The costermonger twitched one shoulder and swallowed hard.
Hero said, “Do you think your children will grow up to be costermongers?”
He swiped a meaty hand down over his whisker-stubbled face. “Sure then, we’re already sendin’ them out to sell nuts and oranges and watercress. The streets teaches ’em what they needs to know. Why, they’re as sharp as terriers, little as they are. They ’as t’ be; they know better’n t’ come ’ome if they ain’t done well.”
Hero was careful to keep her instinctive reaction to his words from showing on her face. “How old are they?”
“The girl’s eight, and the boys is five and seven.”
“Your wife is a costermonger as well?”
“Aye. She works Fleet Street. This time o’ year she sells flowers all a-growin’. But come June she’ll switch t’ peas and beans, then cherries and strawberries in July.”
Remembering what Mattie Robinson had told her, Hero was tempted to ask if his “wife” actually was his wedded wife. Instead, she said, “Was your father a costermonger?”
“Oh, aye; and ’is father afore ’im. You’ll find most costermongers proper was born into the business. The ones I feel sorry for is the mechanics and laborers what’ve lost their jobs and try turnin’ their ’and t’ sellin’ in the streets. They think it looks easy, but it ain’t, and they almost never do well.”
“Why not?”
“Ain’t up t’ the dodges, ye see. The problem is, they go out into the streets with fear in ’ere—” He thumped one meaty fist against his chest. “They don’t know ’ow to bargain and they ain’t good salesmen. Poor buggers—beggin’ yer pardon, yer ladyship—I mean, poor fellows, they almost always end up losin’ everything.” He shook his head sadly. “For them, it’s just another way o’ starvin’.”
The donkey shifted its weight and shook its head, rattling the harness.
“I gots t’ move on, m’lady. Liz ’ere is gettin’ restless.”
“Thank you for your time,” said Hero, handing the costermonger his shillings.
The money disappeared into one of his coat’s deep, flapped pockets. “Ye really gonna write about the costers?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because no one ever has.”
But Mica McDougal simply shook his head, as if the ways of the Quality were beyond his comprehension.
Chapter 35
S ebastian arrived back at Brook Street to find Hero still out on her interview and Claire Bisette preparing Simon for an outing in the park.
“Take one of the footmen with you,” Sebastian told her, his voice sounding more curt than he’d intended.
Claire stared at him. “A footman?”
“Just . . . humor me, Claire.”
“I’ll get Edward,” she said, still vaguely frowning as she turned away, the bundled-up child wide-eyed in her arms.
Sebastian walked into the library, poured himself a drink, and sent for Jules Calhoun.
“Tom says you saw some ‘Captain Queernabs’ near the house a few days ago,” he said when the valet appeared a few minutes later. “Tell me about him.”
Calhoun blinked but did not question the request. “Odd-looking fellow, he was—and I don’t mean just the way he was dressed. It was as if the two sides of his face didn’t belong together; one eye was even a different color than the other. But it was actually his boots that made me notice him at first. His clothes were those of a common workman, but he had a pair of fine new boots that would be the envy of many a Bond Street beau.”
“When was this?”
“Monday, my lord.”
“Monday?” Neither Sebastian nor Hero had seen Diggory Flynn before Tuesday. “You’re certain?”
“Yes, my lord. I noticed him as I was returning from Hobbs. I remember because I’d been telling him how pleased we were with your new beaver hat.” A pained expression shadowed the valet’s even features. “The same hat someone put a bullet hole through that very night.”
“What was the man doing when you saw him?”
“Simply leaning against the corner. But he looked so out of place that I paused to ask if there was something he needed.”
“And?”
“He said no. Then he pushed away from the wall and walked off. Whistling.”
“If you see him again, let me know about it. But be careful with him. I think there may well be more to the man than meets the eye.”
“Yes, my lord.” Calhoun gave a neat bow and started to turn away, then paused. “Are you still interested in Captain Wyeth, my lord?”
“I am indeed. Did you have any success at the Shepherd’s Rest?”
“Far more than I should have, actually. The staff there are appallingly eager to chat about the inn’s residents.”
“What do they say about Captain Wyeth?”
“The general consensus is that he’s a likeable enough fellow most of the time, although he does have a tendency to be moody and curt when his wounds are paining him. And he has a bit of a temper, it seems.”