about his business, but he seemed reluctant to leave. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Joss Comerford. How do you do, Miss Carter?’
Remembering her place, she bobbed a curtsey. ‘How do you do, sir?’
‘It’s very cold outside and the pavements are treacherous. May I escort you home, Miss Carter?’
‘That’s very kind of you, but as I said, I have to wait for the unwanted lace.’
‘Have you a connection with the textile trade?’
She looked him in the eye and realised that he was teasing her. ‘You make it sound as though I’m dealing in smuggled goods, Mr Comerford.’
‘Now that would be exciting. Are you a smuggler, or a river pirate?’
‘Nothing so interesting, sir.’
‘So your connection with lace is …?’
Clara could see that he was not going to be satisfied with anything other than a full explanation. ‘I am a shopkeeper, Mr Comerford. I own a drapery in Drury Lane.’
His blue eyes widened and he stared at her with renewed interest. ‘You’re a shopkeeper?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘How intriguing. I must visit your emporium one day.’ He held his hand out to take his top hat and cane from a young maidservant who appeared seemingly from nowhere. ‘I’m going your way, Miss Carter. I have a luncheon appointment in the Strand, so it’s no trouble to see you safely home.’
Clara was about to refuse politely when Lizzie came hurrying down the wide staircase, the basket in her hand. ‘Madam has taken all the lace, Clara.’ She came to a halt, gazing anxiously at Joss. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘That’s all right, Lizzie. I’m glad that Mama is supporting local shopkeepers.’ He turned to Clara with a disarming smile. ‘My father is also in trade. He has a warehouse on the docks filled with exotic imports from foreign lands. I used to think it was like Aladdin’s cave when I was a child.’
Clara shifted from one foot to the other. At any other time, and in a different place, it would have been a pleasure to talk to someone like Joss Comerford, but James was listening to every word and Lizzie was staring at her open-mouthed. Their reaction was typical of most people. The sons of wealthy families, whether their fortune had been made in the Caribbean sugar plantations or from privateering centuries ago, or in trade, did not mix socially with girls from the lower classes. That was the way things were and Clara could feel disapproval radiating from both her sister and James. If Joss Comerford had taken a liking to her, it was a recipe for disaster.
‘Isn’t it time you were going, Clara?’ Lizzie said in a low voice. ‘Jane will be wondering what’s happened to you.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Clara took the empty basket from her. ‘Madam is keeping all the lace?’
‘Put it on her account,’ Lizzie said grandly. ‘Goodbye, Clara. I’ll come and see you on my afternoon off.’ She turned on her heel and headed towards the servants’ quarters.
‘I must go.’ Clara glanced at James, who leaped to attention and opened the front door.
Joss proffered his arm. ‘Allow me. It’s a long walk so I suggest we take a cab.’
There was nothing Clara could do without appearing rude and she laid her hand on the sleeve of his cashmere coat. James kept his gaze fixed on a distant point as he held the door for them.
‘Go and find a cab, James, there’s a good fellow.’ Joss hesitated on the top step. ‘Dashed inclement weather. I was in two minds as to whether to venture out or not.’ He glanced down at Clara and smiled. ‘But I’m very glad I did or I would not have had the pleasure of your company, Clara. I hope you don’t mind my using your Christian name?’
She shook her head. ‘No, sir.’
‘It would please me greatly if you would call me Joss. I’m uncomfortable with formality.’
‘I doubt if your mama would agree with that – Joss.’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I was right. I took you for a spirited woman, Clara. I’m a very good judge of character.’ He leaned forward to get a better view of James, who was slipping and sliding on the snowy street as he attempted to hail a cab. ‘I’d laugh if he took a tumble. James is so stiff-necked he’ll make an excellent butler one day. I sometimes think he must have been born middle-aged, and I doubt if he is a year my senior.’
Clara was just about to tell him she would prefer to walk when James succeeded in attracting the attention of a cabby who had just dropped a gentleman off at a house further along the street. Joss handed her into the hansom cab and climbed in after her. Sitting side by side with a relative stranger was a nerve-racking experience for Clara and she stared ahead, wishing she had risked offending him by refusing his offer. Joss Comerford might not be this friendly if he knew of her involvement with one of the most vicious gangs in London. It was a relief when the cab drew to a halt outside her shop, but the feeling was short-lived.
A man wearing a battered top hat and a greasy woollen muffler was leaning against the pub wall. She recognised him at once and her heart sank.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Clara gathered her skirts around her and climbed down from the cab before Joss had a chance to assist her. Standing on the icy pavement, she flashed him a smile. ‘I’m very grateful for the cab ride, Mr Comerford.’
‘Don’t mention it, Clara. I hope we meet again soon …’ His voice trailed off as the cabby flicked his whip above the horse’s ears and the cab lurched on its way.
Clara waited until it was out of sight before turning to Bones, Patches’ right-hand man. The mere sight of him was enough to make her flesh creep, but she put on a brave face.
‘I have another day to find the money, Mr Bones.’
‘Not by Patches’ reckoning you ain’t. You’re to come with me and no argument.’
‘All right, I’ll come, but first I must make sure that my little sister is all right. I left her alone in the shop.’
‘You should have thought of that afore you got mixed up with Patches Bragg, my duck.’ He grabbed her by the arm and propelled her along the street with surprising strength for a small man.
Clara gave him a shove, catching him off guard. ‘There’s no need for force. I want to see Patches anyway.’
‘I hope you got the readies.’
‘That’s something I want to discuss with Patches.’
His cackle of laughter made people stop and stare at the odd couple, but Clara held her head high. Patches Bragg might be the leader of one of the roughest gangs in London, but she was still a woman. There must be some common ground for negotiation. Clara’s heart was pounding, but she fought down the instinct to run way and allowed Bones to lead her to Angel Court.
It was daylight above ground, but in the underworld of the illegal gaming club it was permanent night. The smell of oil lamps and the fumes of alcohol mingled with tobacco smoke and the stench of unwashed bodies, and Clara had to fight down a feeling of nausea. Her empty stomach rebelled against the noxious odours and the sight of unkempt, unshaven men lolling in their seats at the gaming table, some of them head down and snoring, while their fellow gamesters played on, staring at their cards with bloodshot eyes.
Patches was in a small cubbyhole, counting her takings.
‘I don’t like to be kept waiting,’ she said gruffly. ‘What kept you, Bones?’
‘She weren’t at home, boss. Had to wait in the freezing