Regency Christmas Wishes(5)

Winded, his chest afire where the heavy boot had connected, and certain his teeth were loose from the jar to his chin, to say nothing of the blood, Adam could only blink at the contents of the lady’s reticule, spilled from the torn fabric. Ten small gold coins, just like the one in his pocket, were inches from his nose. Not nine, not eleven, but ten. He counted them, rather than count his broken ribs. Hadn’t he wished his own penny was increased tenfold? He shook his head to clear it from the absurd notion.

Which was when the maid, panicked into thinking Adam was a partner in crime to the fleeing felon because he still grasped the reticule, hit him on the back of his skull with Miss Relaford’s gift to her uncle, the carved wood bookends.





3


Well, at least he would not have to worry about paying for a room that night, not while he had free accommodations. Of course there were bars on the window, no candles left burning, and nothing but a straw pallet under Sir Adam’s aching bones, but someone had strapped together his ribs and put a sticking plaster on his chin. Now if only the prisoner in the next cell would stop the banging, he might be able to figure a way out of this latest catastrophe. The banging, unfortunately, was coming from inside his own head, so he closed his eyes again and tried to shut out the pain. His thoughts would not let him. What a disaster this whole London trip had turned out to be. He would wish the entire thing undone, except for the image of the fur-trimmed female. She was almost worth hanging for, although Adam did suppose Mr. Beasdale would vouch for him. Then again, the blasted banker might tell the authorities how desperate Adam was for money, heaping motive upon happenstance. If he was going to hang, though, he would love to get his hands on the miserable old gull-catcher who had handed him the blasted coin. He might as well swing for murder as thievery.

Adam sighed and tried to rub the pain away. Nothing could be done until morning anyway, but, Lord, how he wished the lady did not think he was a scoundrel.



“Here now, get up. You’ve taken enough space as is.” A tall man with stiff, pointed mustachios and a red waistcoat was standing in the narrow doorway, gesturing for Sir Adam to leave.

The baronet rubbed his eyes, looking at the tiny cell where he had spent the night. “You mean I am not under arrest?”

“No, we just had nowhere to put you, unconscious as you were. Found your card in your pocket, Sir Adam Standish, correct?”

Adam nodded, then thought better of the movement when his head started to pound again.

“Of Suffolk, but it didn’t say where you were staying here in London, naturally, so we brought you to Bow Street after the surgeon did his job, after seeing to Mr. Schott. The lady insisted.”

Adam sighed in relief. “So she didn’t think I was partners with the thief.”

“She swore you tried to help, and that you recovered her reticule.” The Runner peered at Adam, who was sure he was looking as disreputable as any street beggar. “That’s correct, isn’t it?”

“Yes, on my word.”

“Well, it was her maid who did you in, anyway. Harum-scarum female. Wept in my office for hours, even though the surgeon said you’d live. Old man Schott, too.”

“He wept?”

“No, he’ll live.”

“I am glad. He seemed a decent sort. But you say she cared?” Adam did not mean the maid, of course.

The Runner knew it, of course. He’d seen the lady, too. “Aye. She came herself, as soon as she made sure the old shopkeeper was settled, in case we had any doubts as to the circumstances. Gave a complete deposition, too. Cooperative, not like that maid what did nothing but caterwaul.”

“What is her name?”

“The maid? Hessie or Henny or something. Oh, you mean the lady?” he asked with a grin, smoothing the point on his waxed mustachio. Then he handed Adam a card.

Miss Jenna Relaford was inscribed on the card, with an address in Half Moon Street.

“Miss,” Adam murmured, not quite to himself. He could not keep from smiling, either. “Miss Jenna.” Just right. “Miss Relaford.” It rolled off his tongue and left a sweetness behind, and an undoubtedly foolish grin on his face, for the Bow Street man laughed.

“A rare treat, she is. Best not keep her waiting.”

“What, Miss Jenna—Miss Relaford—she is here?”

“Aye, wanted to thank you in person, she said. She brought you your satchel, she did, and the maid cleaned your other shirt. They brought you a new neckcloth, too, seeing as how yours was used to mop up the blood on your chin.” The Runner handed over the carpetbag and another parcel. “The necessary’s out back, and there’s a mirror by the rear door.”