I folded the note and sat staring at the walls, no longer seeing the painted paper but remembering my oldest friend. Syd, the gentle giant, leader of the Butcher’s Boys, missing! I didn’t like it, and yet I also found it hard to imagine that he could have come to any harm. He was too skilled with his fists to fall prey to anyone wishing him ill. There had to be an explanation. He couldn’t read or write, so perhaps it was just that he was delayed longer than he expected and had failed to get a message home. Take into consideration that he was with Mick Bailey, his manager, then it wasn’t surprising. Bailey was a piece of work: I wouldn’t put it past him to persuade Syd into staying away if Bailey was still making money from his boxing matches. Mrs Fletcher need have no doubts about us helping her: Frank and I would do all we could to discover Syd’s whereabouts. After all he’d done for us, we’d go to the ends of the earth to help him if we had to.
An excited barking and slamming of doors announced the return of the shooting party. I stopped myself running out into the hall and sat demurely with the letter folded in my lap like a proper lady. Frank burst in, his face reddened with cold, curly brown hair hanging damp with dew on his neck. He looked full of energy, invigorated by his morning’s excursion.
‘Seven – I shot seven, Cat!’ he said, rubbing his hands with delight. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘Poor birds, that’s what I think.’ I passed him the note.
The door opened again and Pedro entered, talking to a tall, handsome man who bore a family resemblance to Frank: same blue eyes and dark hair, same lanky frame, though his shoulders were broader and his nose worthy of a Roman emperor. It wasn’t hard to imagine he might be Frank’s older brother.
Frank frowned over the letter but thrust it into his pocket as his guests arrived.
‘Ah, Will, this is the young lady I mentioned. May I present Miss Royal?’
Frank’s cousin clicked his heels together and bowed most charmingly over my hand. ‘Miss Royal, a pleasure to meet you.’
I rose and curtseyed. ‘I’m very pleased you have joined us, Mr Dixon.’
‘I hope my young cousin here has not been neglecting you?’ Mr Dixon asked, ruffling Frank’s hair affectionately. ‘He kept us out far longer than expected chasing after an elusive eighth partridge.’
Frank grinned apologetically at his cousin. ‘But Will reminded me of my duty to my other guests so it lives to see another day.’
With the newcomer among us, it didn’t seem polite to ask Frank what he thought of the letter. Mr Dixon might not appreciate a duke’s son being asked to run an errand for a butcher’s wife. Frank obviously thought this too as he passed the letter to Pedro when his cousin’s attention was engaged elsewhere. Instead we spent the time until dinner listening to Mr Dixon’s lively talk.
‘I have my own small business in Bristol,’ Mr Dixon explained modestly. Frank had mentioned a far from insignificant shipping concern with vessels all over the world. ‘It keeps me in this part of the country so I am thankful to have the delights of Bath to amuse me. I understand you like the theatre, Miss Royal?’
‘Like’ was too feeble a word for what I felt about the stage.
‘Yes, sir, it is my passion.’
Mr Dixon gave me an encouraging nod. I realized then that he knew exactly who – and what – I was, but he didn’t seem to mind. ‘So I suspected, Miss Royal.’ He flicked a curious glance at Frank and I wondered if I had misunderstood him. Perhaps he thought my background a mark against me? But then he returned his attention to me and my doubts melted away in the warmth of his expression. ‘Well, you must come to Bath. We have our own very good little theatre; you’ll hardly miss Drury Lane. And then there are the balls and the assemblies – Frank can’t keep you tucked away here at Boxton, depriving the rest of us of your company!’ He turned to Frank, tapping his arm with mock outrage. ‘Cousin, I won’t have it! You must prevail upon your mother to bring Miss Royal to the Assembly Rooms as soon as possible.’
I was flattered that Mr Dixon understood me. He seemed to realize what a torture it was to sit in the drawing room while everyone else was having fun.
‘Oh, do, please, Frank. I’d love to see Bath,’ I pleaded.
Frank looked to his cousin who nodded his approval.
‘Of course, we’ll all go,’ announced Frank. ‘See, Cat, I told you Will would cheer us up. Now, what about that riding lesson?’
Reader,
Over time we have shared enough confidences for me to feel quite safe entrusting you with the story of how I came to be published. You may remember that I had an awful experience with a certain Mr Tweadle who stole my manuscripts and sensationalised them*.
From that day on I determined that my literary career was not going to be ruined by another such scandal, and fortune later favoured me when my stories were discovered by a lady scholar, Dr Julia Golding.
Julia (she has given me permission to be on first name terms) was once a diplomat in Poland and I feel that she is a kindred spirit, as I was once an envoy to a foreign country - France - myself. You cannot imagine how delighted I was when Julia, acting on my behalf, accepted awards for my first book, THE DIAMOND OF DRURY LANE. It won both the Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize and the Nestlé Children’s Book Prize. Julia, being something of a bluestocking, has also penned her own prose: RINGMASTER, THE COMPANIONS QUARTET, THE SHIP BETWEEN THE WORLDS and DRAGONFLY.
If ever perchance I visit Oxford, she has assured me that she, her husband and children will always welcome me into their home.
* For full details of his wicked exploits see DEN OF THIEVES.