who knows? A white gent, by the looks of her, but Felicity don't know. She was downstairs maid in a Mayfair house, but she legged it because the master kept trying to have it on with her. She said if that were going on, she might as well get some coin for it, and so she took to the streets. Gentlemen like Felicity 'cause she's fine spoken and pretty, in a foreign-looking way.'
'Exotic,' I said.
'That's the word. That's all I know about her, Captain. What's your interest?' She shot me a suspicious look.
'Do not worry, she has not replaced you in my affections. I merely wondered. Felicity is shrewder than most, and I wonder if she doesn't know more about this than she lets on. A wealthy gentleman picking up girls in Covent Garden would surely be interested in Felicity with, as you say, her fine speech and her exotic looks. So why has he not taken her up?'
'You meant the gent what Black Bess and Mary were talking about?'
'Possibly. I might be meeting this very gent today.'
'Ooh, are you going to shake a confession out of him?' Nancy asked, delighted. 'Can I watch?'
'I will try to find out all he knows, certainly. And no, you cannot come with me, because I am going to Tattersall's, which is a haven for gentlemen. No women.'
'Ah, well, I will have to console meself. As long as you tell me all about it after you pummel him.'
'I assure you, you will have the entire story.' I settled my best frock coat and took up my walking stick. 'By the bye, why is Bess called Black Bess?'
Nancy tugged at a lock of her own richly dark hair. 'Same reason I'm called Black Nancy. 'Cause of our tresses.'
'Why isn't Felicity called Black Felicity?'
'Don't know. Never thought of it. Don't sound as good, though, does it?'
'No, I admit Black Nancy has better cadence.'
Nancy grinned. 'Well, I don't know what cadence is, but I'm glad I got it. You go off and shake up the gentleman. As long as you like me best, I'll overlook your interest in Felicity.'
'You are too kind.' I snatched up my hat. 'Rest here as long as you like. You have been at it all day and night. Sleep on the bed if you like.'
Nancy laughed and twirled around, skirts swirling to reveal plump ankles. 'Thought you'd never ask, Captain. I'll take you up on that. And brag to me pals I was flat on me back in your bed.' She blew a kiss to me, and I went out the door, certain I'd regret my sudden charity.
Jackson waited for me at the carriage. He was checking over the harness but looked up when he saw me coming. 'Ready, sir? Mr. Grenville said I was to deliver you to Tatt's safe and sound.'
Jackson was a typical coachman, broad of shoulder and of hand, used to working around horses. Like other coachmen, he'd filed his incisors to points, giving him a rakish look when he smiled, which was seldom, in Jackson's case. In his red livery and black hat with its stiff brush, he looked well turned out but just a bit savage, a man more at home with beasts than men.
I knew that Jackson must be one of the best coachmen in the business, because Grenville employed only the best. I also noted that Grenville let him use his real name rather than calling him 'John Coachman' as most people did their drivers.
Jackson held the door open for me, and I thanked him. I sat back against the leather seat as the coach listed as Jackson hauled himself to his perch. I heard him give command to the horses and crack his whip, and we jolted through traffic toward Mayfair.
Tattersall's, near Hyde Park Corner, was the demesne of the Jockey Club and an auction block for the very best in horseflesh. Here, upper-class gentlemen and the aristocracy bought and sold horses, placed bets on races important and unimportant, and talked horses, sport, and hunting.
Grenville often invited me to join him at Tatts, asking my opinion when he wanted to buy or sell. As a cavalryman, I knew horses. I could quickly discern correct conformation, or whether the horse was sound or sickly, and whether he had the spirit for racing or was better suited for country hacks. Best of all, I could ride whatever horse interested Grenville, and in the saddle, I was the equal of or better than any man.
A number of gentlemen had drifted in to spend the summer afternoon discussing horses. In the enclosure, with its small rotunda in the center, I saw Lord Alvanley and a few of his cronies watching two grooms put mounts through their paces. Leland Derwent and the friend who was his shadow, Gareth Travers, stood nearby-although, since Travers was the more robust of the pair, I should more rightly say that Leland shadowed him.
Grenville, resplendent in fashionable riding garb-cutaway frock coat, immaculate buff breeches, and polished high boots-saw me, broke away from the group of gentlemen he'd been speaking with, and came to me. 'Lacey, what news?'
'None, I am afraid. Is Mr. Stacy here?'
'Not yet. I told him three o'clock-if he does not arrive, we will hunt him down. In the meantime, there's a horse I want you to look at.'
So saying, he led me along the columned walkway that surrounded the green.
Leland Derwent hailed me as we approached. 'Well met, Captain.' He shook my hand, staring at me with admiration that a year of acquaintance had not diminished. In Leland's eyes, I was a war hero. He loved my stories of the hardships of the army, the harsher, the better. A bit strange for a timid young man from one of the wealthiest families in England. I had worried Leland a bit this spring when I'd questioned him during the investigation of Berkeley Square murder, but by the eager manner with which he clasped my hand now, he'd forgiven me.
'I am so sorry about your daughter,' Leland said, anguish in his eyes. 'My father is doing all he can.'
'Thank you. Tell him that I very much appreciate his assistance.'
'He knows all the reform houses and workhouses in London. He'll look through them all.'
'Thank you,' I repeated with sincerity. They were a kind family.
'Father is using the opportunity to put another reform bill before the House of Commons. He will call it the Lacey Bill if he can.'
I winced. 'God help me. Grenville, where is this horse?'
The horse in question proved to be a bay stallion, five years old, which Grenville thought to use as a hunter. I handed Grenville my walking stick and let a groom boost me into the saddle.
I walked the horse to the rotunda, casting a glance at the bust of the Prince of Wales within it, then squeezed my lower legs against the horse's sides. The stallion picked up his pace, trotting smartly where I guided him. Well trained. His trot was so smooth I barely had to rise in the saddle with it.
I tapped the stallion with the crop and leaned into my left leg, and the horse flowed like water into a canter. I took him around at this gait, not letting him move too fast, collecting him if he extended too much.
The stallion responded well, although I was not too surprised at his sound going. Grenville always asked my opinion, but in truth, he was a fine judge of horses and could pick out the best. I suspected that he asked my opinion under the guise of giving me an opportunity to ride. Richard Tattersall liked Grenville, because any horse for which Grenville showed interest automatically jumped in price, whether he bought it or not. Everyone wanted a horse that had caught Grenville's eye.
I cantered the stallion around again, letting him pick up speed, so that Grenville could see what he'd be like at full tilt. A few gentlemen applauded. I slowed the stallion, trotted him out, then walked back to where Grenville stood waiting.
'He is a wonderful horse.' I patted the stallion's neck. 'Who wants to part with him?'
'Lord Featherstone. He doesn't ride much anymore and decided yesterday that he had no reason to keep the horses he had. So they all went on the block.' Grenville grimaced. 'I had better get my bid in before the price goes up. I always pay a mint for my horseflesh, having to outbid every gentleman who wants a horse of which I approve.'
I slid to the ground, reminded that I was no longer whole the moment my left foot touched the ground. The groom handed me my walking stick, and I leaned on it, flexing my leg. 'Another difficulty of being the most fashionable man in London,' I said.
'Yes, do not rub it in. Ah, here's Stacy, come at last.'
I looked to where a tall, thin man walked into the enclosure, his riding coat and breeches as well made as
