‘And now, the final step in my transformation!’ Then, despite the freezing conditions, Lord Francis put his head under the spout, pumped the handle twice and gave himself a hurried wash. He emerged dripping but returned to his normal colour. ‘Let’s get in before I catch my death of cold,’ he panted.
We slid our way over the cobbles to the rear entrance. Lord Francis held us back just as we reached the step. ‘Now understand, most of the servants can be trusted, but watch out for the French cook and my tutor. Both would see me beaten severely for being out without permission. I have to time my excursions for when they are otherwise engaged.’
We nodded and crept in after him. To our right, in what I presumed was the kitchens, I could hear the sound of clattering pans and swearing.
‘Mon dieu! Zat sauce iz not fit for a cushion, a pig!’
There was a loud slap and the cry from an unfortunate maid.
‘Good!’ said Lord Francis in a whisper. ‘Monsieur Lavoisière is too busy with dinner to notice us.’
Barely had he said these fateful words than an apparition in a white floppy hat and apron burst from the door on our right. With well-honed reactions, Lord Francis hauled Pedro and me into a room off the corridor on the left. From the rows of copper pans gleaming on the walls, I guessed we were in the scullery. For the first time since I had met him, Lord Francis looked scared. Heavy footsteps approached. I shrank behind a large bathtub; Pedro and Lord Francis took refuge behind the door.
‘Where iz zat blancmange?’ shrieked the cook. ‘If you ’ave not finished it, Pierre, I will ’ave your guts for my garters!’
‘Here it is, sir!’ said another voice outside, speaking with the military precision of a lieutenant reporting to his commanding officer. Pierre appeared to be rather more fortunate than the maid: his dessert passed muster and, with only a few grumbles, Monsieur Lavoisière retreated into his den.
‘Quick!’ said Lord Francis. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
As quietly as we could, we ran down the corridor, mounted a flight of stone steps and pushed through a green baize door into the hall. Once on the marble paving, Lord Francis heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Safe!’ he exclaimed. ‘Let’s find Lizzie.’ He charged up the stairs shouting for his sister. The footman who had opened the door to us on our first visit intercepted him on the landing.
‘I think you will find Lady Elizabeth in the library, sir,’ he said. ‘And Mr Herbert said to tell you that he wanted to see you on your return.’
Lord Francis grimaced. ‘I’ve not come in yet, Joseph.’
‘Indeed you haven’t, sir. But when you do decide to come in, can I take it that my message will be delivered promptly?’
‘As soon as I set foot across the threshold,’ he confirmed with a conspiratorial wink.
‘Very good, sir.’
The footman clearly had a healthy loyalty to his young master.
‘Mr Herbert is your tutor?’ I asked.
Lord Francis nodded. ‘I’ve been trying to stave off going to boarding school. Mama’s on my side but I rather think my days at home are numbered. Shame, just when I was beginning really to enjoy myself !’ He looked at Pedro regretfully. His expeditions on to the streets had evidently made a deep impression. ‘But I’m determined not to go until I’ve got your friend Syd to teach me a few moves. Should put me in good stead at school. Scare off the bullies.’
‘There are bullies even in schools for your sort?’ I asked. I had thought that these were only to be found on the streets where my kind lived. Surely rich children were too refined for bullying? Didn’t they spend all day speaking to each other in Latin and dining off china plates?
‘You’d better believe it!’ said Lord Francis. ‘Schools are a breeding ground for bullies. I could tell you a few tales of my father’s old school that would make your hair curl. Not that either of you need it,’ he joked. ‘Here, Cat, what happened to you?’ He’d noticed that one of my locks was missing.
‘Nothing,’ I said quickly, feeling sick again at the reminder of my brush with Billy. I put my hand up to my forehead defensively, but that only revealed my cut arm.
Pedro had also noticed. ‘There’s something you’re not telling us, isn’t there, Cat?’ he asked astutely. ‘You’ve not been yourself today. You seem . . . you seem frightened.’
‘Is that you, Frank?’ Lady Elizabeth stepped out on to the landing, a book held in one hand, her finger marking the page. ‘I thought I heard voices.’ Her face broke into a smile when she saw us all standing there. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased! You’ve brought me some visitors. Quick! In here. Mr Herbert’s on the warpath, but he’ll never think to look for you in the library.’
‘Course not! What would I be doing in there? It’s only bluestockings like you that find this a congenial place to sit before dinner,’ said Lord Francis.
Lady Elizabeth ushered us into the most beautiful room I had ever seen. Two high windows on one wall looked out on the darkening square. Candles flickered on the many small tables set between comfortable armchairs and sofas. A large desk with silver inkpot, blotter, a fresh supply of paper and wax, waited invitingly on the far side of the hearth. How I would have loved to sit at it and write! But the most impressive things about the room were the shelves upon shelves of books, all neatly arranged and lavishly bound. One could have been set loose in here and not need to emerge for years, thanks to all the fascinating reading matter on hand. I envied Lord Francis and Lady Elizabeth this privilege above the many others they enjoyed.
‘Now, what is this about?’ asked Lady Elizabeth, inviting me to take a seat on the silk-covered sofa. I hesitated, worrying that my grubby skirt might stain it, and I sat down on a wooden stepladder instead.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Lord Francis, taking a final listen on the landing before closing the door. ‘Cat needs to talk to us. It’s about Lord Jonathan Fitzroy.’
Lady Elizabeth’s face went red.
‘Lord Jonathan Fitzroy?’ asked Pedro.