They were almost finished when a toothless man at the middle table stopped slurping soup to say, “What you doing here, young Nick?”
“Helpin’,” Nick replied proudly, which seemed to amuse his acquaintance in a sour sort of way.
While Nick carried on sweeping, Griz made her way across the room and took the vacant place beside the toothless man.
“I wonder if you can help me?” she murmured.
He eyed her suspiciously over his spoon. “Shouldn’t think so.”
“You seem to know Nick.”
He showed her his gums. “Seen him around.”
“Where are his parents?”
He shrugged. “Dead, or good as. His mother vanished. His dad—Old Nick, evil, old bastard he was—died in a tavern brawl.”
“Who looks after him now?”
“Seems to me he looks after himself.” The toothless man set down his spoon. “Got any more of that?”
“I’ll have a look in a minute,” she promised, as he devoured the last of his bread. “Do you know Art?”
The bloodshot, muddy gaze flew to hers. “Everyone knows Art. Nick was hanging around him last I saw.”
“Bit of a criminal?” Griz guessed.
“Ha! Arch criminal. Guv’nor of criminals.” He looked furtively about him. “Though you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Of course not,” Griz agreed. “Ambitious, is he? Art?”
“Yes, got his finger in pretty much everything on his manor. And spreading into others. Especially since they hauled Goddard off to the clink.”
“Goddard?” she said quickly. “He, who was just arrested for seditious leaflets?”
It was a shot in the dark, and it certainly caused her informant to snort. “Goddy can’t read. What’s he doing with such things?”
Griz frowned at him. “You think he was set up?”
He polished up his empty bowl with a very small crust. “Art can read. And write.”
“I see… And this Goddard, apart from not being able to read, would you say he had a gentlemanly appearance?”
The toothless man gave a shout of laughter. “Gentleman God, they call him. On account of being a bit of a dandy. But ain’t anything gentle about him.”
“Do you know his full name?” Griz asked eagerly.
“Nah,” said her companion, and Griz realized Nick was leaning on his broom, staring at her.
“Thank you,” she said, picking up the empty bowl. “Nick, is there any soup left?”
Nick stalked away, leaving someone else to answer. Griz took her helpful informant another ladleful with a crust of bread and then tracked Nick down to the standpipe in the street, where he was furiously pumping water into a bucket.
“What’s the matter?” she asked bluntly.
“Nothin’.”
“The man I was talking to…has he ever hurt you?”
Nick cast her a scornful glance. “’Course not.”
She waited in silence until the bucket was full.
Nick wrapped his fingers around the handle, then glared at her. “You leaving me here?”
“Leaving you here?” she repeated, startled. “Of course not! Well, not unless you were desperate, and even then, I would have to know whoever you went with was going to… Why would you imagine I meant to leave you?”
“Sending me back with him.” He nodded at the toothless man, who was just leaving the kitchen, slapping his lips with satisfaction.
“Dear God, no,” Griz said fervently. “I’m afraid I was picking his brains. I want to find out what happened to my friend, the one I asked you about.”
The boy looked down at his bucket and sniffed. He dashed his sleeve across his eyes, and although touched, she pretended not to notice.
“Come on. Bring the bucket, and we’ll finish up here. Vicky will want her afternoon walk.”
Chapter Twelve
“Aren’t you dining with us?” the duchess said in surprise as Griz passed her on the landing, evening cloak over her arm. “I was hoping you would come to the theater with us.”
“Sorry, Mama, I’m promised to a charitable event with the Worths.”
“Oh,” said her mother, almost mollified. “Which charity?”
“It’s for the Hungarian refugees.”
“Hmm.” The duchess considered. “You may invite them to write to me.”
Griz smiled. “Thank you, Mama.”
“It is shocking, the way they’ve been treated,” she pronounced, already sailing off toward the library.
Griz breathed a sigh of relief and ran down the rest of the stairs to the front hall. Annabelle’s carriage was waiting for her outside, and in moments, they set off for the Blue Horse.
“What is a ‘Hungarian evening,’ do you suppose?” Annabelle wondered.
“Hungarian food and wine and dancing,” Timothy replied unexpectedly. “According to Tizsa,” he added as they both looked at him. “Basically, a party, with a few Hungarian elements. There will be wealthy British people there, too, but we mustn’t expect only the upper ranks of society.”