Violet and the Bow Street Runner

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Violet knew that she’d stumbled upon an adventure, but she didn’t know exactly what the adventure was or how to participate in it. Mr. Bland didn’t give her any clues. He wrote in his notebook for several minutes, returned it to its drawer, picked up his hat and gloves, and departed.

Violet followed, gliding forty feet above his head.

Mr. Bland walked for five minutes, glancing over his shoulder multiple times and pausing once to scan the street in every direction. Then, he turned into a lane behind High Holborn and let himself into a house with a latchkey. The house was tall and narrow, with dirty brickwork and lopsided shutters. Some of the windows were lit, most were not. Violet darted from window to window, trying to see inside. She caught glimpses through the crooked shutters, enough to tell her that it was a lodging house.

Candlelight bloomed in the attic window. Violet swooped upwards for a closer look.

The window stood open, allowing her to see into a cramped little room with a sloping ceiling. There was a bed, a washstand, and a wooden chair. The floorboards were scuffed and unpainted, the whitewash on the walls flaking, the ceiling water stained.

For the second time that evening, Violet watched Mr. Bland remove his hat and gloves. His tailcoat and breeches had looked plain at the ball; here in this shabby little room they were positively sumptuous.

Mr. Bland peeled out of his coat—and Violet abruptly felt uncomfortable. If she stayed any longer, she’d be a Peeping Tom.

She turned away from the window and sped towards St. James’s Square and home.

Why was a Bow Street Runner following Freddy Stanhope?

That question occupied Violet’s mind until she fell asleep and was the first thing she thought about when she woke. She pondered it while she dressed and ruminated on it while she ate a very late breakfast. Her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Sevenash, set off to visit friends in Surrey in the early afternoon. Violet stood on the marble steps with Aster and Rhodes and Rhodes’s children, three-year-old Hyacinth, five-year-old Jessamy, and seven-year-old Melrose. She waved her parents good-bye and wondered what on earth Freddy Stanhope had done to attract the attention of a Bow Street Runner. The traveling carriage clattered briskly across the square and disappeared from view. Hyacinth looked ready to cry, but Rhodes had brought a ball down from the nursery, so they trooped through the house and went out into the garden at the back to play a game with the children. Violet speculated about Bow Street Runners and earls’ sons while she caught the ball and dropped the ball and ran after the ball, and she cogitated on it further when they went indoors again. The children ran upstairs to the nursery where refreshments awaited. Violet changed from her morning dress to a carriage dress.

Her parents had gone into Surrey for a fortnight; Violet only went as far as Hyde Park with her sister, Aster, and her cousins Clematis and Daphne. Aster and Clem and Daffy discussed the latest fashion in bonnets while they took a turn around the park in the open-topped landaulet. Violet paid them no heed; she was too busy puzzling over earl’s sons and Bow Street Runners to have any interest in whether brims were getting shorter or longer. On their way back, the coachman took them to Berkeley Square, halting under the maple trees in the middle of the square so that they might partake of ices from Gunter’s Tea Shop. A waiter brought menus across to the carriage, but Violet was unable to concentrate on the delights described therein. The choice between neige de pistachio and glacé d’épine-vinette was inconsequential when one was on the edge of a mystery.

But what was the mystery?

She chose at random. The waiter scurried back across the street. Aster and Clematis and Daphne had stopped discussing fashion and were now talking about Violet’s older sister, Primrose, who lived on Berkeley Square and whom they would ordinarily visit when they stopped for ices. But Primrose was in Brighton right now, with her husband Oliver. “I wonder if they’ll go sea-bathing?” Aster said, to which Clematis replied, “Oliver will!” and Daphne said, “He’ll splash about like a walrus and make everyone wet.”

Violet stopped listening. Mr. Bland had followed Freddy Stanhope through Berkeley Square. He had walked past this very spot.

Why?

The waiter trotted across to the carriage carrying a tray of ices in pretty goblets. Aster and Clematis and Daphne accepted theirs with Oohs and Aahs of delight. Violet took the remaining goblet absently.

Had Freddy murdered someone?

No, that was impossible. Freddy Stanhope might be a mad rattle, but he wasn’t a murderer.

Had he fought a duel?

If he’d done that, everyone in the ton would be talking of it, and they weren’t, so it wasn’t a duel.

Had he stolen something?

That was as impossible to believe as murder was. Freddy might not be his father’s heir, but his horses were expensive and his clothes the height of fashion.

Although . . . he did still reside with his parents on Manchester Square, so perhaps he wasn’t as flush in the pocket as he appeared? And he did have six younger siblings. Had his allowance been reduced? Had he lost heavily at the gambling tables? Had he fallen into debt and decided to steal something to replenish his funds?

Violet tabled that as possible but extremely unlikely, and tried to think of other reasons a Bow Street Runner might follow Freddy Stanhope, but every reason she came up with was more preposterous than the last.

Was Freddy planning to abduct an heiress?

Was he selling secrets to French agents?

Was he blackmailing someone?

Violet cogitated on that latter possibility for a few moments and decided that blackmail was as unlikely as theft and murder, because Freddy was an earl’s son and earls’ sons just didn’t do things like that.

Or did they?

She scraped the bottom of her goblet, licked the spoon, and belatedly realized that the ice she’d eaten had been lemon.

Was Freddy conducting an adulterous liaison with someone? That, she could believe. In which case, who was the wife . . . and who the husband who’d hired the Runner?

Violet frowned across the square. People passed by on the flagway: gentlemen sauntering, the ladies strolling, servants hurrying about their errands.

One of the gentlemen caught her eye.

Someone nudged her elbow. “Violet,” her cousin Clematis said, in a tone that indicated she’d been saying “Violet” for quite some time.

“What?”

Clematis waved a paper bag under her nose. “Would you like one?”

“What are they?”

“Sugar drops.”

Violet looked past her cousin, trying to spot the man who’d caught her attention. Something about him was oddly familiar.

“Violet,” Clematis said.

Violet found the man. There was nothing remarkable about him at all. He wore a nondescript hat, a nondescript tailcoat, a nondescript—

She suddenly realized why he was familiar. She thrust her empty goblet at Clematis and sprang down from the carriage. “Don’t wait for me!” she cried, and pelted in pursuit of Mr. Bland.

Running in Berkeley Square wasn’t at all convenable, but Violet didn’t care. Fortunately, by the time Mr. Bland turned into Davies Street, she’d almost caught up to him.

They proceeded along Davies Street, twenty yards apart, Mr. Bland walking in that unremarkable way of his, Violet lurking behind.

Mr. Bland paused at Oxford Street. Violet surreptitiously shaded her face with the brim of her bonnet, so that he couldn’t see her features. She waited for him to cross, and then followed. As they walked, she tried to be as unremarkable as he was, which was difficult when one’s carriage dress was the height of fashion and one’s bonnet was a gay confection of ribbons and flowers.

Mr. Bland led her to Manchester Square, where the Stanhope family had their residence, but he didn’t pause to observe that edifice. In fact, he didn’t so much as glance at it. He walked briskly west and took a turn around Portman Square; then he crossed Oxford Street again and walked all the way around Grosvenor Square. Violet was quite baffled. Why would someone walk around Manchester Square and Portman Square and Grosvenor Square?

Mr. Bland turned into Charles Street, presumably heading for Berkeley Square, which he was going to walk around, too. Violet followed, still twenty paces behind, feeling hot, sweaty, confused, and frustrated. There was absolutely no logical reason for Mr. Bland to take such a route.

She turned the corner into Charles Street and discovered that Mr. Bland had vanished.

Violet looked left and right. She even looked up, as if he could fly, but Mr. Bland was nowhere to be seen.

Charles Street was very short. Halfway along it, mews opened on either side. If Mr. Bland was in the mews, he would have had to have run to reach them so fast, but there was no earthly reason for him to have run, which meant he must have entered one of the houses.

Violet walked along Charles Street, trying to determine which building Mr. Bland had entered. Did one of them belong to whoever had hired him? She reached the mews, peered around the corner—and came face to face with Mr. Bland.

“Oh,” she cried, leaping back, pressing both hands to her chest, where her heart was trying to batter its way out of her ribcage.

Mr. Bland didn’t apologize for startling her. He stared at her through narrowed eyes. “Who are you? Why are you following me?”

“Me?” Violet’s voice squeaked. She cleared her throat. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not following you.”

Mr. Bland crossed his arms. His expression was sardonic. “Manchester Square. Portman Square. Grosvenor Square.”

Violet felt her face become red. “I like to walk. For my constitution.”

Mr. Bland had the breeding not to roll his eyes at her, but his eyebrows rose a good half inch in disbelief. “In a carriage dress? Without a servant?”

Mr. Bland’s appearance might be nondescript, but his vowels weren’t. He sounded like Rhodes and Freddy Stanhope and all the other men Violet knew. Which was intriguing. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Who are you?” he countered.

“Violet Garland,” she said, omitting the Lady.

His gray eyes narrowed further. “Any relation to the Duke of Sevenash?”

“He’s my father,” Violet admitted.

Mr. Bland didn’t bow, which was what most men did when they learned she was a duke’s daughter. He looked her up and down. His frown deepened, as if she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

Violet wasn’t used to being looked up and down like that. “Who are you?” she demanded imperiously.

“My name is Wintersmith.”

“Any relation to Viscount Wintersmith?” Violet asked, mimicking his earlier question.

“Uncle,” he said shortly. “Why were you following me?”

Violet debated her answers. This was an adventure, after all. Why not take hold of it by the horns? “Because I know you’re a Bow Street Runner and I want to see what you’re doing. You’re investigating Freddy Stanhope, aren’t you? What’s he done?”

Wintersmith’s frown became thunderous. “Who told you that?”

“No one.” Violet couldn’t tell him that she’d followed him across London last night, so she said, “I saw you watching him at the Montlakes’ ball.”

That answer didn’t please Wintersmith. His mouth tightened.

“What’s Freddy done? I can help you investigate! One of his sisters is friends with one of my sisters, so I’m invited there all the time. I can search Freddy’s room or—”

“No.”

“But I want to,” Violet said enthusiastically. “Just think! I might see something or hear something—”

“No,” Wintersmith repeated. “Absolutely not.” He uncrossed his arms and took a step back, turning away from her.

Violet saw her chance of an adventure slipping through her fingers. “Oh, but please! I’ll be such an asset! No one will guess that I’m helping a Bow Street Runner!”

“No,” he said again. “And it’s Principal Officer, not Bow Street Runner.”

Violet knew that, but Bow Street Runner sounded better. Runners ran and followed and investigated and were active and daring. Principal Officers sat and wrote and were boringly officious. She ignored his remark. “If it’s murder or theft, then I’m certain Freddy didn’t do it. I can find proof for you! I can clear his name!”

“Go home, Miss Garland,” Wintersmith said forbiddingly, and then he corrected himself: “Lady Violet.” He paused and glanced at the mews, taking in their surroundings. His expression tightened, as if he suppressed a grimace, and then he said, very stiffly, “Allow me to escort you home, Lady Violet.”

“I don’t wish to be escorted home. I wish to investigate. What is it that you think Freddy’s done?”

Wintersmith folded his arms again. “Go home.”

Violet folded her arms, too, and matched him glare for glare. A whole minute passed, and then another one. Violet decided that Mr. Wintersmith wasn’t nondescript and dull, he was aggravating and annoying. And disobliging. And odious.

A carriage turned into the mews, forcing them both to step aside.

“Very well!” Violet said. “I’ll go home, but you’re missing a singular opportunity. I can go places you can’t.”

She turned and strode crossly down Charles Street, muttering about odious Principal Officers under her breath. When she reached Mount Street, she discovered that Wintersmith was following a discreet twenty paces behind, which irritated her even further.

He followed her to Berkeley Square. Violet marched all the way around the square. Wintersmith trailed after her. When she’d completed the circuit, she looked back and bestowed a dagger-like glance upon him. His expression was unimpressed. Violet was tempted to march around the square a second time, just to teach him a lesson, but she’d already done a lot of walking, so she headed briskly for Piccadilly.

Wintersmith followed her all the way home to St. James’s Square. Violet climbed the gleaming marble stairs to Sevenash House. A footman opened the huge door for her. If he thought it was odd that she had left in the landaulet with her sister and cousins but was coming home on foot alone, he didn’t show it. His expression was perfectly blank. Mr. Wintersmith’s face, when she glanced back, wasn’t blank. He wore a good riddance expression.

Violet sniffed, and stalked inside. If the footman hadn’t been there, she would have slammed the door.

She climbed the stairs to her room and threw her bonnet on the bed. What a detestable man, to follow her across Mayfair as if he didn’t trust her to know her own way home! As if he thought she might follow him if he didn’t follow her. And then it occurred to her that Wintersmith might have followed her to make certain she was safe. A duke’s daughter, alone and unattended in England’s biggest city . . .

Violet didn’t know whether to be cross with him or not—and then she remembered their conversation in the mews. Cross. Definitely cross.

“Wherever did you get to?” Aster demanded, when Violet went downstairs to the garden parlor, so named because it looked out over the garden at the back of the house. “We drove around Mayfair forever, looking for you!”

“I saw someone I knew. Where’s Rhodes?”

“You could have told us,” Aster said, sounding very put out, which was unlike her. “We were worried!”

“Sorry,” Violet said, contritely. “Do you know where Rhodes is?”

“Up in the nursery.” Aster put down the book she was reading. “Who was it?”

“Oh, just someone.” Violet left the parlor and hurried upstairs to the nursery. Childish laughter spilled out through the open door.

Rhodes was sitting on the floor with the children, surrounded by a vast expanse of toppled dominoes.

“Rhodes?” Violet said. “Do you have a minute?”

Rhodes looked up, and for a moment Violet stopped thinking about odious Bow Street Runners and thought instead that she hadn’t seen him smile like that, with pure joy, since Evelyn had died in childbirth two years ago, mother and infant both perishing during that long, dreadful night.

“Again! Again!” young Jessamy cried, clapping his hands gleefully.

Rhodes looked from Violet to Jessamy and back again.

“I’ll come back later,” Violet said.

“No, it’s all right,” Rhodes said. “We need to gather up all the tiles again.”

Melrose and Jessamy set eagerly to work, collecting up the scattered dominoes. Hyacinth stayed where she was, in Rhodes’s lap. Rhodes stayed where he was, too, on the floor. He c****d his head and looked up at Violet. “What is it?”

“You were friends with a Wintersmith at school, weren’t you?”

Rhodes lost the last of his smile. “Endymion Wintersmith, yes.”

“Is Viscount Wintersmith his uncle?”

“He was. Endymion died at Seringapatam.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I met someone today. He said he’s Wintersmith’s nephew.”

Rhodes’s brow creased. “Is it Perry? Periander?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t see who else it could be. Endymion and Alexander both died in India. What’s Perry doing here? I didn’t know he was back.”

“Back from where?”

“India. They all went into the army. Bit of a scandal at the time. Their father lost his fortune at cards and then had an accident with his gun.” Rhodes’s tone told her exactly how accidental he thought that mishap had been.

“Oh,” Violet said, inadequately.

“The viscount shoved the boys into the army, told them he didn’t want to see their faces in England again.” Rhodes, who was normally the most placid of men, looked as if he wanted to spit. “Close-fisted son of a . . . hmm.” He glanced at his children, and then back at Violet. “Are you certain it’s Perry? I would have thought I’d’ve heard if he were back in England.”

Violet was tempted to tell him that Wintersmith had been at last night’s ball, doing an imitation of a stick of furniture, but she didn’t. “It might not be him. It could be another nephew.”

“Not unless there’s a branch of the family I don’t know about.”

“Perhaps there is. Have fun with the dominoes. Thank you!”

Violet went back downstairs and into one of the parlors at the front of the house. She peered out a window. No odious Bow Street Runners loitered in the square.

She ought to have felt relieved, not disappointed.