through an octavo.
“Is Mr. Nahum Bryce within?”
The boy startled himself out of his befuddlement and told me he would return shortly.
In a few moments a plump woman of middle years—never quite pretty, but perhaps she had once been attractive in a sturdy sense—emerged from the back, a pile of manuscripts in one hand. She set them down and turned to me with a kind of polite and proper smile. She wore black—a widow’s attire, and her hair was neatly hidden under a modest, perhaps oversized, bonnet.
“May I be of some assistance?” she asked.
“I wished to speak with Mr. Nahum Bryce,” I began.
“Mr. Bryce was taken from us a little more than a year ago,” she said with an awkward half-smile. “I am Mrs. Bryce.”
I bowed at her politely. “I am sorry to hear of it, madam. I cannot claim to have known your husband, but I am saddened all the same.”
“You are very kind,” she told me.
I informed her that I desired a private word with her, so we retreated to one of the far corners of the shop, all but invisible to anyone who did not go into the nook just past the clerk’s station. “I am interested, madam, in knowing if you have been approached at any time in recent months by a Mr. Samuel Lienzo, who might have wished to publish a pamphlet.”
Mrs. Bryce furrowed her brow. “Mr. Lienzo, you say? I haven’t heard that name in some time.”
“So you know of him?” I asked eagerly.
She nodded. “Oh yes. My husband published a few things by him some time back, as I recall. But nothing in recent years, you know. Mr. Bryce found his writing a bit somber—all that Bank of England and Parliamentary measures. He preferred to keep things lighter.”
“But you have recently published works that concern Exchange Alley. What of
She laughed softly. “Yes, that’s true. But that kind of harangue against stock-jobbery, you know, always sells quite well. Mr. Lienzo, now he sought to publish
“Do you have any idea,” I inquired, “whom Mr. Lienzo might have sought for a publisher?”
“Yes.” She nodded gravely. “I know he had dealings with Christopher Hodge, who kept his shop just near here on Grub Street. But as for that unfortunate”—she began, but I did not permit her to continue, for as we had been speaking a dashing young gentleman began to descend the spiral stairway assisting a beautiful young lady. I am infrequently so struck by beauty that I allow it to interfere with my business, but this case was rather different, for the lady in question was Miriam.
I could hardly contain my emotions at seeing her twice in a single day, but I understood at once that I was not to step forward and express my delight. She had changed her clothing, and was now dressed in a charming gown of green with an ivory stomacher and a white petticoat with black spots. She wore a handsome bonnet upon her head, one that matched her gown, and she appeared like the neat and respectable London ladies she so admired. Her companion was something of a dashing spark, dressed in a velvet outer coat flaring widely at the knees, with wide gold buttons and ample gold lace. His wig, long and dark, bespoke knowledge of the finest peruke-makers, and a muslin cravat about his neck set off his sharply angled, handsome, and pale face to advantage.
Miriam was in the company of a wealthy gentleman.
I knew that we could not be seen from where we stood, so I pointed to the gentleman and interrupted Mrs. Bryce. “Gad,” I swore, though keeping my tone low. “I believe I know that gentleman. Unless I am mistaken, I attended the same college at Oxford as he. But for the life of me I cannot remember how he is called.”
“That, sir, is Mr. Philip Deloney,” Mrs. Bryce said.
I snapped my fingers. “The very name. Does he come here often?”
“Mr. Deloney is not much of a reader, I fear, but he is wont to use my shop as a discreet meeting place with his young ladies, and he will buy several volumes, chosen at random, I believe, from time to time in order to earn my silence.”
“Ah, that Deloney was always something of a rake. Does he bring many ladies here?”
“I should have thought it a great number when I was a young lady. Now that I am a widow, it doesn’t seem so very many. Perhaps for a gentleman of his stripe, he brings too few.” Mrs. Bryce let out a quiet laugh. “I think he’s very handsome,” she said in a whisper.
“Oh, I believe he would tell you that much himself, madam,” I noted as Deloney escorted Miriam from the shop. I turned to Mrs. Bryce. “Thank you for your help. But I must dash off now and renew the acquaintance.” I bowed briefly and walked to the door.
I was pleased to see that the two of them had stepped sufficiently away from the shop that I might avoid detection. Deloney kissed Miriam’s hand and uttered some words I was too distant to hear and then assisted her into a hackney. He watched as it rode off, and then headed toward Fore Street. I kept pace behind him, watching as he secured a coach for himself.
I was determined to learn more of this gentleman, so when the hackney pulled from the curb, I dashed off, putting the pressure on my stronger leg as I began my sprint, that I might reach the coach without doing too much injury to myself. The street was good and full, so it was none too difficult to overtake the coach. Making as little noise as I could, I jumped upon the back.
As I clung to the bouncing hackney, it occurred to me briefly to wonder why exactly I did what I did. Certainly I had developed a fondness for Miriam, but the fondness hardly warranted such drastic action. I could only think that the matter of my father’s death had somehow infected all the other concerns of my life—everything seemed urgent. Even so, I cannot claim that it was my inquiry that occupied my thoughts as I dashed after the fiend who had dared to kiss Miriam’s hand. All that mattered to me, in that instant, was learning who he was and what hold he had over a woman whose heart I wished for myself.
I easily held on to the coach, for in the years after my boxing injury one of my many disreputable employments had been working as a footman—or I should say, pretending to be a footman—with a wealthy family in Bath. I had planned to insinuate myself into the household, and then, come the earliest opportunity, rob it most mercilessly. But I soon learned that it is one thing to take from anonymous strangers, quite another to take the jewelry from a pleasant lady one had been escorting about town for a month. So I had settled for obtaining an intimacy with the eldest daughter and then disappearing one night, taking only a few pounds for my most immediate needs.
My familiarity with riding upon the back of a carriage left me dexterous enough to deal with the coachman when he looked backward to see me clinging there. Pressing my head against the back so I would not lose my hat, I reached with my free hand into my purse and came up with a shilling, which I showed to the driver. I then put a finger to my lips to indicate silence. He held up two fingers which indicated he wished for two shillings. I, in return, held up three, to let him know that I should be grateful for his looking the other way. With a smile that told me that he would say nothing even if put to torture, the coachman rode on.
The coach made its way toward the vicinity of the Royal Exchange, and then west on Cheapside, until I thought that our destination was prayer at St. Paul’s Cathedral. But Mr. Deloney had a much more dissolute intent, for his destination was that notorious place known as White’s Chocolate House, the most fashionable place for gaming in the city.
White’s was located in a pleasing enough structure on St. James’s Street, near the Covent Garden Market. I had never been inside, for my gaming days were long behind me; I had set them aside when I set aside my less honest methods of earning my bread. White’s had not been the place of mode in my younger days, and I had not sought it out since my return to the city.
When the hackney stopped, I jumped off and slid into the shadows as Deloney paid the coachman and went inside. I then emerged and, true to my promise, gave the man three shillings and reminded him that he had never seen me. He touched his cap and rode off.
Dusk had almost entirely given way to darkness, and I stood upon the street wondering what I should do
