Lady Rogue (15 page)

Chapter  Eighteen

The mid-afternoon sun slanted down, cutting through the mists of fog, showing murky yellow through the grim haze. London appeared etheral and eerie, nearly ghost like. Autumn weather had settled over the land. The days were bleak and rainy with heavy fog which often eclipsed the sky.  Only the spires of the churches rose above the fog, like needles through a tapestry.  The two occupants of the carriage looked out their respective windows as the shrouded scenery passed by.

"Gadfries but I hate to see summer end, Gar.  It's
on days like this, with the warning they bring of winter, that I begin to think of warmer climates.  Italy.  Spain."

"If you are so inclined, why don't you go, Ollie? I'm not such a cruel taskmaster that I would not give you a few weeks to warm your bones." Turning from the window, Garrick pondered his friend's sour expression.  Perhaps he ha
d been too hard on him lately.

"Money, that's why," the other man grumbled.  "It seems to slip through my fingers like sand."  His long drawn
-out sigh sounded mournful.

"You need to manage your finances mo
re carefully, Ollie...You...."

"Please!  No lectures.  I'm privy to enough of those lately."  Peev
ishly, Oliver turned his back.

The carriage
jolted over the rutted cobblestones until it came to that part of town where the streets were beginning to be smoothly paved.  Garrick saw the rejection of cobblestones as a final break with the lingering medieval past.  It was about time.  It was progress, and he wholeheartedly approved.  In 1733 the renovation had begun. The smelly Fleet River had been covered at last.  Raised pavements for pedestrians were becoming usual and gutters were being built on either side of the roads. One by one the large shop signs, with the  familiar merchant’s symbols, were being taken down; houses and stores were being numbered.

"Now if we could only do something about the crowded streets!"  Garric
k muttered beneath his breath.

The streets were always crowded.  Every year there were more vehicles
on the roads.  The congestion was appalling.  In addition to the 750 public hackney-coaches or hackney hell carts as they were commonly called,  there were, according to rumor, as many as five thousand privately owned coaches. Add to that the butchers' wagons, brewers' drays, dung carts, sheep roaming about the parks to graze, ducks, swans and geese, it was a bothersome jumble.             

Oliver muttered a loud oath as the carriage nearly collided with a milk wagon.  He leaned his head out
the window, chastising the coachman.  "Watson, mind your eyes.  We don't want to end up in an accident.  Aunt Margaret would somehow blame me." 

"Sorry."  The balding, lean-framed driver gave his full attention to the reins, skillfully maneuvering the carriage down the crowded road.  At last they came to the exclusive area of the city
where the congestion lessoned.

"Gar, I'm sorry I was so grumpy a while back, dear fellow."  Oliver pounded Garrick on the shoulder.  "I can't thank you enough for agreeing to come
to Aunt Margaret’s with me.  The old harridan frightens the tar out of me at times and I know I am prime for a scolding this time, elsewise she wouldn't have summoned me so sharply."

At the risk of start
ing an argument Garrick said, "She is as worried about your gambling as I am, Ollie.  It's put many a man in dire straits.  You wouldn't be the first."

"Oh bother!"  Oiver was defensive.  "I've had a bit of bad luck, that's all.  A change of luck is right around the corner, you'll see.  I'll win back all the money I've los
t and have a fortune to spare."

"I doubt it!"  Garrick shook his head.  "Oh, Ollie, aren't you ever going to change?"  He'd always felt like a big brother towards Oliver
, but what could he say?  Sometimes a man had to learn certain things for himself.  He had.

"Change.  Of a certainty.  I'll change the subject."  The old familiar grin sliced across Oliver's face.  "How i
s your Miss Stephanie Creighton?  Are there wedding bells in the future?"

"No!" 

Oliver was surprised by the suddenness of the reply. "Just like that?  Without your even giving it a thought?  My, my, my!"

"There's something about Stephanie Creighton that bothers me, though her manners are impeccable." Leaning back in the leather-upholstered seat
, he tried to think of just what was wrong with the lady.  Her haughtiness perhaps, the way she looked down at those whose circumstances were less fortunate than hers.  She seemed callous in her treatment of her servants, for one thing.

"Something?"

"All right, she's a snob!"

"With all her wealth
, she has a right to be."

"That's where you are wrong, Ollie.  Those who are truly aristocratic do not flaunt their riches.  They have grown used to money.  It is the
noveau riche
, as the French call them, who are intolerably conceited."  Stephanie Creighton's fortune was recent, inherited from a father who was a shipping magnate.  Taking advantage of England's trade with India, China and other far away empires, he had acquired wealth.  She had not come out of an ancient landed family at all but ouf of a dubious eighteenth century fortune.

"Perhaps you are right, but by the look on her face whenever she has you attached to her arm
, I would say you're going to have a merry time of it unhooking that one."   Oliver turned again to the window, watching as the border of his Aunt's estates came into view.  "That's strange!  My, my, my but that one is out of his element.  I wonder who
he
could be?"

Garrick was not particularly in
terested but he asked anyway, "Who?"

"That
young man there, loitering about my aunt's property.  His sort usually roams Soho or the streets by the docks.  Do you suppose he's actually building up the nerve to ask the old harridan for employment, or has he something more sinister in mind?"

"Let me take a look."  Garrick slid to Oliver's side of the carriage.  If there was any mischief afoot
, he would soon chase the young scoundrel off. 

"Look at him, the way he keeps staring in the direction of the
house.  Bold fellow, eh what?"

"Very bold!" 

Unaware of the eyes that watched him from the street the tall figure darted out of the shadows. Wisps of fog surrounded him.  Turning his head, he afforded Garrick a clear view of his features.

"Upon my word!  It's he!" T
hat face was etched forever in Garrick's brain.

"Who
?"

"The young ruffian who stole my satchel at the docks.  The one who was in league with that black-bea
rded scoundrel we put behind bars of Newgate.  I'd remember his face anywhere."

"Are you certain?"  Oliver stared through the window in fascination.  "He looks like a thief.  Didn't I tell you?"  The carriage rumbled
on.

"
I do  believe he means to rob your aunt's house.  Well, I'll soon put a stop to that!” Garrick grabbed the handle of the carriage door, his intent obvious.

"No, Garrick!  He might be armed.  You'll g
et yourself killed."  Grasping his arm, Oliver tried to keep him inside.

"Let go, Ollie!  If you want to
help, take the carriage to Bow Street and summon Charles Townsend.  Tell him I've got the scoundrel cornered.  I'm sure he'll be enthused by the idea of earning the rest of his money."  Then he was gone, sliding from the moving carriage, to pursue the young thief whose apprehension had become an obsession to him.
             

Margaret Pembrooke's keen eyes softened as she gazed at the youngwoman who waited so eagerl
y for her in the drawing room.  She was much like a rose exposed to the frost. Margaret Pembrooke hoped most sincerely that the warmth of her kindness might revive the girl's tender  beauty.  The child had already revealed surprising aptitude, surprising the old woman with the fact that she could read, write and do her sums.  These were not skills she had learned in Rosemary Lane.  Somewhere in the girl's backround was a respectable heritage. 

"
Good afternoon, Dawn my dear."

Dawn
turned slowly towards the sound of the voice and curtsied in the manner she'd seen the greet their formidable mistress.  "Good afternoon, Ma'am."

Strange, Margaret Pembrooke thought, how she could look so lovely
in such plain attire.  If only she could convince the pretty child to live with her here.  Her presence brightened up the house.  Even Douglass was coming around, though he would not admit to actually liking the girl. 

It had been unbearably lonely since
Randolph had died.  That devastating experience coupled with her carriage accident a few years ago had nearly been her undoing.  Somehow she had managed to survive.  Now for the first time she a glimmer of hope. She would enjoy life again, seeing  all the things she'd become so accustomed to and taken for granted, through this young woman's eyes.

Oh, how I wish she would stay with me, would take advantage of all the comforts and advantages I could give her
, she thought. She’d posed the proposition, but Dawn had staunchly refused.  She had a brother, she had said, who needed her protection.

"Come in, child.  I'll have Anne fi
x us a spot of tea.  I believe Cook has baked some crumpets.  Would you like some?"

Dawn's face brightened.  "Oh, yes!"  She was coming to like the small unsweetened bread
, cooked on a griddle then split and toasted.  Today she'd pilfer a few and take them back to Robbie.  She regretted some of the things she'd said to him.  No matter how he talked she would never be ashamed of him.  He'd always be her bro’ and she loved him.

She moves so gracefully
, Margaret Pembrooke thought.  Despite the dreadful way she slaughtered the English language, she had a tone to her voice that could be very pleasant if cultivated.  Dressed in the right clothes, she would dazzle the
ton
.  Oh yes, she was like a little bud, just waiting to be nurtured so that she could come to full flower.  But unfortunately the girl had refused anything but the lessons.

"I
has me pride," she had said. 

So, a streak of stubborness ran through her.  Ah well, there was a kind heart beneath those rags as well.  Perhaps she could help the gir
l and with a little luck......

Margaret Pembrooke led the way, manuevering her wheel chair towards the settee, pleased when Dawn took hold of the handles of her conveyance.  "Here, let me help you."  She smiled proudly a
t having remembered to say her h's.

They settled themselves by the window, talking pleasantries.  If the young woman slurped her tea and dunked her crumpets, Margaret Pembrooke didn't say a word. There was time enough for teaching her manners later.  For now the girl had eno
ugh to learn just to speak the king's English correctly.

"I been practicing.  Can yer tell?  How happy the little hen will be to have
her hens back in the nest." 

"Very good!  Now I'll give you another lesson."  She stiffled a chuckle as Dawn lost her crumpet in the tea and fished for it with her f
ingers.  "We'll concentrate on ‘ing’.  Hopping and skipping the frolicking ...."  She broke off as a sudden commotion outside disturbed the quiet.  "What on earth?"

Dawn ran to the window.  "Two gents is fighting on the l
awn, they are."

"Fighting?
Upon my word!  Brawling in this neighborhood?"  Margaret Pembrooke shouted at the top of her lungs, "Douglass!  Douglass, come here this instant!"

The fog embraced the two figures bu
t Dawn still recognized her brother. Indeed, he was wearing the scarf that she had bought him last Christmas in Petticoat Lane.
              "Rob!”  Tearing through the room, she flung open the door and ran as fast as her legs would carry her.

Chapter Nineteen

Dawn came like a thunderbolt out of the fog, kicking and scratching
at Robbie's attacker.   In the scuffle her hat came off and tendrils of dark hair whipped at her face and into her eyes making it difficult for her to see.

"Leave
'im be, ye bloody bastard!" Grabbing on to the attacker from behind, she hung on for dear life, hoping to at least slow him down.

"By
God, what is this?  You little hellion!"  Where had the hell cat come from? Garrick didn't know and didn't have time to wonder.  He was more than a match for the lad, but fighting two of them complicated the matter.  He could only hope that Ollie would hurry before they both got away.

"Get yer paws off me "bro"!"  She connected a well-aimed punch to his stomach, chortling triumphantly as he doubled over with
pain.  In retaliation he lashed out at her with his fists and sent her flying.  In a sprawl of arms and legs she fell to the ground, her face pressed in the mud of a recent rain.  Even so, she came up sputtering.  "Yer scurvy.....!"

Taking advantage of the distraction
, Robbie looped his elbows thorugh Garrick's and held him immobile.  "Get 'is moneypouch, Dawnie!  Then we'll run."

"Oh no you don't!"  With
a lunge Garrick pulled the young man off his feet.  Relentlessly he advanced on him, remembering his boxing instruction as he closed in.  Balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, he swung and connected a fist with the rogue's nose.  The force of the blow knocked the lad to the ground.  Garrick's hand came away with blood.

"Rob!  Oh Rob, 'e's killed yer 'e 'as."  Dawn came on the attack again, str
uggling until she was winded. The man was certainly a strong brute, she thought.  She could feel the muscles of his body even through her coat.  Strong and mean.  Taking hold of his shoulders she screamed obscenities, and it was in that moment their eyes met.  Dear God no!  It couldn't be.  Not him!  The world was a huge place with hundreds and hundreds of people.  Why did he turn up everywhere?  Hastily she turned away, not knowing what to do.

"Dawnie.....!"  Robbie's tone was scolding. "Wot are yer doing?  Give 'im a bump on the head, grab 'is purse and let's be goin'."  Brushing himself off, holding his nose, he rose to his feet as  voice
s emerged from out of the fog.

"Over there.  Hurry!"

"Gutter rats, that's for certain."

Dawn hesitated, then she yelled out, "Run, Robbie!"  It was the runners.  Like an ominous cage their wago
n poked out through the mist.

"We'll teach t
hem to accost their betters."  Angry faces loomed up through the fog. Robbie broke into a run but being unfamiliar with the area was soon cornered.  Cursing and kicking he struggled but was soon  forcibly subdued.

"Let 'im go, yer blighters!" 
Dawn screamed as loud as she could, hoping to unnerve them and give Robbie a chance.  A heavy hand clamped down burisingly on her arm in answer, the pudgy fingers bitting into her flesh.  She felt herself being dragged along.  Only a well-aimed kick to the groin freed her.  She didn't want to leave Robbie but there was no other choice. 
Get help
, she thought, taking to her heels.  It was the only way. 
Quickly
!  But from whom?  They were in hostile territory. She looked frantically over her shoulder, but it was as she supposed.  Not one tattered inhabitant roamed this street.  Though thieves helped their own, she could not find one soul who was of her kind.

Circling around she viewed the scene of the scuffle from the safety of  a grove of trees.  They were taking Robbie away!  "Bastards!"  They chained and manacled him like the bulls and bears that were bai
ted for amusement!

"No!  No!" she whimpered, clutching to the
tree trunk for support.  They were taking her brother away.  "To Newgaite!"  That nightmare place.  Only the hope that somehow she might be able to get him out later kept her from foolishly joining him. She didn't want to leave him alone in that foul place.  "Robbie....."

Bitterly Dawn looked towards the man who had held such sway in her dreams.  His fault.  He had been lurking outside.  But how had he known Robbie would be there when she hadn't known herself?
It didn't matter--all that was important was that because of
him
her brother was a prisoner.