“Something Aunt Lavinia said recently leads me to believe that she thinks Mr. March is attempting to, uh, limit the competition, as it were.”
Anthony’s brows knotted. “Bloody hell. Why would she think that?”
“In part because Mr. March refuses to introduce her to some of his connections.”
“Yes, I know, but he has what he feels is a perfectly sound reason for refusing. Some of his connections have links to the criminal class. He does not think that it would be proper to introduce Mrs. Lake to that sort, and I must admit, I can see his point of view.”
“It is not just that Mr. March will not introduce her to some of his more useful associates,” Emeline continued. “I fear that lately he has begun issuing instructions almost daily and giving unwanted advice at every turn. She finds him quite overbearing. My aunt is not accustomed to taking orders from anyone, you know.”
Anthony contemplated that for a moment. “It is clear that we are dealing with two exceptionally independent, strong-minded people. What is more, they are both quite set in their ways, are they not? I wonder what-”
A child’s voice broke into his musings. It came from behind them.
“Sir. Ma’am. Please wait. My pa wants me to give ye a message.”
“What’s this?” Anthony halted and swung around.
Emeline stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. She saw a young boy of eight or nine years, clad in rumpled clothes and a cap, waving to them from the entrance to the narrow street. Excitement swept through her.
“That is the gardener’s son,” she said to Anthony. “I met him in the course of my tour. He assists his father at the Banks mansion.”
“What can he want with us?”
“I’ll wager his papa sent him after us with some news. He probably hopes to collect the fee I promised. I knew my scheme would work.”
The boy saw that he had their attention. He hurried toward them.
The sudden loud clatter of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves rumbled behind the lad. Emeline looked past the boy and saw a black hackney rounding the corner. The two-horse team was moving at a swift trot. When the vehicle turned into the street, the coachman cracked his whip loudly over the rumps of the horses. The beasts lunged forward at full gallop.
The gardener’s son was directly in their path.
Emeline realized that the boy was in danger of being trampled beneath the hooves and wheels.
“Look out,” she shouted.
She did not know if the lad heard her warning, but in that instant he seemed to become aware of the din behind him. He stopped and turned. For an instant he seemed to be paralyzed by the sight of the onrushing carriage.
“Move, boy, move” Anthony shouted. He started forward at a run.
“Dear heaven.” Emeline seized fistfuls of her skirts and went after him.
The boy finally became aware of his dire situation. With a sudden, convulsive jerk, he made to dash for safety.
The breeze caught his cap and sent it skittering back into the path of the horses.
“Me cap.” The lad whirled and raced back out into the middle of the street, obviously determined to rescue the cap.
“No,” Emeline called. “No, don’t go back.”
But the boy paid no attention.
The carriage never slowed. Obviously the coachman did not see the lad dash back into his path. Anguished, helpless terror swept through Emeline. She could never reach him in time.
“Get into a doorway,” Anthony shouted to her over his shoulder. He was several paces ahead of her.
She flung herself toward the nearest entrance and watched, unable to breathe, as Anthony and the carriage bore down on the boy from opposite directions.
Incredibly, Anthony reached the lad seconds ahead of the flying hooves. He flung out an arm, scooped up the boy, and kept going toward the side of the street.
A moment later the carriage thundered past Emeline. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the coachman hurl an object at her. It thudded against the wall beside her and dropped to the pavement. She ignored it, too intent on reaching Anthony and the boy.
The vehicle rumbled on at breakneck speed, swaying dangerously. It rounded the corner at the end of the street and vanished.
Emeline ran toward the pair where they lay sprawled together on the stones at the foot of a short flight of steps. The boy had landed on top. His green cap lay on the ground next to Anthony’s shoulder. He stirred, raised his head, and started to lever himself to his feet. She saw that he was dazed but unhurt.
“Anthony.” She flung herself to the pavement beside him. “Anthony. For God’s sake, answer me.”
For an eternity of mindless, numbing terror, she feared the worst. The elegant knot in Anthony’s cravat had come undone, baring his throat. Ripping off one glove, she touched his skin with her fingertips, seeking a pulse.
He opened one eye and gave her a bemused grin. “I must be dead. I am obviously in the hands of an angel.”
She snatched her fingers back. “Are you injured, sir? Is anything broken?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He sat up and looked at the lad. “What about you, young man? Are you all right?”
“Aye, sir.” The lad held his cap in both hands, examining it with close attention. He looked up with a relieved grin. “Thank ye for saving me cap. My ma gave it to me for me birthday last week. She would have been right put out with me if I’d gone and ruined it.”
“It’s a very fine-looking cap.” Anthony got to his feet, absently brushing the dust from his trousers. He reached down for Emeline’s hand and hauled her lightly up from the pavement.
She turned to the boy. “Now, what was it that you wanted to tell us?”
The boy’s expression turned serious. He concentrated hard. “My pa said to tell ye that ye’ll want to speak with the valet.”
“Your master’s valet?” Anthony frowned. “He was not there today. I noticed the absence. Where is he?”
“Mrs. Rushton let him go a while back. Turned Mr. Fitch off without his wages or references, Pa said. Mr. Fitch was very, very angry.”
Emeline exchanged a glance with Anthony. “That is very interesting,” she said softly.
Anthony looked down at the boy. “Go on.”
“Pa said to tell ye that Nan, one of the chambermaids, says that she noticed Mr. Fitch acting very odd the day he got turned off. She was working in the linen closet that afternoon. Fitch never noticed her, but she saw him come out of the master’s dressing chamber with a small object all wrapped up in a neckcloth. He put it into his bags when he thought no one was looking, and left the house with it.”
“Why didn’t Nan say anything?” Anthony asked.
The boy shrugged. “We all knew Fitch had been let go with no references nor extra wages to see him through to another position. Reckon Nan figured he was entitled to help himself to a little something by way of a retirement pension.”
“Would Fitch have had access to the keys Mrs. Rushton carries?” Emeline asked. “Could he have made a duplicate?”
The lad thought about that and then shrugged. “Don’t see why not. He had plenty of chances to use a bit of wax to make a copy.”
“What do you mean by saying he had plenty of chances?” Anthony asked.
The lad looked surprised by the question. “During one of their afternoon meetings upstairs.”
Emeline frowned. “What afternoon meetings?”
The boy looked at her. “Soon after Mrs. Rushton arrived, she told Fitch that he was to make regular reports to her concernin’ the health and mental condition of the master. They used to meet two or three times a week in the afternoon in one of the upstairs bedchambers.”
Emeline felt herself turning pink. She dared not meet Anthony’s eyes. “I see.”
The boy’s brow puckered in some confusion. “I once overheard Fitch tell Pa that Mrs. Rushton was in… in… inedible.”