Violet and the Bow Street Runner

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Perry stood discreetly in an alcove, an untouched glass of champagne in his hand, watching first one suspect, then another. Giles Abbishaw was making his way through a quadrille with a young lady who looked to be in her first season. She was paying painstaking attention to her steps. Giles didn’t need to worry about his steps. His execution was easy, if unenthusiastic. He gave the impression of a man who would much rather be somewhere else—which was exactly the impression he’d given two nights ago, before leaving the ball early and giving Perry the slip in the vicinity of South Audley Street.

Giles Abbishaw was currently at the top of Perry’s list of suspects.

Giles’s brother, Saintbridge, was at the bottom. Lord Abbishaw didn’t suspect Saintbridge at all, but Perry was investigating the thefts and he’d placed Saintbridge on the list, because Saintbridge had had as much opportunity as Giles.

Although why would Saintbridge steal clocks from his father? Saintbridge was the heir, pampered and indulged and in possession of a handsome fortune. He had no need for money, no grudge to bear against a doting father, and—as far as Perry could determine—absolutely no interest in clocks, automatous or otherwise.

Giles apparently had no interest in clocks either, but he did have need for money. The viscount was as tightfisted towards his middle son as he was open-handed towards his oldest. A grudge was a possibility, too. Perhaps Giles resented Lord Abbishaw’s unequal treatment of his offspring?

Perry’s gaze drifted from one brother to the other. The set of their eyes and the shapes of mouth and nose were very similar, but there the resemblance ended. Giles was shorter, darker, and stockier than his brother. And the differences went deeper than height and coloring. Saintbridge looked down his nose with the arrogance of a man who would one day be a viscount; Giles didn’t. If Perry were to use one word to describe Giles Abbishaw, it would be diffident. If he were to use a second, it would be anxious. Diffident and anxious were not adjectives that anyone would use to describe Saintbridge.

Saintbridge was on the dance floor, too. His partner was an heiress. Saintbridge’s face bore a faintly disdainful expression, not because the heiress didn’t meet with his standards—although it was entirely possible that she didn’t—but because a little sneer seemed to sit permanently on his upper lip.

The disdain was why Saintbridge was at the bottom of Perry’s list. If Saintbridge was too fastidious to visit brothels or to consort with opera dancers and actresses, then it was highly unlikely that he’d steal automatous clocks with amorous scenes painted on their dials.

Unless he’d stolen them because he wished to remove such vulgarities from his father’s collection?

Perry didn’t think that was likely, but Saintbridge had a key to the cabinet, and was therefore on Perry’s list. If not Lord Abbishaw’s list.

Perry’s gaze roamed further. He located his next suspect: Devereux Abbishaw, the viscount’s nephew. Devereux stood in a knot of men near the card room, a glass dangling negligently in one hand, his head thrown back in a laugh.

Perry had spent ten years at school with Devereux—and been best friends with him for most of that time. The boy he remembered had always been up for a lark, and maybe stealing pornographic automatous clocks was a lark?

Devereux had never been given a key to the cabinet, but he’d been a visitor at Lord Abbishaw’s residence on Hanover Square. And he’d been friends with Wilton Abbishaw, the viscount’s disgraced youngest son. Had Wilton had given Devereux a key to the cabinet before he’d been bundled off to America?

It was possible—or rather, it wasn’t impossible.

It was also possible that if Perry asked, Devereux would tell him the truth. Devereux had always been full of mischief, but he’d never been a liar.

But Perry would prefer to solve this case without coming face to face with Devereux. He’d rule out all the other suspects first—starting with Giles, because men who crept away from balls and took circuitous routes through London often had mistresses, and automatous clocks that featured explicit acts of lovemaking were exactly the sort of gifts that men bestowed upon their lovers.

And if Giles proved to be innocent, he’d move on to Frederick Stanhope, because Stanhope had been a close friend of Wilton’s and might have Wilton’s key, and because he owned a pocket watch painted with an erotic scene, and what were clocks but overlarge and elaborate watches?

Perry scanned the ballroom again. His gaze skipped over matrons with nodding feathers in their headdresses and débutantes in pale gowns, footmen in livery, musicians playing their instruments—and jerked to a halt. Someone stood in the alcove across from him. A young lady.

He recognized her instantly.

Lady Violet Garland.

Perry managed not to scowl at her, although his fingers tightened on the glass of champagne. He looked away and checked that Giles hadn’t somehow vanished from the dance floor. Then he checked the whereabouts of Saintbridge, Devereux, and Frederick Stanhope. When he looked back at the alcove, it was empty.

“It’s something to do with the Abbishaws, isn’t it?” a voice hissed in his ear.

Perry couldn’t conceal a start. Champagne slopped from his glass.

Lady Violet stood alongside him, looking rather smug. She also looked, at this proximity, quite stunning. Her hair was swept up in an elaborate confection of braids and ringlets, with pearls woven through it. More pearls dangled from her earlobes. There were pearls at her throat and yet more pearls stitched onto the delicate fabric of her ball gown. Her cheeks were pink, her lips rosy, her hair black and lustrous.

She dazzled the eye.

Perry was abruptly aware that not only had his ensemble been hired from a secondhand shop, but that it was too tight at the shoulders, too loose at the waist, and rather shabby at the elbows.

“You were watching Giles Abbishaw,” Lady Violet declared. “And both Devil and Saint.”

Perry stopped being dazzled and started being annoyed. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.” Lady Violet squeezed closer to him in the alcove. The gleam in her eyes was bright and alarmingly enthusiastic. “Is it to do with Wilton? Was Jasper Flint’s death not an accident after all? Was it murder?”

“This has nothing to do with Jasper Flint.”

“Then why are you watching Saint and Devil and Giles? They were all at Abbishaw Park when it happened.”

“This is completely unrelated.”

“So you are investigating the Abbishaws!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t say that you’re not investigating them.”

“I’m not going to tell you who I’m investigating.”

Her mouth opened.

Perry rushed to forestall her. “And I do not need any assistance.”

Lady Violet closed her mouth. Her expression became faintly mutinous.

Perry looked around for somewhere to place his sticky glass and found a ledge behind him.

“Freddy wasn’t there when Jasper died, so why did you follow him yesterday?”

“This has nothing to do with Flint!” Perry said, exasperated.

“Then why have you spent the last hour watching Saint and Devil and Giles?”

“That’s none of your business,” he said curtly, and then he remembered that she was a duke’s daughter. “Thank you for your offer of assistance, Lady Violet, but I must decline it.”

“But—”

Perry gave her the briefest of bows and escaped from the alcove. He spent a few minutes discreetly strolling the perimeter of the ballroom, avoiding anyone who might possibly recognize him, although it was highly unlikely that anyone would. He’d been a scrawny little runt when he’d been packed off to India ten years ago. He was a foot taller now and fifty pounds heavier and his hair had darkened from blond to brown. His uncle had looked at him two nights ago and failed to recognize him.

There was only one person who reliably would recognize him, a fellow who’d been a classmate of Perry’s oldest brother and who’d served in India. Oliver Dasenby had been in a different regiment to Perry, but they’d known each other. Dasenby was now Duke of Westfell, and according to the newspapers he and his new wife were out of town. If Dasenby—Westfell—made an appearance at the ball, Perry would be gone like a shot, but for now the ballroom was empty of dragoons-turned-dukes, so he installed himself in another alcove. A new set was forming. Lady Violet took a place on the dance floor alongside Giles Abbishaw.

Perry watched in horror as the dance unfolded. Lady Violet said something; Giles replied. Lady Violet said something else; Giles replied to that, too. Dread curdled in Perry’s belly. He waited for Lady Violet to point at him, for Giles to stare at him, astonished and angry.

It didn’t happen.

Lady Violet danced and chatted politely with Giles Abbishaw. Then she danced and flirted extravagantly with Devereux Abbishaw. Then she danced and exchanged a few decorous comments with Saintbridge Abbishaw. None of the Abbishaws swung around to glare at Perry, or worse, abandoned the dance and strode over to demand to know why he was investigating them.

Perry’s jaw ached from clenching by the time Saintbridge Abbishaw and Lady Violet finally left the dance floor. Damn the woman. She was the most infuriating person it had ever been his misfortune to meet.

Lady Violet didn’t stand up in the next dance. After twenty minutes of keeping a wary eye out for her, Perry acknowledged that she must have left the ball early. This circumstance ought to have relieved him; perversely, it only annoyed him further.

Giles left half an hour after Lady Violet. He departed as surreptitiously as he had two nights ago, not saying his good-byes, just slipping quietly away.

Perry followed him.

Giles strolled along Brook Street, then turned north onto James Street. He picked up his pace, turning in swift succession into Chandlers, Hart, and George Streets. Perry only just managed to keep him in sight. Next, Giles hurried along Green Street, glancing furtively over his shoulder.

Perry kept to the shadows and glanced back over his own shoulder. A prickling across his scalp told him that he was being followed. The street appeared empty behind him, but his scalp never lied. That pins-and-needles sensation had saved his life more than once. Someone was following him. He knew it.

Ahead, Giles strode fast. His reflection strode fast, too, flickering across the panes of a darkened bow window. Perry’s reflection crossed those same dark windowpanes a few moments later.

Perry glanced at Giles, then at the windows on either side of the street. Some were lit behind closely-shut curtains, but most were dark and mirror-like. He saw Giles’s reflection, his own reflection, and behind him . . . That was someone, wasn’t it? A stealthy flicker of movement across the panes of a bay window, a distorted and wavering shape.

The person didn’t appear to be walking, though. In fact, it almost looked as if . . .

The person was gliding through the air.

Every hair on Perry’s body stood on end. He experienced two immediate and conflicting urges. One was to turn and attack, to leap at the person and wrestle him from the sky. The other was to flee.

Perry kept walking. The bay window fell behind him. The next two windows were lit, but the one after that was dark . . .

Yes, there was definitely someone following him. Someone dressed in black. Flying.

Perry watched that unnerving reflection slide across the windowpanes and shivered. His heart was beating hard in his chest.

Ahead, Giles Abbishaw vanished into South Audley Street, but Perry had more important things to do than follow a nobleman’s son who may or may not have stolen two automatous clocks. Someone was flying behind him.

How were they doing it? Did the person have a balloon attached to his back? Was it some fiendish new brand of thievery? Villains skulking overhead and descending to rob the unwary?

There was only one way to find out—catch the man—and to do that, Perry needed height. Not a lot of height, the man looked to be six feet or so above him. All he needed was a handy fence . . .

Perry turned left at the next corner. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder; his scalp told him that he was still being followed.

A chapel came into view, a squat building with a short bell tower and a shoulder-high iron fence topped with decorative spikes.

The fence halted to allow a flight of steps up to the door.

Perry burst into motion, taking three strides up the steps, turning and leaping for the top of the wrought iron fence.

If he’d slipped, he would have skewered himself, but he didn’t slip. His foot came down between the decorative spikes and he launched himself into the air, arms outstretched.

He collided with the villain and grabbed hold tightly.

The man gave a frightened screech. Whatever held him up broke. Together they tumbled to the ground with a bone-jarring thud.