Noble Duty

28. The Pall Mall House

The iron-shod wheels of the coach beat a steady rhythm against the stone paving of London Bridge, a welcome relief after the clamour of the Saviour Dock wharves. Behind us, Atlantica lay safe, her hold being emptied into our secure warehouses and checked against bills of lading by clerks who moved with clockwork precision. Thomas, meanwhile, was off to set the records right.

Inside the carriage, the heavy smell of river mud finally began to dissipate, replaced by the faint scent of Gillian's lavender water. When the carriage halted for the second time upon the bridge, David opened the door and leaned out. "Dray carts are blocking the way again, sir. Shall we run out the bow chasers and clear the road, sir?"

I chuckled. "A bit aggressive, Boy. But delays are part of travelling in London. Though once we have endured the crush within the City and enter the West End, we should meet fewer delays. The paving there is better kept as well."

After more than half an hour spent threading through crowded streets, the carriage passed the busy meeting of roads at Charing Cross and swung west into the broad, well-paved avenue of Pall Mall. I watched Gillian lean towards the window on her left, her eyes searching the buildings along the broad avenue.

Then the driver called down through the roof hatch, his voice competing with the din of a passing dray. "Pardon, My Lady, but the street is choked with sedan chairs and coaches near the palace gates. At which house shall I set you down, My Lady?"

Gillian waited a moment for the clatter to fade before tilting her face up to reply without shouting, "Keep along the south side, past the gates of Lord Carleton's estate, and continue towards the palace. Ours is the first stone-fronted house beyond the row of brick, just short of Marlborough House."

As we rumbled onward, the bustle of shops and coffeehouses receded behind us, giving way to the ordered brick and stone façades of the courtiers' great houses.

Gillian turned her gaze back to the window, a quiet pride softening the exhaustion in her face as she pointed through the glass. "There, Jarvis – where the street widens near the palace guard. The four-storeyed house is ours."

I followed her finger to a magnificent, carved-stone townhouse, nodding as I said, "And it overlooks the King's Garden. A fitting household for a Baroness."

"It was my father's greatest pride in the city," Gillian said, her hand tightening on my sleeve. As the carriage halted before Cavendish House, the favourable impression broke at once.. The tall sash windows were entirely dark, their heavy velvet drapes drawn at erratic, mismatched angles. A horse stood hitched to the post, its harness sloppy, and the stone steps were littered with loose straw.

The contrast struck me at once. Of course. Gillian had spent weeks in Kingston awaiting a suitable passage home. The household would have heard of the baron's passing. And if word of the pirate attack had followed, they might believe Gillian dead as well.

I stepped out of the carriage, shaking the road dust from my coat, before turning to offer my arm to Gillian. As she stepped down, she addressed the coachman with the authority of habit. "A footman will direct you to the garden entrance and see to our baggage."

As we approached the door, Gillian tightened her grip upon my forearm, glanced at the uneven curtains and whispered, "Something is amiss, Jarvis."

"Aye, I fear you are right," I murmured, as I led her up the stone steps and gave the heavy brass knocker three sharp raps. After a prolonged wait, I was about to knock again when the massive oak door creaked open a few inches. A pale, drawn face appeared in the gap. The old man's waistcoat was unbuttoned, his cravat askew, and his eyes held the hollow look of one who had not slept in days.

"Go away," the old man rasped, his voice trembling. "There is nothing left here for creditors. The house and its contents are being inventoried by order of the Crown."

"Higgins," Gillian said, stepping out of my shadow into the bright afternoon sun. "Open the door."

The old man froze, staring into her face as though he had seen an apparition. A sharp gasp caught in his throat, and he stumbled backwards into the dim entry hall. "My Lady?" he choked out, his hands shaking as he threw the doors wide. "Praise the Lord ... but how can this be? You were lost to pirates and –"

"And escaped their grasp. Atlantica is moored at Saviour Dock this very hour, Higgins," I said firmly, stepping across the threshold with Gillian, while Camelia and young David followed.

Gillian's gaze swept over the canvas sheets and rolled carpets. Her chin lifted, and the authority of the Baroness settled over her at once. "Higgins, pull yourself together. Find Timothy and have him guide the carriage around to the garden entrance immediately. The baggage is to be offloaded through the rear, out of sight of the street. And send the maids up to clear these sheets."

"Aye, My Lady," Higgins rasped, a sudden, frantic life returning to his old limbs as he turned toward the basement stairs, his voice cracking with what sounded like the first joy he had known in a long time. "Timothy! Bess! Come at once – the Baroness has returned!"

From a doorway farther along the corridor, a sharp, nasal voice cut through the gloom. "What is the meaning of this racket, Higgins? I told you that no unauthorised person was to cross the threshold until the succession was determined and the Court of Chancery completed its inventory."

A tall, spindly man in a severe black coat stepped into the hall, a quill tucked behind one ear and a heavy leather ledger clutched to his chest. He stopped dead, blinking through small spectacles at us.

"Who are you?" he demanded, adjusting his spectacles. "This house is closed. Baron Cavendish is deceased in Jamaica, and we received word this week that his daughter and heir, the new Baroness, had perished at sea after capture by pirates. The direct succession was lost, and the estate remains under restraint pending the claim of the late baron's brother."

Gillian took a deliberate step forward, the sheer force of her presence filling the dusty hall. "I am Gillian, Baroness Cavendish," she said, each word cold and measured. "And you, sir, are trespassing in my house."

The clerk's face drained of colour. He looked from Gillian to the ledger in his hands, his mouth working soundlessly. "But ... but the Admiralty report ... the account printed in the Gazette ... all aboard were believed lost."

"The Gazette was misinformed," I said, stepping to Gillian's side. "The Baroness is very much alive. If you do not remove your inkpots, ledgers, clerks, and person from this house post-haste, I shall have you put into the Pall Mall gutter."

Gillian did not look at me. Her eyes remained fixed upon the lawyer. "You heard Sir Jarvis," she said. "Gather your papers, your clerks, and leave my house."