Page 56 of Unending Joy
“Something did fly by us and agitate her mount,” St. John concurred.
“A catapult? Perhaps young boys up to mischief?” Rotham questioned the unlikely behaviour with a deep frown.
No one said anything, since there would be little chance of tracking anyone launching stones. Someone was causing mischief, then. But was it related to the man tracking Joy?
Lady Westwood thanked St. John for his care. He bowed, murmuring hopes for Miss Whitford’s speedy recovery, and excused himself upon business at Horse Guards. Freddy watched St. John depart yet thought again of the man Joy had mentioned.
The ladies went back upstairs to see how the patient went on.
When the door closed, Westwood exhaled. “St. John was genuinely distressed, say what you will.”
“I do not doubt his distress,” Freddy replied, unable to smother the edge in his tone. “I question its cause.”
Westwood crossed to the window. “If he serves Joy’s happiness, we cannot censure him for this misfortune.”
“If we can rule him out as the cause of it,” Rotham added. “Would that today’s mishap is an awful coincidence, and that is all there is to be said about it.”
“It seems something has occurred since Ascot for which someone is keen to have their pound of St. John’s flesh. He is unlikely to confess it or he would have done so today. If it has reached the point where they are willing to harm Joy over the matter, then he bears watching and Joy protecting,” Stuart said.
“They might not have been aiming for Joy, but she was nevertheless caught in the crossfire.”
“If he is not in debt, then what could this be about?” Rotham asked.
“I expect a report from the Runners momentarily. They would not approach if St. John were here.”
No sooner had Stuart uttered the prediction than the butler reappeared, as grave as a funeral, and announced Mr. Hamble of Bow Street. The Runner entered—a spare, sandy-haired, florid-complexioned man in plain coat and serviceable boots—carrying his hat respectfully beneath one arm and a folded sheet in the other.
“Beg pardon, my lords, gentlemen.” He inclined his head before turning to Stuart. “We have followed the person you described—the tall fellow in the shabby greatcoat—from Hyde Park to the Rookery at St. Giles. I’m afraid we lost him in the maze of courts and alleyways, nigh half an hour ago.”
Stuart motioned Hamble to continue. “Give particulars, please.”
“Aye, sir.” Hamble laid out his report: the suspect had loitered in the Park until the accident, then trudged east, hugging the mews on Oxford Street. Two men had followed. The quarry cut through a print shop—“Bold as brass, sir, straight through the rear door,”—and melted into Charing Cross. One Runner had circled, another had kept at heel. They had shadowed him as far as Dyott Street, where he slipped into the labyrinth behind the Rookery. “No constable dares venture far in there after dark without a troop,” Hamble added dryly. “We posted men at the visible exits, but the cove must know bolt-holes the size of mouse-runs. ’E vanished.”
Freddy clenched a fist.
“Did you see any badge of trade? Did they approach gaming dens or pawnshops?” Stuart asked.
“Not yet, sir. So far, we only tracked him to a nearby tavern called the Nag’s Head—kept to a corner table, drank small ale, paid from a purse with ready coin.” Hamble hesitated. “Beggin’ your pardon, but when he settled the score he used a Portuguese coin. A ducat, I think.”
“A soldier’s pay from their time on the Peninsula?” Stuart’s eyes narrowed. “Did he meet any companion?”
“No, sir—sat alone for twenty minutes, watching the door,” Hamble answered. “I questioned the tapster. Man gave the name of Silva.”
“Our bookmaker?” Carew queried of Freddy.
“Could be.”
Hamble continued. “’Tis nay much to go on, but my men will continue to hunt.”
Freddy paced to the window and stared at the flare of a lamplighter beyond the pane. “If Silva is pressing St. John for payment he cannot lay hands on, he must have hoped to speed matters by frightening Joy. That dowry would clear every note twice over.”
Westwood drew a sharp breath. “You think he meant to injure her deliberately?”
“Not necessarily,” Freddy answered, turning, “but a stone hurled to make the mare shy, a message to St. John was risk enough.” His voice roughened. “Joy paid the price for another man’s obligations.”
Westwood drummed fingers on the mantel. “We must bring St. John face to face with this and demand explanation.”
“Carefully,” Stuart warned. “Rush a desperate debtor and he may flee—or strike first.”
