A Matter Of Delicacy

The Stake-Out

     The area around St Paul's during the day was always a mess. People from all walks of life, rich and poor, man and woman, adult and child, beggar and merchant, well-dressed or dressed in rags came past me as I waited at the corner of the Cathedral for the men that the intruder had told me about. Here you could see every section of society and read the history of Great Britain in their mannerisms. The wealthy marched past in their long coats and top hats, looking at their pocket watches and newspapers. The nobility trundled past in carriages, poking their heads out to look at the rabble with lace-edged handkerchiefs delicately covering their noses. The poor walked past easily and slowly, babies wedged onto their mother's hips and wicker baskets full of scraps of ribbon or flowers picked illegally from Hyde Park swaying on their arms. They called constantly, selling their wares or begging for food and leaving the square and surrounding streets loud and clamouring.
     I stood by the North-East corner of the cathedral dressed in a plain brown dress borrowed from a scullery maid at Montagu House. It was a little small for me, I had been forced to throw an itchy woollen shawl over my shoulders to hide the loosened drawstrings, but still, the bodice strained over my breasts and left me looking almost indecent.
      From my position here I watched all that happened around me, assessing anyone who came close to the spot where the intruder and his procurers had set to meet. I watched all the wealthy closely, looking for anyone who fit the description of the men he had spoken of; a tall blonde man and a stockier dark one. So far no one had arrived but that was my own fault, I was early and had already been here an hour.
     'A bluebell for you, Miss?' I turned to see a girl, perhaps two years younger than me, standing by me with a basket of bluebells at her hip. She smiled, her front tooth chipped and a molar darkening to black but still, she had made an effort. Her hair was pinned back neatly, and her face was clean, even if the rest of her wasn't. I dug in my pocket to find a coin and gave it to her. Thanking me, she handed me a large bluebell, bobbed a curtsey and left, singing her sale to the passers-by. Smiling, I tucked the bluebell into my hair, securing it behind one of the pins and went back to watching.
     Just as if the distraction of the bluebell seller had set the action in motion, two men in long tan coats were approaching the corner. I quickly moved behind a pillar, pulling my shawl closer to me and messing the hair around my face so I was not distinguishable from any other beggar woman around.
     They stopped a few metres away from me and huddled there, glancing around at the people and muttering in low voices to each other. The assassin's description had been right; one was tall and lanky, with a sinewy face, protruding jaw and thin blonde hair. He hunched over the shorter man, who had thick dark hair and a solid figure. Together they looked just like any other members of the wealthy except for their shifty looks over their shoulders.
     'He's late.' The taller man muttered to his companion. 'You said he had to be on time.'
     'And breaking into Montagu House takes time,' the dark-haired man replied firmly. 'I was expecting him to be a little late, and besides, we haven't been waiting for that long.'
     The taller man didn't reply, only shifted and looked around.
     'Oh calm down Paulette, everything will be fine.'
     The man simply grunted and sent a sour look across the crowd.
     The pair remained silent for so long I peeked around the stone corner to see if they had moved, darting back when the dark-haired man turned to look around him.
     Five minutes passed, and then ten. 'I don't have a good feeling about this Beresford,' the taller man said.
     'You never have a good feeling about anything, so be quiet. You'll just have to trust me on  this.'
     'I trust you, I just don't trust him.' Paulette shifted again, his big frame making every movement magnified. 'What possessed you to put your faith in him? He's just a street acrobat.'
     'Because a street acrobat is precisely the man we need, my dear friend. Lowly enough to do nearly anything for the money without asking questions. You are right, I put every inch of my faith in him.'
     'And how's that treating you? He's not here.'
     Beresford sighed, 'no, you are right in that respect. I will admit to having a few nerves but I'm sure he will be here. We have not been waiting long.'
     'We wait another ten minutes, then we go. If he was so desperate for the money he would be here.'
     'Very well. Ten more minutes if that will make you happy.'
     Frustrated, I bit my lips and peeked around again. I needed more; more about their motives, their plans, their associates. Here I had little except their names. But I could do nothing where I was, only listen and hope for the best. They had promised ten more minutes and that would take me until the top of the hour when the bells of St Paul's would sound.
     I comforted myself that a lot could happen in ten minutes.
     Just as I was leaning out to look at my targets again, another voice sounded behind me, light and surprised, 'Miss Wentworth?'
     I spun around, one fist already clenched and the other grasping at the tiny pistol tucked under the back of my bodice.
     It was Mr Willoughby.
     My face immediately flared with heat; that he should see me in this dress hiding behind the corner of St Paul's and watching two men filled me with an inexplicable embarrassment. What was he doing here? He should have been out shooting or riding with the Prince, not wandering around London on foot and accosting beggar women on the streets.
     'I thought it was you!' He beamed, delighted despite my appearance. 'What on earth are you doing here? And why are you dressed like that?"
     'Mr Willoughby,' I gaped at him, frozen. Inside my head I was cursing myself, Katherine Wentworth struck dumb by a man? My father would have hit me across the back of the head to clear the cobwebs and told me to pull myself together. Here I was, on a mission and had been blindsided by a handsome near stranger.
     Rallying myself, I cleared my throat and smiled, 'you took me by surprise, I was hoping that no one would notice me here.'
     'Well, I wouldn't have, except I saw that bluebell in your hair out of the corner of my eye and stopped to look. I bought one too.' He showed me a matching flower from the girl I had met earlier. 'Here, my gift to you. Now you have a bouquet.'
     I took the flower and twisted it with shaking fingers. 'Thank you, it's lovely.'
     He smiled and nodded once, 'Miss Wentworth, if you don't mind my asking, what are you doing here? You mentioned you didn't want to be recognised but may I be of some assistance to you?'
     'No!' I held out a hand, 'thank you, but I am quite alright.'
     He opened his mouth to speak but above me the bells of St Paul's started to ring, joined soon by the deeper tolls of Big Ben. Looking frantically over my shoulder I saw I was too late; the men had gone. I had lost my chance.
     Katherine Wentworth: distracted by a man.
     'Miss Wentworth, is everything alright?'
     Sighing, I turned back to Mr Willoughby and smiled, 'perfectly sir, please don't worry. I was meant to meet someone here and they have not come. You caught me at an odd moment.'
     I saw him look me up and down, appraising my clothes with a raised eyebrow. Meeting someone in secret and dressed like this... he must have been appalled. But, ever the gentleman, he said nothing and only held out an arm for me, 'I do apologise. But, selfish as it sounds, I am glad this allows me the honour of escorting you to wherever you are going next. If you agree of course.'
     I smiled despite myself and wrapped my hand around his elbow, 'thank you Mr Willoughby, that's very kind of you. I'm going back to Montagu House now so if you could escort me to the nearest coach station, I will make my way from there.'
     'Nonsense. I will take you myself, I was headed that direction anyway and my carriage is just around the corner. You shall ride with me.' He led the way past the, now empty, meeting spot and towards the main road leading away from the cathedral. I looked around as we walked, searching for either of the men I had seen, Paulette and Beresford. I saw neither of them and cursed myself again for being seen and distracted. I could have followed them to wherever their master was and have found the source of the danger at last but now I was returning to Montagu House with just two names, the assassins' descriptions, my own assumptions of their characters and intent, and a handsome man in tow.
     It was not my best work.