Free Cat's Cradle by Julia Golding Page A

much for me if the tables were turned, wouldn’t you? Admit it, Cat.’
    â€˜I would.’ I touched the topmost guinea with my fingertip. ‘I’ll pay you back.’
    â€˜If you wish.’
    â€˜No, I insist.’ Swiftly, before I could change my mind again, I tucked the coins deep in my pocket.
    Frank let out a breath. ‘Good. I’m glad that’s over. Now tell me what else I can do to help.’
    I polished off the last bit of muffin. ‘You can smuggle me into the Temple.’
    â€˜Ah! It’s the dasher. What might we do for you today, miss?’
    Bob did not seem surprised to see me back so soon. He lounged in the doorway, his eyes sliding to my companion with amused interest.
    â€˜Is Mr Beamish at home?’ I asked.
    â€˜Sleepin’, I expect, miss.’ Bob lowered his voice. ‘Not as young as ’e was but still sharp as a tack in the courtroom.’
    I nodded, as was only polite, still struggling to imagine the cherubic Mr Beamish tearing into criminals as Bob promised he did.
    â€˜Wait a ’alf a mo and I’ll go see if ’e’s receivin’.’
    Frank leaned on the banister and inspected the oriel window above. ‘Nice set of chambers. Charlie’s considering the law; I’ll mention it to him when I get back.’
    Charlie Hengrave had been my pretend older brother during my sojourn at Westminster School. * Warm memories crowded into my mind as I remembered the lark we had had fooling the teachers that I was a boy.
    â€˜How is he?’ I asked. I hadn’t seen him in over a year.
    â€˜Capital. He’s still sharing a set with me, but this time in Trinity Great Court. You’ll doubtless see him when you come to Cambridge.’
    â€˜I’d like that.’
    Bob was back. ‘Mr Beamish is at your disposal, miss, and the young gentleman’s, of course.’
    â€˜He’s the Earl of Arden, Bob,’ I explained as I stepped over the threshold.
    â€˜Blimey, miss, you do move in queer company, don’t you?’ he exclaimed.
    I handed him my bonnet. ‘As fits a dasher.’
    â€˜Indeed, Miss.’ Bob chucked my bonnet with his usual skill on to the coatrack, ribbon flying like a kite string.
    â€˜Not bad,’ whistled Frank. He tried lobbing his own hat but it tumbled ignominiously to the ground.
    â€˜Takes years of practice, my lord.’ Bob picked up the round-brimmed hat and skimmed it to a peg. ‘See?’
    Mr Beamish was sitting exactly where I’d first seen him, behind his desk, surrounded by papers. He rose on my entrance.
    â€˜Ah, Miss Royal, back so soon. Sheridan did warn me you wouldn’t let the grass grow under your feet once you knew.’
    Bob coughed. ‘The Earl of Arden, sir.’
    Beamish turned to Frank and gave him a surprisingly sharp inspection before bowing.
    â€˜Delighted to meet you. Avon’s heir, aren’t you?’
    â€˜I have that honour,’ agreed Frank, bowing.
    â€˜How is the young duke?’
    â€˜Young?’ Frank looked confused, wondering ifMr Beamish was mixing him up with someone else.
    â€˜When you get to my age, everyone’s young. A sobering thought. All my contemporaries are either six feet under or completely gaga.’
    â€˜Except you, sir,’ replied Frank, taking to this jolly barrister.
    â€˜Kind of you to say so, but sometimes I wonder . . .’ He waved us to take a seat. ‘Now, how may I serve you?’
    â€˜I wanted to ask if you would use your influence to secure me a job.’ I paused. ‘At the New Lanark cotton mill.’
    Mr Beamish rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
    Bob nodded. ‘Excellent, dasher. Blindside that Mrs Moir. No flies on you, eh?’
    Mr Beamish pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer of his desk and began writing. He glanced at me. ‘Ever done work of this sort before?’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜Thought not. Still, it’s not