That struck Cassian as unassailable logic, and he set off happily into the elegant new streets. They passed any amount of shops selling Brummagem-ware, although Cassian rather thought he wouldn’t use that disparaging term within earshot of any local, and found a very acceptable hatter who returned them both to respectability. They bought pastries on the street that were apparently called fitched pies, whatever fitching might be, and ate them sitting on a low wall watching people go by. Cassian had never done such a thing in his life: eating so informally, outside, where everyone might see. His pie appeared to contain ham, apples, onions, and cheese. It tasted like being somebody else.
They talked over the business as they sat.
‘How likely are they to pursue us?’ Cassian asked. ‘Of course they want Miss Beaumont but it should be clear now that we aren’t with her. And there is the matter of kidnap and robbery. I could swear against them.’
‘Robbery?’
‘They took my money and my watch.’
‘You didn’t say. How much? Enough to get them in trouble?’
‘Very much so, yes. I had a lot with me.’ He’d had vague ideas of buying Daizell some sort of gift in Stratford as they took their holiday. In the event, it had felt like it might distract from their day together and he’d decided he could do it later.
Daizell blinked. ‘You didn’t think to mention that at the inn?’
‘Well, not with Mr Bezant shouting about you stealing his horse, and also, I didn’t think they’d run away if I threatened to call a magistrate and accuse them of theft and kidnapping. Do you think they would have?’ he added, suddenly feeling rather foolish. ‘Should I have confronted them?’
‘Probably not,’ Daizell said. ‘We’d doubtless have all ended up thrown in gaol accusing one another of things, what with the missing heiress and the stolen horses. No, you handled things perfectly. You always do; I don’t know what you thought you needed me for.’
That entirely took Cassian’s breath. He sat, heart thudding and lips parted, for a few seconds before he could answer. ‘I did need you. Ido. I couldn’t have done anything if you hadn’t showed me how.’
Colour surged in Daizell’s cheeks. ‘I think you’d have managed, you know, but – glad to be of service.’
They smiled at one another. Daizell cleared his throat. ‘On the subject of money, though, how much did they take? That is, do you have enough to keep going?’
‘Oh.’ He hadn’t even considered it. ‘Uh. No. I have— Oh.’ He had no idea what to do now. If he wanted money, and he rarely did, he just told his people to give it to him. A sense of panic swept over him, as though he found himself hopelessly adrift on an open sea. ‘Oh God almighty. I’ve only got about twenty pounds left.’ It was a tiny sum, a nothing. When it ran out, he wouldn’t have anything else. He stared speechlessly at Daizell.
‘Twenty? Lord, that’s all right,’ Daizell said with staggering airiness. ‘I thought we had our pockets to let. You, I mean; I already do. Er, you can get more, yes?’
‘I have plenty of money. I can send to home.’ But that would doubtless mean he’d lost the wager, and he’d have to admit he’d been robbedagain. Leo would laugh, the aunts would flap, and Lord Hugo would say he’d known all along that the Duke would come to this. No. He would – how did people get money?
‘We’re in Birmingham,’ he said, thinking it through. ‘I can surely find a bank. Of course I can.’ He looked a disgrace but he had his card case, which had, thankfully, been hidden at the bottom of his luggage. ‘We might need to stay here a night or two if they have to send to verify that I have the funds, but – yes. Bank.’ It was a plan. He wasn’t going to be destitute. He could breathe again.
‘That seems very sensible,’ Daizell said. ‘Shall we find a place to stay and then you can do that?’
It took Cassian a while. He banked with Coutt’s in London, but they had no office here; he eventually discovered that Birmingham offered a branch of Taylors and Lloyds. There he had a stroke of luck: the manager was an ambitious man who had used to work in Gloucester, and knew the Duke of Severn when he saw him even in an ill-fitting coat. He insisted on serving tea with great ceremony, promised absolute discretion, made no comment at all about his dishevelled appearance or unattended presence in Birmingham, hinted that Taylors and Lloyd’s would provide His Grace with exceptional service at all times if they should be so fortunate as to have his business in the future, and furnished him with a hundred pounds.
Cassian emerged after a couple of hours with money in his pocket, a little soothed by the comforting exercise of privilege. He didn’t want servility but it was undeniably pleasant to be recognised. He also felt slightly guilty, as hewasn’t entirely sure if this fell within the terms of the wager, but decided it was fair: he’d never agreed to be a pauper.
That said, he was irritated at himself for having lost so much money to thievery. He added it to his list of reasons to resent Sir James Vier, who would under no circumstances be getting his greys.
He returned to the Spread Eagle inn where they had decided to stay, and found Daizell cutting a profile. A little crowd stood around him, chanting. ‘Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine . . .’
‘Said he’ll do it before a count of a hundred,’ a fellow watcher informed him in a very strong accent. ‘Start to finish. Mr Bignall said he couldn’t, but look at them scissors twinkle!’
Daizell was moving the paper rapidly in that smooth manner, gleaming eyes flicking from subject to scissors. His face was intent but a smile curved his lips as the count carried on. ‘Ninety-one, ninety-two—’
‘Done!’ Daizell said, triumphantly holding up the profile. The crowd gathered round to judge it against the subject, and made loud noises of admiration.
A man, presumably Mr Bignall, handed over what looked like a banknote and shook Daizell’s hand. ‘Well, sir, you made good on your word. That’s a fast hand and a good eye you have. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.’
‘Thank you kindly,’ Daizell said. ‘Would you care to be cut yourself, as a memento? Not quite so fast this time, my fingers wouldn’t take the strain.’
Within a moment, Bignall was sitting for a profile. Cassian watched from the outskirts, fascinated. Daizell had slipped into what was clearly a practised persona, charming and friendly when he wasn’t locked in concentration on hiswork, and several more people asked for their profiles, at three shillings a time. By the last, Daizell looked in his satchel and clicked his tongue. ‘I’ve no more blackened sheets, I’m afraid. How about a hollow cut?’
‘What’s that, then?’ asked his hopeful customer.
‘Watch.’ Daizell pushed a scissor blade into the middle of a sheet of white paper, piercing a hole rather than starting at the edge, and began to cut. Several people leaned forward, obscuring Cassian’s view, and by the time he’d moved round to see, the cut was almost done: an oddly shaped hole in the middle of the paper. Daizell found a dark blue card in his bag and pasted the paper to it, and there it was: a profile made of empty space, surrounded by white.
