Kasey Michaels - The Anonymous Miss Addams

“Your father, he wishes for you to fall flat on your face,” Duvall recited obediently, then sighed deeply, so that his employer should be aware that he had injured him most gravely.

“Bless you, Duvall. Now, to get back to the point. I have been acting the fool these past years, a fact I will acknowledge only to you, and only this one time. There’s nothing else for it—I must seek out a good deed and perform it with humble dedication and no thought for my own interests. Do you suppose the opportunity for good deeds lies thick on the ground in Mayfair? No, I imagine not. Ah, well, one can only strive to do one’s best.”

“Humph!” was the manservant’s only reply before he turned his head to one side and ordered himself to go to sleep in the hope that the soft, well-sprung swaying of the traveling coach would not then turn his delicate Gallic stomach topsy-turvy.

Standish marveled silently yet again at the endless effrontery of his employee. The man, unlike the remainder of Pierre’s acquaintances, had no fear of him—and precious little awe. It was refreshing, this lack of deference, which was why Pierre treasured the spritely little Frenchman, who had been displaced to Piccadilly during Napoleon’s rush to conquer all the known world. Reaching across to lay a light blanket over the man’s shoulders, for it was September and the morning was cool, Pierre sat back once more, determined to enjoy the passing scenery.

It was shortly after regaining the main roadway, following a leisurely lunch at the busy Rose and Cross Inn—Pierre being particularly fond of country-cured ham—that it happened. One of the two burly outriders accompanying the coach called out to the driver to stop at once, for there was something moving in the small mountain of baggage strapped in the boot of the coach.

“How wonderfully intriguing. Do you suppose it is an animal of some sort?” Pierre asked the two outriders, the coachman, and a slightly green-looking Duvall a minute later as the small group assembled behind the halted coach. He lightly prodded the canvas wrapping with the tip of his cane, just at the spot the outrider had indicated. “I do pray it is not a fox, for I will confess that I am not a devotee of blood sports. Oh, dear. It moved again just then, didn’t it? My curiosity knows no bounds, I must tell you.”

“It’s a blinkin’ stowaway, that’s wot it tis,” decided the second outrider, just home from an extended absence at sea, a trip prompted not by his desire to explore the world, but rather at the expressed insistence of a press gang that had tapped him on the noggin with a heavy club and tossed him aboard a merchantman bound for India. “Let’s yank ’im out an’ keelhaul ’im!”

Pierre turned to look at the man, a large, beefy fellow whose hamlike hands were already closed into tight fists. “So violent, my friend? Why don’t we just boil the poor soul in oil and have done with it?”

Raising his voice slightly, Pierre went on, “You there—in the boot—I suggest you join us out here on the road, if you please. You can’t be too comfortable in there, knowing the amount of baggage I deem necessary for travel through the wilds of Sussex. When did you decide to join us? Perhaps when my baggage was undone to unearth my personal linens and utensils back at the so lovely Rose and Whatever Inn? Come out now, we shan’t hurt you.”

“Oi can’t,” a high, whiny voice complained from beneath the canvas. “Yer gots me trussed up like a blinkin’ goose in ’ere!”

Pierre tipped his head to one side, inspecting the canvas-covered boot. “Our unexpected passenger has a point there, gentlemen. It really was too bad of you, wasn’t it, even as I applaud your obvious high regard for the welfare of my personal possessions. Perhaps one of you will be so good as to lend some assistance to our beleaguered stowaway before he causes himself an injury?”

Less than a minute later the canvas had been drawn away to reveal a very small, very dirty face. “Hello. What have we here?” Pierre asked, peering into the semidarkness of the boot.

“Yer gots Jeremy ’Olloway, that wot yer gots!” the young boy shot back defiantly, pushing out his lower lip to blow a long strand of greasy blond hair from his eyes. “Now, stands back whilst Oi boosts m’self outta this blinkin’ ’ellhole!”

“How lovely,” Pierre drawled. “Such elegant speech. And a good day to you too, Master Holloway. Obviously, my friends, we have discovered a runaway young peer, bent on a lark in the country. Gentlemen, let us make our bows to Master Holloway.”

“That’s no gentry mort,” the burly outrider corrected, narrowly eyeing the young boy as he climbed down from his hiding place and quickly clamping a heavy hand on Jeremy’s thin shoulder as the lad looked ready to bolt for the concealment of the trees on the side of the road. “This ’ere ain’t nothin’ but a bleedin’ sweep!”

“Oi’m not!” Jeremy shot back, sticking out his chin, as if his denial could erase the damning evidence of his torn, sooty shirt and the scraped, burned-covered arms and legs that stuck out awkwardly from beneath his equally ragged, too-small suit of clothes.

“Of course you’re not a sweep,” Pierre agreed silkily, suppressing the need to touch his scented lace handkerchief to his nostrils as he looked at Jeremy and saw a quick solution to his need to do a good deed. “But if you were a sweep, and running away from an evil master who abused you most abominably, I should think I could find it in my heart to take you up with us for a space, until, say, we reach London? Listening to your speech, and detecting a rightful disdain for those so troublesome ‘aitches’, I believe you might feel at home in Piccadilly?”

Jeremy, who had begun eyeing Pierre assessingly, positively blossomed at the mention of Piccadilly. Quickly suppressing his excitement, he scuffed one bare big toe in the dirt and remarked coolly: “If Oi wuz a sweep—which Oi’m not, o’course—Oi might wants ter take yer up on that, guv’nor. The Piccadilly thing, yer knows.”

Duvall immediately burst into a rapid stream of emotional French, wringing his hands as he alternately cursed and pleaded with his master to reconsider this folly. Better they should all bed down with une mouffette, a skunk! Oh, woe, oh, woe! Poor master, to have a cracked bell in his head. Poor Duvall, to be so overset that he could not even think which saint to pray to!

Jeremy stood stoically by, grimy paws jammed down hard on even grimier hips, waiting for the barrage of French to run itself down, then said, “Aw, dub yer mummer, froggie. Oi ain’t ’eared such a ruckus since ol’ ’awkins burnt ’isself wit ’is own poker!”

Duvall stopped in mid-exclamation to glare down at the boy, his lips pursed, his eyes bulging. “Mon Dieu!” he declared. “This insect, this crawling bug, he has called me a frog. I will not stand for such an insult!”

“Stand still,” Pierre corrected smoothly, at last succumbing to the need to filter his breathing air through the handkerchief. “Now, if the histrionics are behind us—and I most sincerely pray that they are—I suggest that Jeremy crawl back into the boot, sans the cover, and the rest of us also return to our proper places. I wish to make London before Father Christmas.”

Satisfied that he was doing his good deed just as his father had recommended—and rescuing Jeremy from an evil master certainly seemed to qualify—Pierre once more settled himself against the midnight-blue velvet squabs and began mentally preparing a missive to his father detailing his charitable wonderfulness. “And that will be the end of that,” he said aloud, eyeing Duvall levelly and daring the manservant to contradict him.

The coach had gone no more than a mile when it stopped once more, the coachman hauling on the reins so furiously that Pierre found himself clutching the handstrap for fear of tumbling onto the narrow width of flooring between the seats.