The Reunion Page 12

  Pierce fancied the entire getup.

  “And you will need this,” Fan added, handing over a black leather gun belt with copper studs.

  When he holstered his Oak Leaf revolver, the gun fit in perfectly. He had to admit, he looked smashing, and when he returned to the bedroom, everyone else thought so, as well.

  “I’ll be,” his dad said, drinking the laudanum-laced tea. “You look like a real gentleman, son.”

  Both his mother and Taisia’s jaws dropped at the sight of him.

  “You most certainly do,” praised Nona. “You have come a long way from being my Bunny Boy, haven’t you?”

  Pierce narrowed his eyes at her. Even as a child, he had hated that nickname.

  “Bunny Boy?” Taisia asked.

  “Oui. That’s what I used to call him, because when he was very little, he would hop around everywhere.”

  Pierce’s cheeks rose in temperature, especially when Taisia giggled.

  “Drink your tea, Mum,” he grumbled.

  After tea, Nona and Jasper were suddenly feeling bleary. Fan had Bartlomiej take them to a hidden bedroom in the attic.

  “Pierce,” Taisia said before following them up.

  When she uttered his name in her gorgeous Russian brogue, he experienced a brief relapse of how opium made him feel.

  “Aye?” he squeaked. He quickly cleared his throat and reiterated in a stronger tone, “Yes?”

  “Are you sure you want to do this? Visit this lawyer, I mean. If something were to go wrong—”

  “No worries,” he cut her off gently. “I’ve done far more dangerous things than this.”

  He tried giving her a reassuring smile without appearing like an infatuated fool. He almost kissed her on the cheek, but felt it would be too forward, so he simply shook her hand. She looked at him peculiarly.

  “Erm, goodnight, love.”

  “Goodnight,” she said, giving him a queer, lingering look before heading upstairs.

  Pierce felt like a complete idiot.

  When she was gone, Fan approached him. “You must disguise your face.”

  Because of the dangerous lifestyle she led, Fan needed to be a master of disguise in order to keep her life and freedom. She had many costumes and costume props lying about, which benefited Pierce greatly as Fan helped glue on a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache.

  “And wear these,” she said, handing him a pair of round spectacles.

  “I’ll be at the building until morning,” he explained. “Do you know where Willow Walk is?”

  “I do. I’ll write down the directions.”

  “I have a pretty good memory, but cheers.”

  Fan jotted down the directions anyway, and Pierce left.

  * * *

  Victoria could not believe what the lieutenant was telling her and Albert about what had happened at the prison.

  “What do you mean he escaped?” Albert bellowed so loudly it hurt her ears. “He was locked in a cell, guarded by your own men!”

  Her husband stood in his dressing gown his hair disheveled from sleep, his face burnt red with rage.

  By no means was Albert a violent man. In fact, he was a true humanitarian, yet when he had had enough of a problem, eradicating it all together was usually his solution.

  “I know, Your Highness,” Lieutenant Javan said. “I take full responsibility for Landcross’s escape.”

  “And you also told us he did not succeed in freeing his parents. Now you say they haven’t been found?”

  “Many prisoners were set free. There is a strong chance they ran out with the others. I swear I will not rest until they are found.”

  Albert pointed his finger at him and demanded, “I want every man at your disposal looking for this bastard. Issue a massive manhunt, get the word out: Pierce Landcross, wanted dead or alive. I’ll personally reward anyone who brings him in.”

  This isn’t right, the Queen thought. Landcross had succeeded in freeing his family despite getting himself locked in a cell. It was a silly bet, and it surprised her to no end that she had come up with it. Regardless, a silly bet was still a bet, and she would honor it.

  “Gentlemen,” Victoria said calmly. The men drew their attention to her. “I have something to confess.”

  * * *

  The church bell tolled nearby. The light of the sun could not have arrived fast enough. Pierce opened his eyes to the purple morning glow that was slowly appearing at the end of the alleyway. It hadn’t been the best night’s sleep, but at least he got some rest. His back hurt from leaning against the wall, and the wool blanket he had wrapped himself in made him itchy. He had taken a hackney carriage instead of riding a horse, and reckoned he could travel by train on his way back to Fan’s.

  The bell toll finished at six. He yawned as he stood. The morning light revealed the homeless in the alleyway with him. Some huddled together, either for dirty sex or for warmth. A couple of them were already awake.

  Pierce threw the blanket off him, showing the stylish suit underneath. The beggars gawked, wondering what on earth the likes of a man like himself was doing sleeping in an alley.

  He tossed them the blanket. “Here you are.”

  Pierce donned his top hat, straightened his jacket lapel, and headed out into the brightening streets.

  Pierce popped in at a small bakery for some breakfast and a cup of coffee. It was early, but people had already packed the place. The topic of the day was the firework show at Newgate Prison. Everyone chattered on about it, some too caught up in conversation to realize it was his or her turn at the counter. Pierce found it amusing and decided to join in.

  “I heard it was the doing of Pierce Landcross,” he spoke up to nobody in particular.

  The bakery went quiet. Pierce could almost hear the bread baking.

  “Pierce Landcross?” he repeated. “The thief?”

  Another heartbeat later and someone broke the silence. “Oi! I heard ’bout him. He recently snuck into the palace and tried stealing from the Queen herself. That bloke has balls as big as boulders.”

  A lady waiting in front of him regarded the man’s crude language with contempt.

  “It was him at the prison, eh?” asked the same patron.

  Conversations about Pierce rose quickly. It took seconds for speculations to escalate. Pierce quietly settled into his place in line and listened amusingly to the gossip.

  Once he had received his scone with raspberry filling and a cup of coffee, he waited across the street from the lawyer’s building. He hooked a finger under the cravat that hugged his neck a little too snugly. He had never fancied anything wrapped around his neck unless it was the necessary evil of a scarf to hide his scar.

  The coffee helped keep him alert, yet it also made him a bit jittery. He nearly jumped over the short brick wall behind him when a small throng of constables rode by. He remembered his well put together disguise and stayed put. To be safe, he checked his goatee and mustache to make certain they remained as they should be and watched the bobbies trot past. He raised his coffee cup to them, and a couple of the officers tipped their hats as they carried on. Shortly afterward, an elderly woman, carrying what appeared to be a small trunk, walked up to the lawyer’s building. She was unlocking the front door when a man of medium height, wearing a cheap suit and holding a leather briefcase, also strolled up. Pierce reckoned he must be the lawyer, Christopher Ainsworth. He waited until they entered before he crossed the road. The spectacles blurred his vision, forcing him to wear them halfway down the bridge of his nose. It didn’t help that the urge to piss suddenly came upon him once he reached the stairs.

  “Damn coffee,” he grumbled, remembering why he didn’t usually drink the bloody stuff.

  Before entering the building, Pierce gave himself a brief moment to remember the character he was portraying. Pierce had played many roles. A drunk, a gentleman, a soldier, an elderly man, a French cleric, and even a woman once—all of which had saved his arse. This role was also an important part to p
lay. His family’s future depended on how well he performed. He needed to stay in character and keep the background he had created for this fictitious person in check. This would have taken twice as long if his mother had tagged along.

  With a deep breath, Pierce went inside. A tiny bell above dinged when the door knocked against it. Inside was a narrow room stretching down to a single window at the end. An open doorway stood to the left, where an irregular clickety-clack of typewriter keys sounded.

  Clickety . . . clack . . . clickety . . . clack!

  Several steps in was a desk on the same side as the doorway. The elderly woman sat behind the desk, writing something with a shabby quill pen. Upon the counter was a black and grey cat licking itself. Pierce reckoned the animal had been in the trunk the old biddy had carried inside with her. She didn’t seem to hear the bell. To grab her attention, he walked right up and tapped the other bell on the desk. Her head rose jaggedly like a broken clock spring from the paper she was writing on. When she saw him, her pale eyes squinted through her large spectacles.

  “Yes, young sir? Can I help you?”

  Her outdated gown smelled moldy.

  “I’m here to see Christopher Ainsworth, s’il vous plait,” he announced in a French accent.

  The cat meowed at him and purred when Pierce scratched it on top of its head. That amused the secretary.

  “Smoky likes you,” she cooed. “He doesn’t usually take kindly to strangers.”

  The clickety-clack stopped.

  “Maggie,” called a voice from the room down the way. “Who’s out there?”

  “There is a gentleman here to see you.”

  “Does he have an appointment?”

  She turned to him. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

  “No. But . . .”

  “Yes,” she hollered.

  “Send him in, then,” the voice granted.

  “Go on in, dearie,” the secretary said sweetly.

  “Merci.”

  The feline followed as he left down the corridor.

  His nose was tickled the moment he entered the lawyer’s dust-covered office. Sheets of dust had settled everywhere, even in the air, where it floated motionlessly in the light coming in from the side window. The entire room was a disorganized mess. Paper piles sat on a table to the right-hand side, and a wrought-iron birdcage with no bird in it, hung in the rear corner. A bookshelf was embedded in the entire back wall, which housed books, more papers, a few vases, and some ornaments. Seated at a writing desk was the same man Pierce had spotted outside.

  He was an average-looking gent, husky, with a fat nose and thick, bushy eyebrows and muttonchops. He had russet hair in need of a comb and wore half-moon-shaped reading glasses. He was busy typing away on a small typewriter with the words Oak Leaf printed on the back of the machine, with the oak leaf insignia beneath, identical to the logo on Pierce’s pistol.

  Huh, he thought. I wonder what else the company makes.

  “Damn this contraption,” the lawyer cursed under his breath, punching in each key using the same two fingers. Given the man’s girth, he looked like an ape trying to master the art of finger painting. “Why did I let someone use this wretched thing as collateral?”

  That contraption is worth a lot, wanker. Pierce thought amusingly.

  By the state of the place, Pierce assumed this lawyer was only scraping by. Perhaps he worked pro bono, or very cheaply for those less fortunate, putting fair representation before revenue.

  “What is it, sir?” the lawyer growled. “I’m due in court in a half hour, and I have yet to prepare for the case.”

  Nope. He was simply a lousy lawyer.

  Pierce took off his hat and approached the desk.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Ainsworth. I am Gabriel Fey. I have come on the behalf of my mother, Nona Fey.”

  Christopher’s ears perked up at the name. He raised his sights so he could study his visitor. The chair creaked when he leaned back into it.

  “Ah, yes. I was hired by her brother . . .” He trailed off as if wanting Pierce to answer.

  “François Joubert,” Pierce filled in.

  The lawyer nodded. “Indeed. He entrusted me with his will. I take it Mr. Joubert has died?”

  Pierce nodded sincerely as if he really knew. “We received word that he has.”

  Smoky appeared at Pierce’s feet and rubbed himself against his legs, purring. Pierce was thankful for the mild distraction from his overfilled bladder. It now felt as if it was about to burst. When the man said nothing, Pierce tried to make light conversation to soften his mood.

  “Are you Dutch?” he asked, noting the man’s accent.

  “Indeed. I have moved back and forth between England and the Netherlands over the years. I’ve recently moved here permanently, seeking a better life.”

  If his quality of life had improved by coming to England, then, judging by his surroundings, Pierce could only imagine how rough the man had lived before.

  “I was instructed to read the will to Nona Fey,” Christopher clarified in a testy tone. “Where is she?”

  Pierce had prepared for this.

  “She remains in Newcastle. She’s not well enough to travel, I’m afraid. Learning about her brother’s death has done nothing to improve the state of her health.”

  “Really?” Christopher said with a hiked, shaggy eyebrow. “I thought the siblings were not close.”

  Pierce almost choked on the foot that he’d put into his mouth. If he slipped up again, he could lose everything. He reconsidered his decision to leave his mum behind.

  “Oui, not in the least, but, even so, she was not prepared for his death. The news was unexpected, you understand.”

  The lawyer considered him for a long moment. Pierce felt the floor beneath him give way. He really needed to sit down and take some pressure off his aching bladder. The silence was so dense only the sound of the cat’s purring could be heard.

  The lawyer blinked slowly. “It matters not. I wasn’t paid enough to care. Have a seat, Mr. Fey.”

  Pierce kept his relief from showing. He stepped forward and bumped into the chair that he had failed to spot through the blasted glasses. Fortunately, Christopher hadn’t noticed, for he was too busy searching through the upper drawer of his desk. Pierce quickly sat down and in that moment, the cat jumped into his lap.

  The lawyer pulled out an envelope. “Ah, here it is.”

  Smoky walked around in circles, stepping on all the wrong places until he eventually lay down.

  “Stupid beast,” griped the lawyer. “The only thing those creatures are good for is catching rats.”

  Other than the paws sinking into him, Pierce didn’t mind. Animals had a way of lifting his spirits. He scratched the happy cat on top of the head as the lawyer opened the envelope. Pierce thought it sort of strange the seal was already broken. From the envelope, Christopher brought out two pieces of paper and unfolded one.

  “‘To my dearest sister, Nona,’” he read, pushing up his glasses. “‘Although we have disapproved of each other’s chosen paths in life, I still consider you family. Therefore, I have decided to leave you a sum of twenty thousand francs to transfer into whatever currency you so desire.’”

  “Bloody hell,” Pierce muttered unexpectedly.

  “Excuse me?” demanded the lawyer, looking at him from over his reading spectacles. “Did you say something?”

  Pierce cleared his throat and said in his best French accent, “Pardonnez-moi. I was keeping myself from sneezing.”

  “Is it the cat? You can toss it out, if you like.”

  “Non. Not the cat. It is—forgive my rudeness—the dust.”

  “Forgiven. The French are generally rude. Maggie used to keep the place as clean as God’s word until she became too frail to keep up with her cleaning duties.”

  The lawyer continued reading. “‘To gain this inheritance, you must travel to the Netherlands and follow a series of clues I have laid out for you. In doing so, you shall lea
rn more about your family and where you come from.’”

  Everything spilling out of the lawyer’s mouth confused Pierce to no end.

  Clues? Where you come from? The bloody Netherlands?

  “Odd,” he remarked.

  “It is, indeed,” Christopher agreed in a monotone voice while keeping his eyes on the document. He read on. “‘You shall start with this first clue that I have entrusted to Mr. Ainsworth. Follow each clue, and ultimately, it will lead you to the inheritance.’”

  Wonderful, Pierce thought. A fucking treasure hunt.

  “‘Goodbye, Nona. May the journey help you find yourself.’” Christopher placed the will down and handed over the clue. “Here.”

  Pierce took it and read it silently.

  Inside the tomb where Joubert senior rests, you shall learn a long overdue truth I hope will not be too hard to digest.

  Pierce scrunched up his face and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Do you have any idea what the clue means?” the lawyer asked with heightened interest.

  Pierce hadn’t the foggiest notion, but said anyway, “I believe I do, actually.”

  The man beamed with delight.

  “That is good,” he praised, now in a cheery mood. “Then it should not be too difficult for you.”

  He suddenly got up and Pierce quickly did the same, throwing Smoky off his lap. The feline let out a surprised howl and scampered off.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Fey, but I really must be going. I shall walk you out.”

  As they headed for the exit, Christopher said, “Maggie, fetch Mr. Swansea, please. He should be at his apartment. Tell him to come to my office immediately and wait for my return.”

  “Oh, Mr. Ainsworth,” the old woman moaned. “You know I hate venturing to that side of town. And Mr. Swansea seems a bit off his head.”

  “He’s harmless,” he consoled.

  Her concerned expression spoke of great uncertainty about that.

  “Besides, we must discuss his upcoming trial,” the lawyer added. “I don’t need him to miss his date again.”