Page 44

And there was certainly a man there, his shape blurred by tears as Cauldwell coughed his way to recovery. Of course, it could not be Petteril. Petteril was back in Seven Dials, sleeping off his final dose of laudanum, unaware that his captors had gone, leaving all the doors open for his exit. In his drawers. A malicious touch that Cauldwell had rather liked. Served the smug, high and mighty bastard right.

Or he thought it had. As his vision began to clear, he saw the gentleman sitting in Cauldwell’s favourite armchair, his long, elegant legs, encased in finest black pantaloons, stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. Brushed and shaved and wearing perfect evening dress, he looked nothing like the downtrodden, bewildered prisoner of Seven Dials. The oddest thing was, Cauldwell actually felt glad to see him there. In some secret, bizarre way, he had actually been looking forward to renewing their friendship.

For an instant Cauldwell even found himself wondering wildly if he had dreamed the whole thing. Or if this was the dream.

And then he saw the lady in the other chair.

“Lady Petteril!” he gasped. But at least the sight of her forced him to pull himself together. He reminded himself that Petteril could make no possible connection between Cauldwell and his jailer. Her ladyship’s presence was unfortunate, perhaps, but she had never laid eyes on her husband’s captors. “To what can I possibly owe the honour? Petteril, old fellow, you must know it’s not the done thing to bring your lady to a single gentleman’s rooms! I have no hostess.”

“Oh, we’ll get to your possessions in time.”

“You’re a very odd fellow, Petteril. My lady, I’m afraid I have no suitable refreshment to offer you, but—”

“No small beer,” Petteril said to her in an apparent aside.

“True,” she replied, “but there is a load of laudanum in the bedchamber.”

Cauldwell’s head reeled afresh. Quite suddenly he realized that their being here was not merely strange. It was impossible. His rooms were locked and the landlord knew better than to admit anyone without Cauldwell’s express permission.

“How did you get in?” he demanded, setting down his glass with a bump.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I got out?” Petteril said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“An old cottage in Saracen Street,” Petteril said. “Lady Petteril left the ransom money right opposite it as instructed. You saw her do so.”

That was true, but how the devil did they know? They had to be guessing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’d already said that. Annoyed as he was, he sounded more confused than Petteril ever had in considerably more dangerous circumstances.

“Yes, you do,” Lady Petteril said. “I know you were there, because I saw you collect the ransom money.”

“Nonsense! You’d g—” He broke off.

Petteril smiled, damn him.

“Gone?” Lady Petteril guessed. “No, I had not. You walked off that waste ground right in front of me. I was the plump-in-the-middle boy behind you. And you were carrying the ransom money I had just left.”

Dear God, there had been someone there, a ragged, slouching nobody whom he’d ignored. Blood began to sing in his ears. He had never considered her observing him. Damn it, he’d watched her hurry down Saracen Street as far as he could see. She had been desperate to get away, and who could blame her?

It doesn’t matter, he told himself. Her word counts for nothing. And neither does his.

“My lord, you know this is nonsense. If something happened to you, why, you have my deepest sympathy, but I cannot see why you have fixed on me as some sort of culprit. I thought we were friends.”

“So did I,” Petteril said evenly.

“Then you know I would not and have not harmed you.” He spread out his hands. “Look at me, Petteril. Have you ever seen me anywhere in Seven Dials? Can you lay your hands on a Bible and swear you saw Hugo Cauldwell—”

“Yes,” said Lord Petteril. “Mr. Knott?”

Cauldwell blinked as two strangers emerged from the bedchamber which led off the sitting room. One of them bore the open money bag. The other carried Petteril’s hat, boots and pantaloons. And something that glittered in the light of the lamps.

Cauldwell fell into bluster. He knew it was undignified, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Who the devil are you? How dare you enter a gentleman’s rooms? I’ll have you charged and the book thrown at you! Being some creature of the viscount’s won’t help you, not for a moment.”

The man with the bag did not bat an eyelid. He slapped a paper down on the mantelpiece.

“Warrant,” he said succinctly. “Officer of Bow Street. Knott’s the name. His lordship has already identified these clothes as his own. Perhaps you’d like to explain how they got into your wardrobe?”

“Presumably because he put them there after he broke into my home! I don’t believe your warrant covers him.”