like the questions people asked when Miss Thornton disappeared. Or perhaps your real employer decided you should quit the house before anyone became suspicious.'
'Don't know what you're talking about. I'm a coachman. I drive coaches for gentry.'
'It must be lucrative,' I said steadily, 'but difficult, to work for Mr. Denis.'
Jemmy flushed a sudden, sharp red, and his eyes held fear and hate. 'Is that why you came, to throw lies in my face? Is that why you got your whore to chum to me?' He shoved Nance from him. 'Get out. I don't want you.'
'Aw, Jemmy-'
'Get out. I don't want to see you, understand?'
Nance's lip trembled. 'Jemmy, I didn't know.'
'Go on. And take your flat with you.'
Nance stared at him in hurt dismay. I rose and took her arm, gently getting her to her feet and leading her away. The red-faced barmaid grinned at me, and I tossed her coins for the ale. She winked and tucked the money into her bodice.
I led the dejected Nance out of the pub and into the dark streets.
'Don't mourn him, Nance. I am just as glad you're away from him. I don't like the way he put his hands on you.'
She brightened, though tears glittered on her face. 'Are you jealous?'
'Disgusted, rather.'
She stopped. 'You think I am disgusting?'
'I did not say that.'
'You do think so. That's why you always put me off.' Another tear rolled down her nose.
I took her arm and pulled her to the brick wall of a house, out of the way of traffic. 'I'll thank you not to put words in my mouth. I found your coachman disgusting. I do not find you so, and I am happy that you are away from him.'
'Oh.' She gave me a long look from under her lashes. 'I took a bath. Washed meself all over.'
'Did you?' I asked, bemused.
'Because you likes girls as bathe themselves. It wasn't fancy soap, but I smell clean. Don't I?'
She shoved her hand under my nose. I moved it away. 'Nance.'
'You don't have to give me money for it. Or for finding Jemmy, because he turned out a bad 'un.' She drew her finger down my lapel. 'I fancies ya, yer know. That's why I'm always teasing yer.'
I would never make her understand. Her world was not my world, even if the edges collided from time to time. 'We had a bargain. Two shillings when you found the coachman for me. Here.' I pressed coins into her hand. 'Take yourself home for the rest of the night.'
'And get knocked about by me dad for coming back too early? But you don't care tuppence for that.'
'I do.'
'If you did, you'd take me as your own.'
Her brown gaze measured mine. I held it, wishing I could help her-not in the way she wanted, but in a way that would keep her from harm. But a man without money in London is powerless. I looked away.
'Not tuppence,' she said. 'I don't care that for your airs. Yer no better than the rest of them. And you lost me Jemmy, too.' She squirmed from my grasp and ran off.
'Wait.'
I could take Nancy to Louisa. Louisa was no fainting flower. She could do something for her, train her, give her a character, find her employment.
Nance ignored me and kept running. I started after her. A rumbling cart, driven by a madman, swept between us. By the time it had gone, Nance was far from me, darting in and out of clumps of hurrying people. I would never catch her. With my lame leg, I was no match for a young, healthy girl.
I went home. I'd see her again. Nance's regular haunts were Covent Garden market and the streets around it; our paths would cross soon.
If I had known then under what circumstance we'd meet again, I'd have gone after her then and there, damn my leg and the London streets. But one does not expect life to be so capricious.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning I returned to Hanover Square. Number 22 looked shut up: curtains drawn, the doorstep unswept. The handsome houses to either side of it radiated disapproval. A murder, and such a murder, occurring between them was not to be borne.
I had written Grenville to ask who Horne's heir was, and had read the answer in both his letter and the newspaper. Horne's cousin, a man called Mulverton, had arrived in town to bury Horne. I wondered if he would hasten to sell the house, and if he had any knowledge of his cousin's death. I wondered if he was a poor man who would happily send Horne out of the way in order to inherit a fine house in Mayfair and any income that went with it.
I knocked at the door. No one came. The neighboring houses regarded me in icy silence. I leaned over the railings and peered down at the scullery door. In the darkness, I sensed a movement, although it might only have been a cat.
I made my way down the stairs, which were slippery with drizzle. I saw no one, but I heard a faint snick, as if a latch had been closed.
I rapped on the thick scullery door. Here, beneath the street, the odor of fish and slops hung heavily in the damp air.
The door opened a crack and the frightened eyes of the young footman, John, peered out.
He released his breath. 'Oh, it's you, sir. I thought it were the constables coming back for me.'
'Why should they?'
John opened the door, and I removed my hat and stepped into the chill kitchen.
'They might arrest me, too. Maybe Mr. Bremer told them I killed the master.'
'And did you?'
His eyes rounded. 'No!'
'I do not think Bremer did, either.'
The kitchen table was cluttered with boxes and sacks, bowls and copper spoons, all resting on the grimy flour left behind in the cook's hasty departure.
'Then why did they arrest him?' John asked, closing the door.
'Because they had no one else to arrest. Where are the rest of the servants? Why are you still here?'
He blinked at me, and I realized I'd asked him too many questions at once.
'The new owner, the master's cousin, came to take possession today. He told me to pack up all the things and have them carted off so he could sell the house. He didn't like Mr. Horne's things.'
I couldn't blame him. The dreary furniture, the bad paintings, and the Egyptian friezes would have grated on me as well.
I leaned my hip against the kitchen dresser and watched him resume activity at the table. 'When did the cousin arrive?'
'Yesterday, sir.'
'Is he here?'
'No, sir. He's been and gone.'
'Gone where? Back home? Or does he stay in town?'
John clanked copper spoons into one of the crates and tossed a platter on top. 'He never said. No, a moment, I lie. He said he was taking rooms. In St. James's.' He heaved a long sigh. 'He wants to sell the house right away. As soon as I'm finished here, I'm out a position. A good one, too.'
I folded my arms. 'What about the other maids, Grace and Hetty? Where have they gone?'
'Dunno, sir. Hetty marched out the morning after the murder was done. Went to stay with her ma, she said.
