to her, the door opening to let out a well-dressed gentleman. As he discussed his fare with the cab driver, Agatha hitched up her skirts and pulled herself into the cab, kicking the door shut with her foot.

  “Oh I say. Don’t you know this cab is already for hire?” A lady’s skirts rustled in the shadows, glimpses of sumptuous red catching the sunlight. The lady leaned forward to reveal a beautiful face. “You’re interrupting my business meeting.”

  Business meeting? In a hansom cab? Agatha took in the décolletage of the lady. Ah. One of those business meetings. “I’m hiding from someone.”

  “You should have said.” The woman sat back into the shadows.

  Charles’ shouts at the hansom driver and his fare were as audible as if Agatha was stood outside. “Let me in, do you hear? That’s my fiancée. You are stopping me rescuing my intended wife.”

  “Hmm. Intended wife?” The lady laughed softly, the sensual purring of her voice interlacing her mocking tones.

  “Um.” Agatha stared at the other door to the carriage.

  “He’ll be waiting for that.” Indeed the sound of Charles’ voice had petered away.

  The woman laughed. “Janson will hold him off for a moment. Go through the floor.”

  Agatha stared at the rough rug that covered the expanse between the seats. What was she talking about?

  The lady sat forward again. “Far better to go down.” She pointed to the floor. Pushing at the small rug with her feet, she revealed the sharp relief outlines of a trapdoor. “That’s why I always do business in Finch’s cab. You never know quite who you might meet.”

  “I’m not sure where to go next.”

  The woman stared at her. “Don’t worry about next, worry about now.”

  It was good advice. Dropping to her knees, Agatha tucked her pelisse under her arm and hauled at the carpet. As it came up smoothly, the red dressed lady took hold of its edges and tapped Agatha on the shoulder. She smiled sweetly.

  “I do hope we meet again.”

  Agatha took in a deep breath and shook her head. Pushing her skirts between her legs, she pulled back the trapdoor with her free hand and swung her legs over the hole. She had just let go with her fingers, as the trapdoor fell above her, trapping her between the wheels of the carriage.

  “I know she’s in here.” Agatha froze as Charles’ voice emanated from inside the cab above her. “Where are you hiding her, Celine?”

  “Oh. Hello, Charles. I didn’t realize you were outside. Fancy meeting you in circumstances such as this.”

  “Goddamnit Celine, where is she?”

  “I’ve no idea. There hasn’t been anyone in this carriage apart from me and my… passenger.”

  “Client, you mean.”

  “You could call him that.”

  As Celine kept Charles busy, Agatha squeezed under the back of the cab. The horses of the carriage behind her reared as she appeared suddenly. Cursing, she started to run again.

  The streets of Mayfair were similarly deserted to Mount Street; it had only been luck that Celine’s carriage had passed. It was an unfashionable hour to be up and out. Turning left and then right down narrow cobbled lanes, Agatha clutched at her pelisse and gasped at the air.

  As the streets became more populated, she began to slow, drawing at the air with larger and larger gulps. She could not go back to the house, for Charles would be waiting for her to come back. And she could not approach Henry, for he would have no sympathy for her; the mere physical act of her being outside of the house without a maid would send him into a towering rage, never mind that Charles was chasing after her. He just didn’t seem to want to listen.

  Agatha stopped and leant against a small iron bench. Had she run far enough? If she hadn’t, she still wouldn’t escape his clutches. Breathing heavily, she pushed away from the cold surface of the bench and began to walk.

  After an hour Agatha was spent. All the emotion had drained from her in the physical exertion of just walking. She had negotiated the streets, without really being aware of where she was going. She recognized finally the tall clock tower of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament beyond.

  She walked towards the large buildings, searching for a cab to take her back to Mayfair. She wished tiredly for her sturdy boots that could carry her all day without pinching compared to the small graceful half boots that Madame Dupont had given her.

  A small crowd had gathered in Parliament Square surrounding a group of gaily decorated individuals. In front of a temporary band stand a large banner waved in the slight breeze emblazoned with the script, ‘Pablo Moreno’s Grand Travelling Museum—exhibitions nightly in Vauxhall Gardens!” As one of the men started to juggle, she remembered she had seen them before as she had travelled into London that first time with Henry. It felt like a lifetime ago. Vauxhall Gardens was only over the river from where she stood.

  Suddenly Agatha felt a tug on her pelisse. She gasped as the familiar weight of it dropped away, leaving just a pair of silken strings in her hand. Agatha clutched forwards as a woman, scissors in hand, smiled at her and thrust her hands behind her back.

  The thief was not quick enough to disguise the pelisse in her hands, the very distinctive, brocade pelisse belonging to Victoria, not to Agatha. In horror, Agatha tried to reach out and grasp at the woman again, her breath falling in short sharp pants. She must have pulled at the wrong silk loop on the hall table in Mount Street, and to make matters worse, Victoria’s pelisse was normally full of sovereigns.

  She was too late; the woman ran away from her, a brightly colored scarf around her neck trailing in the wind as she scuttled between the railings.

  Agatha was desperate. If she did not recover the pelisse, she would need to pay Victoria back the money. That would leave her with no money in the world, and the sure discovery by Henry that Agatha had left the house all by herself. She had no choice but to run after the woman. Pulling up her skirts, Agatha broke into a run, darting on and off the pavements as she followed the flying figure. Beneath her skirts, her notebook, knife, and stub of a pencil bounced repetitively against her thighs.

  The woman ran back towards the center of Parliament Square, towards the crowds. People began to stare, but no one helped her. As soon as the woman reached the group of acrobats who stood near the bandstand, Agatha knew that she would lose her.

  As the woman reached the edges of the acrobats, she began to slow. Ah. Then this was where she belonged. Darting to the right, Agatha ran up the short steps of the bandstand and stopped inside, holding her hand to her chest and straining for quiet breaths. Falling to her knees on the rough floorboards, she tucked
her skirts underneath her, uncaring of the dirt, and crawled to the other side where ornate railings covered the side of the platform.

  She was right. The woman stood, darting sharp looks over her shoulder as she loitered uncertainly. But despite being obviously comfortable in the setting, the acrobats did not welcome her into their circle, even forming a tighter ring as she approached. Backing away from the unfriendly circus act, the woman came nearer to the bandstand, her only way forward narrowing to the path past the bandstand stage.

  Falling full length to the floor, Agatha pulled herself to the ornate railings. Thank god no one was interested in the bandstand with the performers outside. As the woman picked up speed, she narrowed her eyes and then, with one rapid movement, pushed her arm through a hole in the railing and winced as the momentum of the woman’s movement propelled her soft stomach straight into Agatha’s rigid arm. Doubling over, the woman didn’t scream, the full amount of air in her lungs knocked out of her. Good. Just as Agatha had surmised. Pulling her aching arm back through the ornate railings, Agatha scurried down the steps. She would really have to devote a bit more time later to the mechanics of blunt forces on the human body. She was building up a rather large collection of experience, what with hitting Henry on the head and now this woman…

  The woman moaned, still doubled over, her clutching hands dropping the stolen pelisse to the floor. Collecting herself, Agatha pounced on the bag, swiping it from the ground.

  But she was too late. As she reached to scoop up the pelisse, a large boot came down on her fingers and held them there on top of the heavy bag, the pressure insistent. Twisting against her trapped arm, she gasped at the air.

  “What do we have here, then?” Agatha stopped flailing and trying to control her breathing, looked up from her prone position on the floor. A large bear of a man dressed in a red coat and outsize black top hat loomed above her, connected by a stout leg to the boot that pressed firmly into Agatha’s hand.

  The doubled over woman stood slightly and pulled at her scarf, whining, “This woman was stealing from me, Pablo! She wanted me earnings.”

  Pablo lifted his foot slightly, but before Agatha could lift the pelisse up, deft hands had swiped the bag away.

  Pablo lifted his foot entirely. “I don’t believe you, Nathalia,” he said flatly, helping Agatha to her feet with a large hand.

  “Here, Pa, there are twenty gold sovereigns in ’ere!” A grinning young man that Agatha had seen as part of the acrobats held up the pelisse.

  Pablo sighed. “And I don’t believe that I have ever paid you twenty gold sovereigns, Nathalia.”

  “But Pablo,” Nathalia whined, pulling at her scarf, “she punched me.”

  “Through the bandstand?”

  “I don’t know how, she just did it!”

  Pablo, Pablo Moreno, Agatha had surmised by now, grunted. “You lie, you steal and it interferes with my other activities. As if I don’t have enough problems at the moment with the circus itself without you stealing from the Quality.” He paused and stared at Agatha. “How did you stop her?”

  Agatha bit her lip. Don’t ever speak about mathematical principles in polite company unless asked, Henry had said. Was Pablo polite company? Had he asked? “Err, I measured how fast err, Nathalia was walking by the amount of steps she took per second, calculated the impact of a rigid object on a semi tensile travelling figure and err. Stuck my fist out at the softest part of her body—” She ruffled in her pocket for her pencil. It was normally easier to demonstrate on paper.

  Pablo’s mouth dropped open. “What did you say your name was again?” His hand edged forward with the pelisse.

  Agatha withdrew her hand from her pocket and reached out. “I didn’t. I’m Miss Agatha Beauregard and I’m very grateful you are returning my property to—”

  Pablo swung the bag away. “Agatha Beauregard?”

  Agatha frowned. That’s what she had said.

  A sinking feeling pulled down her shoulders as Pablo handed the bag to the young acrobat who looked remarkably like him. Pablo roared with laughter. “Manna from heaven,” he shouted. “I’m saved.”

  Nathalia and Agatha stared at him.

  With a choke, Pablo put a hand to his chest, stifling his roars. “Look at that tabard over there. Do you see what it says?”

  ‘Pablo Moreno’s Grand Travelling Museum’ was inscribed on the sign in small words, followed by ‘THE GRAND SALVATORE’. Agatha blinked.

  “Read on,” said the big man impatiently. “I paid a lot for that sign.”

  “Come and watch the greatest knife thrower of all time.” Agatha’s tongue rasped against her dry mouth as she spoke. “I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  Pablo nudged her. “There’s more.”

  “Watch as the Grand Salvatore, dressed in gold, throws knives at his able assistant Nathalia.”

  “That’s what you are going to do for me tonight if you want to get your pelisse back.”

  “Oh no no no, Mr. Moreno. You can’t! She doesn’t even know how to throw knives.” Nathalia thrust her arms out at Pablo in a beseeching gesture.

  “I most definitely can’t—”

  “It doesn’t matter that you can’t throw them.”

  Agatha frowned. That was not what she was going to say. She was going to mention that she had a prior engagement that night from which she would be missed. A musicale, in fact, that Victoria wanted her to go to.

  “All will become apparent when you perform.” Pablo stared at her, a hard look in his eyes.

  “Mister Moreno! This is my life you are endangering.” Nathalia’s pleading became a screech.

  The large man paid no attention.

  “Bertino will be fine, Mister Moreno, it’s just a cough that he has. He will be ready tonight.” Nathalia fell to her knees. Agatha nodded vigorously. She assumed Bertino was the knife thrower.

  “Pa,” the young acrobat said urgently. “Fanny has sent for the doctor. She says that Bertino has thrown up, can’t stand up and can’t even see properly.”

  With a groan, Nathalia fell to the ground in a faint.

  Agatha stared down at the ground. With the knife thrower out of action there was no escape for her.

  “Oh dear.” She gasped as darkness appeared at the edges of her vision.

  “Nathalia, Pedro? Go away.”

  Pedro nodded at Pablo and walked away slowly with unnaturally high steps. Nathalia stuttered. “I, err. Pablo please.”

  “I don’t know why I don’t get rid of you,” Pablo muttered. “Go away, Nathalia.”

  Agatha shivered. Pablo seemed to be the man to whom ‘get rid of’ had rather permanent connotations.

  He turned to her and brought his face down close to hers. “You know, the main reason why so many of the ton were coming tonight and have bought advanced tickets is to see the Grand Salvatore.” His voice sank to a low and deadly whisper. “The grand gentlemen with their obsession for shooting and danger are agog to see the precision throwing of the knife grandmaster. That man is even now lying in his wagon putting me severely out of pocket. If I have to refund the tickets, I will have to disband the circus.”

  He didn’t need to tell her his livelihood depended upon her. She was already terrified enough. “You’ll have to refund them anyway if I miss,” she quavered, but Pablo shook his head.

  “But then I had a job to do this evening that was also going to get me a lot of money.” He stared at her, perspiration beading his brow. “Perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “What is it, Ames?” Henry stretched and put down his book on Umbria. His study filled with sunshine through the large sash window that stood slightly open. He longed to go out and enjoy the warmth.

  “It’s the young lady, sir.”

  “Victoria?”

  “No, the other one. The one that you asked me to keep an eye on.”

  Henry groaned. What had she done now? “Tell me.”

  “After thre
e days of shutting herself away, she finally left the house.”

  “No one told me that she had left!”

  “She left alone, sir.”

  Henry took in a deep breath. “No maid? Please tell me she had a maid with her?”

  “No. She even neglected to check on the little experiment she has running in the understairs cupboard, sir.”

  “Good grief.” Henry flicked a glance to the book that he had confiscated. Agatha thought that no one knew about the jar of jam that she had secreted underneath the brushes and mops the maids had been using to clean the hall and which was now growing an interesting head of mold. Unfortunately she’d chosen the jar of jam that Henry ate with toast on special occasions when he was really upset. He’d been upset quite often since Agatha had come into his house.

  Ames stood in the shadows, accustomed to his master’s silences. After a while Henry gave in.

  “Where did she go?”

  “Well, she ran, my lord. Jumped into a carriage and slithered out underneath.” Ames nodded approvingly. “But then she was robbed, and caught the thief by, err, I believe not punching her.” The whites of Ames’ eyes gleamed in the sunlight as he looked at Henry sideways.

  “Good grief! Not punching her?”

  “I’m not sure you can call it a punch if the person walks into the outstretched arm sir.”

  “Good grief.” She really was rather unexpected. Gods, only at lunch the week before she’d been trying to explain to him the principles of momentum. When he had brought up again his ban on experiments she’d mentioned quite tartly that speaking about science was very different to enacting experimentiae principae.

  So he’d banned speaking about it too.

  “I assume that she is back now?”

  “She is now…”