He nodded and stepped away. Belle closed the door to the shop, gave it a last look to make sure all the shades were drawn and all was secure, then she hurried behind the counter and pulled the ribbon out of her hair so the limp ringlets fell about her face. She did not have time to use the curling tongs on it, so this would have to do. By then her father had come down from the upper floor and closed the door to the stairs, locking it as he did so. “Are the profits from today in the safe?” he asked as he held the cloak for Belle.
“Yes. And I locked the safe and the cupboard before coming out to see about the knocking.”
“Good girl.”
Belle pulled the hood of the cloak up around her face, liking the way it shielded her from view. “We can’t be too careful,” Belle said. In London there were always thefts and burglaries. A tea shop did not hold as much interest as a jewelry store, grocer, or tobacco shop for a thief or his gang, but the Howards did not like to tempt fate.
A few moments later, Belle and her father were settled in the coach and watching as the shop and Fenchurch Street faded into the distance. The coach traveled west, toward Mayfair, at what seemed to Belle an alarming speed, but then she was not used to traveling by coach. Her usual mode of transport was to walk, but when she needed to accompany a large purchase of tea, she had ridden in a cart or wagon. Those were large and cumbersome, though, not at all like the light, quick conveyance she occupied now.
“Why do you think the Randalls summoned us?” Belle asked. Summoned seemed the right word considering the class difference between the families and the way the footman had appeared unexpectedly and all but demanded they accompany him.
“I suppose we’ll find out,” her father said, sounding tired. And well he should be. They had both been up since dawn and then working in the shop for hours. Belle was suddenly quite angry at the Randalls for asking her father to leave his comfortable chair and fire to come out in the middle of the night. It was one thing for Lydia Randall, who could sleep until noon tomorrow, to go out at all hours, but the Howards had a full day of labor on the morrow.
Her father put his hand over Belle’s, ostensibly reading her thoughts. “I’m sure they would not have called for us if it was not important.”
“It does rankle a bit,” she answered, “to be treated like servants at their beck and call.”
“Or perhaps we are more like family, and they must lean on us in a time of need.”
What could she say to that? Belle took her father’s hand and squeezed it, determining it was best if she kept silent the rest of the way. As they neared Mayfair, the coach slowed as it encountered other carriages. Finally, they were delivered to the Randalls’ residence—not to the door, Belle noted—but that might be because a gig was blocking the walk.
Her father nodded to it as they followed the footman to the front door. “That must be the doctor.”
The butler must have been watching and waiting for them because the door opened before they had even reached the porch. A great rectangle of light illuminated them, and Belle squinted at the brightly lit foyer. It seemed every light in the house burned.
“Good evening, Mr. Howard. Miss Howard.” The butler—Belle had forgotten his name or never known it—nodded to them. “Please wait here a moment.”
The butler motioned to three chairs set against a wall then started up the wide staircase. Her father took one of the chairs, but Belle did not feel like sitting. “I would have thought the house was on fire and now he asks us to sit as though there’s no emergency at all,” she said, looking about her. She’d only been to this house once, and that was for a small family party to celebrate Maggie’s engagement. It had been one of about six engagement celebrations. Belle had asked her sister, more than once, if she was certain she wanted to go through with the marriage. All those parties and people were quite intimidating. But the affair at the Randalls’ house had been small and intimate, and that’s when she had seen how warm the Dormer family was and how much John seemed to love Maggie. She hadn’t said another word after that.
A sound from above caught her attention, and Belle looked away from a painting on the wall to see Charles Randall racing down the stairs. He did indeed look like a man in the throes of calamity. His normally perfectly styled brown hair was tousled, his neckcloth askew, and he wore no coat. Spots of red—was that blood?—stained his limp white shirt.
Charles Randall was usually quite a handsome man, if one liked thick side whiskers and a ramrod straight posture. “I’m so glad you came,” Randall said, going straight to her father and taking his hand in a firm handshake. “I am so sorry for the inconvenience.”
“No inconvenience,” her father said. Belle went to stand beside her father and Randall gave her an absent nod.
“We’ve had quite a scare tonight.”
“Is it the baby?” Belle asked.
Randall swallowed. “Yes. The baby is coming, and the doctor and midwife are with Mrs. Randall right now. The doctor says she is doing well. That’s not why I called for you.”
Belle and her father exchanged glances.
“We’ve had an...incident. A friend of mine from school dined with us tonight. As we stood outside waiting for a hackney to take him to his hotel, a man passed by and stabbed him.”
“Oh, my!” Belle put a hand to her heart. “Is he badly hurt? Was it a robbery?”
Randall opened his mouth then closed it again. “We don’t know the motive, and yes, he is badly injured.” He held up a hand. “The doctor says he has a good chance of recovery if...”
He trailed off and neither Belle nor her father pressed him. It was not difficult to imagine all that might go wrong and lead the man to die—fever, infection, bleeding internally.
“He’s treated the wound and given Hew—Mr. Arundel, that is—some laudanum for the pain. He’s resting, and the doctor says he must continue to rest if he is to recover. He must have quiet and dedicated care.”
A scream echoed from above and startled all three of them. Good Lord, Belle thought, was that Lydia Randall?
Randall looked at the stairs, clearly wanting to go to his wife, but he did not move. “As you can see, he will not get much rest here. Once the babe is come, all attention will be directed to him.”
“And babies are not known for their peace and quiet,” her father said, his voice sounding like one who knew of what he spoke. “This is no time for Mrs. Randall to attempt and nurse an injured man.”
