Violet and the Bow Street Runner

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

They rolled on the flagstones, wrestling for dominance. The man Perry had captured kicked and thrashed wildly, trying to break free, but Perry was larger and stronger. He subdued his captive swiftly, pinned him to the ground face down, and revised his assessment; this was a youth, not a man. “Who are you?” he demanded, leaning heavily on the lad, crushing him flat. “Why are you following me?”

His captive struggled weakly and said something in a breathless, inaudible voice.

Perry pulled the fellow’s mask off. “Who are you?” he demanded again.

“Get off me!” his captive said, still breathless, but more audible this time.

The voice rang alarm bells in Perry’s head. It almost sounded . . . feminine?

He eased off a little more and the ruffian he’d caught said forcefully, “Get off me, you great beast!”

Perry recognized that voice. He hastily released his captive and scrambled to his feet. “Lady Violet?”

Lady Violet rolled over and sat up. Perry couldn’t see her face clearly, but he knew it was her. He’d heard her speak twice today—once in Charles Street and once at the Peckhams’ ball. Her voice was cataloged in his brain under “annoying, but beautiful.” This was exactly the sort of stunt she would pull. She’d followed him in daylight, why not follow him at night? And why not dangle beneath a balloon while she did so?

She was as fearless as she was nosy—and he could have injured her, damn it.

“Are you all right?” he asked belatedly. “Any broken bones?”

“No thanks to you,” Lady Violet said crossly. She made as if to stand.

Perry extended a hand and helped her to her feet. “Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked again, and took the opportunity to pat her back, searching for the ropes that he knew must be there.

There were no ropes.

Perry patted her back more thoroughly, from nape to waist.

Lady Violet pulled away. “Stop that.”

Perry looked up at the sky, but the balloon was gone—and so was whatever had tethered it to her body.

“That was a very dangerous thing to do,” he told her severely.

“It wasn’t dangerous until you jumped on me.”

“Not dangerous? A gently reared female, alone at night, dangling beneath a balloon, and—” He examined her more closely. “Wearing pantaloons? It’s not just dangerous, it’s harebrained!”

So many things could have gone wrong, starting with broken bones and ending with death, with a frightful detour into abduction for ransom—or worse—in the middle.

“Harebrained?” Lady Violet said, in a tone that suggested she was deeply offended.

Perry picked up his hat, jammed it on his head, and took her elbow. “Let’s get you home.”

Lady Violet jerked free of his grip. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” Perry corrected. “I’m taking you home, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you.”

Lady Violet crossed her arms tightly over her chest. He couldn’t quite make out her features, but he knew she was glaring at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Perry crossed his arms and glared back at her. “Wouldn’t I?”

The stare-down lasted almost a full minute, before Lady Violet tossed her head. “Very well,” she said haughtily. “You may escort me home.”

They kept to the alleyways and mews. Perry didn’t want anyone to see Lady Violet. She might be a duke’s daughter, but not even a duke’s daughter would survive the scandal of being caught wandering London at night while wearing pantaloons.

Despite the late hour, there was traffic on Piccadilly. They waited in an alleyway while several farm carts rumbled past, piled high with produce for the morning markets. While they waited, Perry asked Lady Violet how she’d tied the balloon to herself; she countered by asking why he was following Giles Abbishaw.

Perry didn’t answer.

After the carts came a carriage with a crest on the door. While it passed, Perry asked Lady Violet how she’d steered the balloon. Instead of telling him, she asked why he’d followed Freddy Stanhope last night.

A stagecoach hove into view next, with passengers perched on the roof and luggage strapped to the back. It lumbered past with a jingling of harnesses and clopping of hooves. Perry asked Lady Violet how she’d inflated her balloon and she asked him why he was watching Saint and Devil Abbishaw.

They were both frustrated with each other by the time they crossed Piccadilly and slipped down an alleyway into St. James’s Square. Sevenash House was in darkness, but lights were on in many of the other great houses around the square. “You have a latchkey?” Perry asked.

Lady Violet flourished something in her hand. It glinted dully. “May I have my mask back, please?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Well, I don’t have it.”

It was probably still lying in front of the chapel. “Sorry,” Perry said, but he wasn’t sorry. Without the mask, Lady Violet would be less likely to repeat such a reckless stunt.

He halted at the foot of the steps leading up to Sevenash House. He couldn’t see Lady Violet’s face clearly, but her demeanor wasn’t chastened or cowed.

Her balloon was probably halfway to the moon by now, but what if she had access to another one? What if she broke her neck?

“Lady Violet . . . you must promise not to attempt that again. I don’t think you realize how dangerous it was.”

Lady Violet huffed out a breath and crossed her arms. “It wasn’t dangerous until you—”

“What if I’d been a ruffian? Or if you’d flown too high and fallen?”

She said nothing. If silences could have a mood, this one was mutinous.

“You put me in a very difficult position,” Perry told her. “I can’t allow you to take such risks. I must speak with your father.”

“What?” she said, an alarmed note in her voice.

If he called on the Duke of Sevenash tomorrow and told him that his daughter had been flying around London . . .

The duke would rightfully think he was mad.

But if he banged on the door now, roused Sevenash from his bed, showed the man his daughter dressed in pantaloons . . .

Perry sighed and squared his shoulders and climbed the steps. He raised his hand to the knocker.

Lady Violet caught his wrist. “My father isn’t in London at the moment.”

“Your brother is, though, isn’t he? He was at the ball tonight.” Perry twisted his wrist free and reached for the knocker, even though speaking with Rhodes Garland was the last thing he wanted to do.

She caught his arm again. “I won’t fly using a balloon! You have my word of honor as a Garland.”

Perry looked at her. “That’s not the only dangerous thing you’ve done tonight.”

Lady Violet released his wrist and huffed again. “I won’t walk around London alone at night. You have my word.”

Perry debated the wisdom of believing her. Violet Garland was reckless and foolhardy, headstrong and spoiled, but as a duke’s daughter she would have been brought up to believe in honoring her word.

If Rhodes Garland made such a promise, Perry would trust him implicitly. He ought to extend that trust to Rhodes’s sister.

“Very well.” He lowered his hand and stepped away from the door, wondering if he was making an enormous mistake.

“No balloons,” Lady Violet said. “And no walking alone at night. I promise not to do either of those things.”

She sounded sincere.

Perry watched her unlock the door. “Thank you for escorting me home,” she said politely.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, equally politely.

Perry waited until he heard the latch fasten again, then headed in the direction of the Peckhams’ ball. He’d loiter outside for a while, and see if Saintbridge or Devereux Abbishaw made their departures.

But it wasn’t Lord Abbishaw’s stolen clocks that he thought about as he walked, it was Lady Violet and her balloon. Where had she obtained it? How the devil did she steer it? She must have attached herself to it with a harness. He wished the balloon hadn’t broken free when he’d caught her and that he’d been able to see both it and the harness.

Perry winced, remembering how he’d flattened her to the ground. He could have seriously injured her.

A prickling sensation grew across the back of his scalp as he made his way along Albemarle Street. Someone else was following him. A footpad, most likely. Perry glanced at the windows up ahead. He saw his reflection, but no one else’s.

Although . . .

Was that someone? Not in the lowest window, but in the one two stories above?

Perry resisted the urge to turn around and peer at the sky. He peered at the windows instead. Yes, damn it, it was someone, thirty feet above him. An elongated dark shape moved across the windowpanes like a fish swimming through water.

It couldn’t possibly be Lady Violet. She hadn’t had time to attach another balloon to herself.

Was London populated by people who flew using miniature hot air balloons? Was it all the rage among the aristocracy and he just hadn’t heard about it?

Perry scrutinized that wavering and distorted reflection. He couldn’t distinguish a harness or ropes or a balloon in the windowpanes, but there was a house up ahead with a tall flight of steps, so he trod up the steps and paused under the dark portico as if fishing for his latchkey—and turned his head and stared intently at the spot where the person must shortly appear. If he was lucky, he’d see the balloon silhouetted against the brightly lit windows of the house opposite.

No one appeared.

Was he dreaming? Was he going mad? Had he fallen and hit his head and didn’t realize it?

Perry sidled out from under the portico and peered upwards—and almost yelped in shock when a face peered back down at him.

He recognized that face.

It was Lady Violet, crouched on the portico roof.

Shock turned to anger. He strode down the steps to the street, where he folded his arms and glared up at her. So much for the word of a duke’s daughter. She had promised not to fly with a balloon.

Although . . .

Where was the balloon? He couldn’t see one.

Perry uncrossed his arms and pointed peremptorily at the flagway.

A long moment passed. He didn’t need to hear it to know that Lady Violet had huffed out a breath.

She flew down from the portico. Flew. Without a balloon.

Perry crossed his arms again. “You promised—”

“I promised not to walk alone at night, and I haven’t,” Lady Violet said, folding her own arms. “And I promised not to fly using a balloon, and I haven’t.”

Perry walked all the way around her, looking for anything that might account for her ability to fly. A harness, or ropes, or . . . wings? But there was nothing.

“How are you flying?” he demanded, when he was facing her again.

“Why are you investigating the Abbishaws and Freddy Stanhope?” Lady Violet countered.

A linkboy turned into the street, followed by two gentlemen. Perry caught Lady Violet’s arm and hurried her in the opposite direction, around the corner and into the dimly lit mouth of an alleyway. “You shouldn’t be out at night. Someone might see you.”

“No one ever sees me.”

“I saw you.”

Lady Violet pulled free from his grip and crossed her arms again. “You’re the only person who’s ever seen me, and I’ve been doing this for years.”

Years? She’d been flying around London at night for years?

“How are you flying?” Perry demanded again. “What magic is it?”

“Why are you investigating the Abbishaws and Freddy Stanhope?”

Perry scowled at her.

He couldn’t see Lady Violet’s face clearly, but he had no doubt that she scowled back.

Silence grew between them. Half a minute. A full minute. Perry gritted his teeth, then unwillingly said, “I’ll tell you why I’m investigating them if you’ll tell me how you’re flying.”

“We have an agreement.”

Lady Violet held out her gloved hand. Perry reluctantly shook it.

That done, they both crossed their arms again. “You first,” Perry said.

Something rustled in the gutter.

“Is that a rat?” Lady Violet asked.

It was almost definitely a rat, but Perry didn’t want her to scream, so he said, “No.”

“It is a rat,” Lady Violet said, and hastily retreated to the street.

Perry looked left, and saw someone with a lantern approaching. Damn, was that a watchman? “We can’t talk here.” He took her by the elbow and hurried away from that lantern. Ahead, a door opened. Lamplight spilled out onto the street. Several gentlemen emerged.

“Up in the air,” Perry said. “Quickly.”

For once, Lady Violet didn’t argue. She simply rose upwards, her elbow slipping free from his grip.

How the devil did she do that?

Perry resisted the urge to look up and see if he could spot her. He dodged around the men—it was a card party breaking up, judging from their conversation—and headed briskly in the direction of St. James’s Square, but when he reached the next corner, a voice above his head said, “Let’s go to your place.”

“My place?”

“Yes. It’s more private than Sevenash House. You wouldn’t believe how many servants we have.”

Perry might not have any servants, but his tiny attic bedroom wasn’t something he wanted anyone to see, least of all a duke’s daughter. “We can’t go to my place.”

“Why not?”

“Because it wouldn’t be at all the thing!”

“I don’t think you’ll compromise me. You seem very prudish.”

“Compromise you?” Perry said, stung by the word prudish. “I should think not!”

“Men have tried, you know. I’m very wealthy.”

“You’re the last woman I’d ever want to marry!” Perry said furiously. “You’re spoiled and headstrong and dangerous.”

“At least I’m not an officious stick-in-the-mud,” Lady Violet retorted.

Officious? Stick-in-the-mud?

Perry opened his mouth to inform her that he was neither officious nor a stick-in-the-mud—or prudish, for that matter—but Lady Violet continued: “I shall meet you at your place. I know where it is. I followed you last night.”

“You what?” He craned his neck, trying to see her.

“Followed you last night.” Lady Violet was the vaguest of shadows overhead. “I’ll wait on the roof. Don’t take too long.”