The Diamond of Drury Lane Read online

‘Perhaps,’ I grumbled resentfully, ‘but I wouldn’t put it past Mrs Reid to find some way of making it my fault.’

  Syd chuckled. ‘Well, I’ll ’ave a word with ’er then.’ He swung the cleaver in a menacing fashion. ‘Make ’er see sense.’

  ‘Oh, you’re both hopeless!’ I exclaimed as Pedro, Nick and Joe fell about laughing.

  Syd, who I knew would be the last person to threaten a lady, threw the cleaver aside with a clatter and stood up. ‘I must go. I ’ave my trainin’ this afternoon. You’ll come and see me in my boxin’ match, won’t you, Cat?’

  I nodded, though feeling very reluctant. I was not eager to watch two grown boys beating each other up for money, particularly when one was my good friend. ‘Sunday morning, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, in Marylebone Fields. You’ll ’ave to dress as a boy like last time.’

  ‘Can I come?’ asked Pedro eagerly.

  ‘Of course, Prince. all the gang’s goin’ to be there. You can look after Cat for me.’

  As if I couldn’t look after myself!

  ‘Who are you fighting?’ I asked, trying not to show them how angry I still was. They’d only put it down to me being a moody girl if I did and laugh about it when I’d gone.

  A worried frown passed across Syd’s face for a moment. ‘The Camden Crusher.’

  ‘Is he good?’

  ‘Not as good as me,’ Syd said proudly, flexing his muscles and rolling his bull-sized neck to warm up. ‘I’ll set ’im to rights, you’ll see.’ He rocked lightly from foot to foot, making a few practice punches at the air.

  ‘I hope so, Syd. Better that than having the surgeon set you to rights afterwards.’

  ‘Should we knock at the front door or use the tradesman’s entrance?’ I asked Pedro nervously, clutching my manuscript under my arm.

  We both looked up at the tall sandstone house rising four floors above us. The large windows were all lit, shining out into the cold January evening in an opulent display, telling the world that money was no object as far as candles were concerned. An imposing flight of six marble stairs ran up to the black front door. The knocker . . . a brass dragon’s head . . . gleamed balefully at us. To our right, partially hidden by the spiked iron railings was a mean, narrow staircase that ran down to the lower floors: the tradesman’s entrance.

  Pedro looked back at the front door. ‘We’re not bidden to the kitchen; we’re here to see the family.’ He mounted the steps before his courage failed, seized the knocker and thumped it twice. Almost immediately, the door swung open and a white-wigged, liveried servant stood there, looking down his long nose at us.

  ‘Yes?’ he said dubiously, holding out his hand for a message.

  ‘We’re from Drury Lane. Lady Elizabeth is expecting us,’ said Pedro, ignoring the outstretched hand and making to step inside.

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ said the footman with a sardonic smile, blocking his way.

  ‘We’re here for the tea party,’ I added boldly, annoyed by the man’s supercilious attitude. ‘If you don’t believe us, why don’t you ask her?’

  Perhaps our confidence made him think better of shutting the door in our faces. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered. He turned to another footman standing in the hall. ‘Watch them,’ he told his colleague. ‘See that they don’t touch anything.’ He then strode swiftly up the red-carpeted stairs.

  We stood under the hawkish gaze of the second servant, waiting for our fate to be decided. Before long, the footman returned and reluctantly opened the door wide enough to allow us in.

  ‘Apparently, you are expected,’ he said with ill grace. ‘Would you like to leave your cloak here, miss?’

  I took off my hood and handed over my old black cloak, revealing underneath the white muslin dress with a green silk sash Mrs Reid had made for me from one of the ripped ballet dresses she had stashed away. The footman’s manner instantly became more respectful.

  ‘Step this way, miss,’ he said, bowing me up the stairs.

  I winked at Pedro who was staring at me as if seeing me properly for the first time.

  ‘You look . . . well, you look different, Cat,’ he muttered on the way upstairs. ‘I didn’t know you washed up so well.’

  I grinned. ‘But I’m still the same Cat underneath even if my hair is neat for once.’

  Sarah had spent hours that day taming my red mop into a series of ringlets tied back with a matching green bow. I felt I looked good enough for the company we were about to meet and that gave me the confidence to continue up the stairs.

  The footman stopped by a door on the floor above. Inside we could hear the tinkle of the piano and the laughter of young voices.

  ‘Who shall I say is here?’ he asked me.

  ‘Miss Royal and Mr Hawkins, if you please,’ I said with dignity.

  He opened the door and gave a cough.

  ‘Lady Elizabeth, your visitors have arrived: Miss Royal and Mr Hawkins.’

  He ushered us forward and then closed the door behind us.

  My first impression was of a sea of pink faces turned curiously in our direction. Then I took in the fine muslin petticoats that seemed so light as if made of nothing but spun sugar, the smart breeches and jackets of the boys, the elaborately arranged hair of the girls. Suddenly my own outfit seemed very tawdry.

  ‘Miss Royal, Mr Hawkins, we are delighted to see you both,’ said Lady Elizabeth, rising from a cherry-red silk sofa to greet us.

  Lord Francis bounded over, abandoning a group of three sour-faced young people. ‘Just when we needed livening up!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Who’s to go first, eh?’

  Pedro bowed. ‘I am to have that pleasure.’

  I nearly giggled. It seemed so funny to hear Pedro putting on a refined act in front of this audience . . . it was like we were all playing at being lords and ladies for the day. I had to remind myself that we were probably the only ones without a title in the room.

  As might have been expected, Pedro’s concert was a great success. He played the piece by Mozart I had first heard him perform and it had the same mesmerising effect in the duke’s drawing room as it had at Drury Lane. The music transported us all. Pedro seemed able to conduct our emotions, using his bow as a baton, making us smile or weep by turns. When he stopped, I knew that he had succeeded in claiming his place in this room as an equal by virtue of his talent alone. Indeed, there was something in his gift that put him beyond our reach. He was loudly applauded. Even the sour-faced trio were impressed.

  ‘Now, Miss Royal, it is your turn,’ said Lord Francis, taking my hand and leading me to a chair. ‘We are most eager to hear from you.’

  My heart was thumping so hard I was surprised he could not hear it. I felt most unwilling to read after the virtuoso display we had all just witnessed . . . it was like bringing the ballet chorus girl on after the principal dancer. ‘If you wish, sir,’ I said, unfolding my papers and giving a nervous cough to clear my throat of the frog that had taken up residence there. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Reader, you are set to embark on an adventure told by an ignorant and prejudiced author . . . me.’ I sneaked a look over the top of my papers. Lord Francis and the boy beside him were laughing; Lady Elizabeth smiled. They gave me the courage to continue. ‘“Much harm done, Tom?” I asked as I clambered over the upturned benches to reach the stagehand as he cleared away the debris from last night’s riot . . .’

  Ten minutes later, I came to the end of my recital and waited. The room was quiet. In that instant, I was convinced I had failed . . . I had shocked, possibly scandalised them and they were just struggling to find the words to tell me so. I had been so stupid even to think that I could pass myself off as an author in this discerning gathering. My hopes of launching myself on a new career with ducal patronage plummeted to the ground as rapidly as had the balloon in the extract I had just finished reading them.

  ‘Heavens!’ said a pale girl with long brown ringlets like the sausages in Syd’s shop. ‘To think that people really
live like this! Fighting in the streets . . . can you believe it!’

  I could sense all their eyes were fixed on me. I felt like a cadaver on the surgeon’s table being anatomised before the gaze of curious students.

  ‘I think it’s grand,’ said Lord Francis, thumping his fist playfully into his neighbour’s stomach. ‘Come on, Charlie, how about it?’

  Pedro gave me an amused look over Lord Francis’ head: though I had changed a few details to protect the identities of my subjects, any astute listener would have been able to identify him as the boy who ended up with a black eye after outrunning the gang.

  ‘Frank!’ scolded Lady Elizabeth, her eyebrow raised in warning.

  Lord Francis gave her an apologetic look and helped the winded Charles to a seat.

  ‘Well, it certainly was unorthodox,’ said a sweet-looking girl with a heart-shaped face. ‘Though perhaps the subject matter is a little unbecoming for a lady. I would have expected Miss Royal to begin with some witty general observation, a wryly expressed universal truth, for example, on love and courtship . . . the usual themes for the female pen.’

  ‘Oh, Jane!’ protested Lord Francis. ‘How can you be so dull? We don’t want none of that missish stuff. Straight into the action, that’s what we like and that’s what Miss Royal gave us. And I thought the pictures were capital.’

  The sour-looking fellow, with a face like a weasel and sleek silver-blond hair, piped up from his corner: ‘The pictures did indeed display an uncommon talent but I’m not sure if Miss What’sher-name’s outpourings are respectable enough for my sisters to hear, Lady Elizabeth.’

  Our hostess now looked worried.

  ‘Rubbish, Marchmont!’ exclaimed Lord Francis.

  Marchmont! The name struck a chord with me. I turned to take a closer look at my critic, wondering if I could trace any family likeness to the dark-cloaked man who had threatened me at the stage door.

  ‘It’s stuff like that which leads to anarchy. We see it daily in France; I hope to God we do not see it here,’ the Marchmont boy continued like some little politician on the hustings. Tension crackled between him and his host. I had the impression that they were old sparring partners between whom there was no love lost.

  ‘Parroting your favourite Pittite phrases, are you?’ said Lord Francis. ‘You’d better not let your father find out. As a friend of liberty, he wouldn’t like to hear that his son’s a dyed-in-the-wool reactionary.’

  ‘Francis!’ said Lady Elizabeth, scandalised.

  ‘I think we had better go,’ said Marchmont rising and leading his sisters to the door. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Lady Elizabeth. The music was superb.’

  The Marchmonts’ departure was taken as the signal for the party to break up. Pedro and I lingered in a corner, wondering if we should slip out or wait to be dismissed. We had been expecting to receive something for our trouble. I hoped that my audacity in reading my poor stuff to the duke’s children had not lost us our bounty. Pedro would never let me hear the end of it if it had.

  When the last person had left, Lady Elizabeth turned on her brother.

  ‘Frank, do you have to be so rude to my guests?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know why you invited them, Lizzie. Just because Father’s friendly with his father, it doesn’t mean we have to endure them. You know I think Marchmont a prig. You are too polite to say what you really think of his sisters, but I know you don’t like them.’

  ‘Yes, but to attack him in our own drawing room . . . that’s very bad manners!’

  ‘And criticising your brother in front of strangers, isn’t?’ he said with a nod at Pedro and me.

  Lady Elizabeth blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I did not realise you were still here.’ She nudged her brother. ‘Go on,’ she hissed, ‘pay them!’

  Lord Francis strode over to us and bowed. ‘A token of our sincere appreciation of your talents,’ he said, dropping a promisingly heavy purse into Pedro’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Pedro.

  Lord Francis turned to me. ‘I hope our ill-mannered guest did not offend you, Miss Royal? You did splendidly. Tell me: does all this really happen as you describe it?’

  I nodded and smiled into his friendly eyes, thinking how much I liked him. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’s even better than she writes it,’ Pedro butted in, trying to impress the young nobleman. ‘We have parties and music, boxing and battles.’

  ‘Boxing!’ Lord Francis grabbed at the word eagerly. ‘My great passion is the ring! I want to learn how to box but Father won’t let me.’

  ‘Well,’ said Pedro leaning forward confidentially, ‘Cat here . . . I mean Miss Royal . . . just so happens to be best friends with Covent Garden’s boxing champion. We are watching him in a match on Sunday. For a small consideration,’ he chinked the purse suggestively, ‘we might be able to take you along.’

  ‘Pedro!’ I whispered in warning. This really did not sound a good idea.

  ‘Will you? . . . Yes, I might be able to get away,’ said Lord Francis, thinking aloud. He stole a look over his shoulder at his sister, who was now running her fingers over the piano keyboard in a melancholy love song, lost deep in thought. ‘Lizzie’s a bit absent-minded at the moment, mooning over one of her suitors who has done a midnight flit. She’s not as sharp as normal. If I pretend to be ill and get out of church, I should be able to do it.’

  ‘We’ll meet you on the corner of Grosvenor Square then,’ said Pedro quickly. ‘At ten.’

  ‘At ten,’ agreed Lord Francis.

  ‘If you are coming,’ I said sullenly, glaring at Pedro, ‘you’d better dress down a bit, sir.’

  ‘Right you are, Cat . . . I mean Miss Royal,’ grinned Lord Francis.

  SCENE 3 . . . BOW STREET BUTCHER V. CAMDEN CRUSHER

  I was not looking forward to the prospect of trying to smuggle his lordship into the boxing match. It was bad enough that I had to pretend to be a boy to pass unnoticed, but bringing along someone who would have no idea how to blend in seemed pure recklessness. I could imagine what fun the lads would have if they found out that one of their lords and masters was mingling with them. Lord Francis would be very lucky to get home in one piece. Pedro didn’t have a clue what he was doing.

  I confided my fears to Johnny the next morning over lessons. Having heard from Mrs Reid how Old Carver had undertaken my education, Johnny had insisted on carrying this on. His choice of reading matter was very different from Mr Carver’s solid diet of English greats: Johnny was improving my French so that I could read Rousseau in the original and his idea of English composition revolved around the cream of the crop of the latest political tracts. It was not all hard work, however: at my insistence, he was also giving me lessons in drawing.

  We were sketching a bust we had found in one of the airy club rooms on the first floor of the theatre when I raised the subject of the match.

  ‘I agree: it doesn’t sound a good idea,’ said Johnny, lifting his pencil to measure the space between Roman nose and weak Roman chin of Julius Caesar. ‘But neither do I think it a good idea for you to gad about town dressed as a boy, Catkin.’

  I scribbled a big proboscis on my drawing, which made the emperor look as if he had a beak. ‘What were you saying earlier about men and women being equal? How else am I to enjoy equal freedom if I don’t disguise myself ?’

  He looked down awkwardly at his sketch as he knew that all his counter-arguments ran against his own principles. ‘You’ve lived too long in the theatre, Cat. All these breeches roles for actresses must have gone to your head.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Johnny. I do it all the time. It’s Lord Francis you should worry about.’ I was then struck by what I considered a brilliant idea. ‘I know, why don’t you come with us? If you were there, you could help us look after him.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Catkin.’ He gave a vicious twist to Caesar’s thin-lipped mouth.

  ‘Why ever not? It’s your day off, isn’t it?’

  ‘
Yes, but I don’t want to be seen just now.’ He sighed.

  Now, the only reason I knew for a grown man to hide himself was to avoid those to whom he owed money; many a man lives in fear of hearing the bailiff ’s knock on the door coming to cart him off to Debtor’s Prison.

  ‘But even if you are hiding from the bailiffs,’ I said, assuming my guess was correct, ‘you’re free to go out on a Sunday, aren’t you? I thought they couldn’t arrest people on the Sabbath?’

  Johnny laughed and flicked his pencil deftly into the air, catching it as it spun to the floor. ‘So you think I’m on the run from the bailiffs, do you? It’s a likely enough tale. Still, you would agree, Catkin, that it would not be wise to allow anyone to see me, follow me and thus find out where I have concealed myself ?’

  I shrugged. ‘I suppose not. But is that likely at a boxing match?’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Johnny, putting the sketch away in his portfolio. ‘Many gentlemen of my acquaintance are bound to be there for the gambling. I can’t risk it. Now, let’s see what you have done.’

  I showed him my drawing.

  He chuckled. ‘You have made the old villain look like one of those anteaters from the Americas. A very good start if you want a career as the first female cartoonist, Cat.’

  On Sunday morning, Pedro and I waited at the corner of Grosvenor Square for Lord Francis. We appeared to have arrived at rush hour: carriage after carriage was drawing up at the front doors, taking the inhabitants off to the church service of their choice. Only a few families were brave enough to expose their expensive attire to the streets by walking the short distance to the parish church.

  I spotted the duke and Lady Elizabeth emerging from their house shortly before ten. Pulling Pedro out of sight behind a carriage waiting on the corner, I watched them walk arm in arm in the opposite direction.

  ‘’Ere, what you playin’ at?’ protested the coachman, flicking his long whip in our direction. ‘Get away from my carriage.’

  Enjoying my breeches role (as Johnny put it), I couldn’t resist the temptation to indulge in a bit of unladylike shouting.