A Secret Surrender Page 15

  “Is that pride I hear?” Rafe asked with a chuckle. “Back when we were children, I recall your fingers being as adept as mine—and much smaller, so you were able to filch things I couldn’t.”

  “Selina taught me everything I know.” Beatrix briefly patted Selina’s hand.

  “Beatrix was not born into this life as we were,” Selina explained.

  Rafe’s brow creased for a fleeting moment. “We weren’t born into it either.”

  Selina didn’t remember anything else, but Rafe recalled snippets of their life before their “uncle” had brought them to London. He remembered their parents, their cheerful father, who had started teaching Rafe to ride, and their kind mother, with her bright blonde hair and love of reading, which Rafe had inherited. He’d made sure to teach Selina, which had set her apart from all the other children they’d grown up with.

  “We may as well have been,” Selina murmured. “She stole the bracelet because she likes pretty things.”

  Rafe transferred his gaze to Beatrix. “It’s only a matter of time before you’re caught.”

  Beatrix shrugged, her shoulder brushing Selina’s. “I haven’t been yet.”

  “Have you tried to pass yourself off as a Society miss before?” Rafe asked, arching a brow.

  “On occasion, yes.”

  “But not in London. People will watch you more closely here.”

  “Not at a pleasure garden,” Beatrix said defensively.

  “Ah, well, if that’s the only place you’re doing it…” His tone clearly said he didn’t believe that.

  Selina sat up straighter. “Enough. You officially pass the sibling test.” She frowned at Rafe, then cast Beatrix a quelling look. “On that note, I said we haven’t seen you in eighteen years, Rafe, and just once before since we returned to London two months ago.”

  “You kept to the truth. As I said earlier, you always were very smart.”

  She didn’t want to feel pleased by his compliment, but she did nonetheless. Pleasing him had been her chief objective before he’d sent her away. “I also told them Beatrix and I were sent to boarding school. And in the past, I’ve told Harry—Sheffield—that I am an orphan and was raised by family. A poor one at that.” Rafe studied her closely. She added, “I didn’t specify what sort of family.”

  “You seem quite close with Sheffield,” Rafe said slowly.

  “I said that I planned to keep him close. He’s reinvestigating the fire on Saffron Hill. That’s progress, isn’t it?”

  Rafe crossed his arms over his chest. “It is indeed. I’d hoped to make further progress with him tonight, but Beatrix ruined the plan with her pickpocketing.”

  Beatrix scowled at him, and Selina gave her another sharp look before turning her gaze to Rafe. “What was your plan?”

  “One of my men was going to share information I’ve learned with your Runner. The denizens of Saffron Hill were told to say the Vicar set that fire.”

  “By whom?”

  “That I don’t know yet, but someone who frightens them. If your Runner goes digging, I doubt he’ll strike treasure.”

  Selina gave him a level stare. “He’s not my Runner.”

  “If you say so.” Rafe unfolded his arms, and the movement made him seem larger than his already imposing presence. He commanded the interior of the coach. If he’d been anyone else, Selina might feel threatened. Perhaps. Long ago, she’d vowed not to let men intimidate her.

  “How will you get the information to him now?” Selina asked.

  “I spoke to one of my men before we left. He’ll ensure the message is delivered before Sheffield leaves the gardens.”

  Selina thought of when Rafe had gone to talk to one of the footmen. “You—and the Vicar—have a loyal following.”

  “You remember how important that is. Without it, life expectancy is cut at least in half.”

  A shiver ran down Selina’s spine. Perhaps she’d been luckier to escape London than she ever realized. Developing relationships with people was not her strength. She shared loyalty with one person—Beatrix—and wasn’t sure she could handle more than that. Which made her sad. She’d expected her reunion with Rafe to come with the love and trust they’d once shared.

  Rafe seemed to know what he’d provoked—the realization that he and Selina were practically strangers. “I’m incredibly sorry we lost touch.”

  Selina was too, but she wasn’t going to say so. Not now. Maybe not ever. What good would it do? Always look forward.

  “Harry will undoubtedly search for the person who told everyone to lie,” she said, glancing out the window. They were close to Queen Anne Street. “You should continue to investigate. The sooner you clear the Vicar’s name, the better. Though I still think you should just kill him. The Vicar, I mean.”

  “I will. Eventually.” Rafe glanced between Selina and Beatrix. “Which one of you will fence the bracelet?”

  “I will.” Selina smoothed her hand over her skirt.

  “Take it to The Golden Lion on Shoe Lane. They’ll give you a good price.”

  Selina arched a brow at him. “Is that yours?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Does it matter?”

  She didn’t want to take his money. But this wasn’t a direct transaction, and in this instance, she would accept his…assistance. Finding a fair receiver shop was often difficult, especially in London. “I’ve been going to a few places over in Whitechapel.”

  “This will be more profitable. There are several others around Shoe Lane, if you prefer. All will be better than Whitechapel.”

  Selina inclined her head as the coach pulled onto Queen Anne Street. “Thank you.”

  Rafe unfolded his arms and leaned forward. “I could just give you the money now. Whatever you need.”

  Selina paused, but only for a moment. She’d had to rely on herself the past twelve years. After the disaster of trusting someone else—her employer—when she’d worked as a governess, she’d vowed never to do so again. Rafe might be her brother, but she didn’t really know him, and hadn’t for a long time. “No, thank you.”

  The coach drew to a stop in front of their house. Rafe reached for the door but didn’t move further. “I won’t offer again, but you need only ask.”

  He opened the door and climbed down from the coach. Holding up his hand, he helped her descend, then Beatrix. Selina turned to him. “You should expect an invitation to…something from Lord and Lady Aylesbury.”

  “Sheffield’s parents.”

  Selina nodded. “Mrs. Hayes—Rachel—will surely want to further interrogate you.”

  Amusement crossed Rafe’s features. “I’ll look forward to it. And we’ll speak soon.”

  Selina turned and went into the house with Beatrix. As soon as the door closed, Beatrix spoke. “Why won’t you take his money? He clearly has plenty to spare.”

  “You know why,” Selina said tersely. “Give me the bracelet.”

  Beatrix fished it from her reticule and dropped it into Selina’s hand. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t do that again. We have a plan. Stick to it, please.”

  Guilt flashed in Beatrix’s eyes. “Yes.”

  Selina knew Beatrix couldn’t help herself. Exhaling, she briefly clasped Beatrix’s hand. “I know it’s hard,” she said softly. “Don’t dwell on it. I’ll take care of the bracelet.”

  “Will you take it to Rafe’s receiver shop? I assume The Golden Lion is his.”

  “As do I.” Selina would go and see it at least.

  They made their way upstairs, but before they retreated to their chambers, Beatrix touched Selina’s arm. “What happened with Sheffield?”

  “Nothing.”

  Beatrix stared at her in disbelief. “He took you for a promenade. The path seemed rather dark.” The implication was clear.

  Selina returned her stare. “Someone shrieked.”

  Beatrix’s eyes crinkled—a faint but clear sign of guilt. “Good night.”

  They separated and went to their chambers
. Selina closed her hand around the bracelet as she stepped into her room. Walking to the dressing table, she opened her fingers and looked down at the rubies and gold glinting in the candlelight. She dropped the piece onto the table, then removed her gloves.

  What would have happened if the shriek hadn’t interrupted her and Harry? A kiss, certainly. But would there have been more? Would she have allowed it?

  Could she?

  Selina closed her eyes, but didn’t let the twelve-year-old nightmare rise in her mind. Instead, she thought of Harry. Of his caring, his intelligence, his kisses.

  An affair.

  She should say no—every part of her screamed a warning at allowing him too close. But some of those same parts also told her she deserved something. It would be so nice to have a joyful memory amidst all the bad ones. Just one to make her smile and to perhaps banish the only experience she’d had with a man to the recesses of her mind once and for all.

  Weariness swept over her. When would it be time to finally let down her guard?

  She feared the answer was never.

  Chapter 12

  Selina’s presence in Harry’s dreams the past two nights coupled with her absence since he’d proposed an affair was driving him to distraction. As he went about his duties, he couldn’t stop thinking of her, wondering if he’d overstepped. But no, she’d admitted she was as attracted to him as he was to her.

  That didn’t mean, however, that she wanted to engage in a liaison.

  And yet, she’d said she would see him soon. Soon, he realized, was frustratingly relative. He’d never been particularly patient, especially with something he really wanted.

  Perhaps he could initiate a reason to see her. While he’d never taught someone to ride, he could teach her. If she was amenable.

  Taking a deep breath, he told himself to focus on the matter at hand as he approached Finch Lane. It took him a quarter hour and several interviews to learn that a fortune-teller had lived at number eight, a rooming house. Harry knocked on the door and waited for the proprietor to answer.

  A man in his sixties with a crop of bright white hair and deep-set blue eyes opened the door. He surveyed Harry from head to foot. “How can I help ye?”

  “My name is Sheffield, and I work for Bow Street. I would like to ask you about a fortune-teller.” Harry pulled his small notebook from his pocket along with his pencil.

  “Not interested in a room, then?” he asked, squinting one eye. “Pity, as I’ve one available.”

  “No, thank you. I’d like to know about a woman who let a room recently, a fortune-teller.”

  The man nodded. “Madame Sybila. Didn’t like what she was doin’. I never would’ve given her the room if I’d known.”

  “How did you determine she was telling fortunes?”

  “She started seeing people in her room, more than just the two women who came to care for her.”

  Harry scratched a note and looked at the man with interest. “Was she ill?”

  “Not that I could see, but I don’t think anyone ever got a good look at the fortune-teller. Those women were around a great deal.”

  “Did they live here?”

  “They didn’t pay rent, which was another reason I told her to go.”

  “So they were staying here?” Harry asked eagerly.

  “Couldn’t ever say for sure, but it seemed like they might be.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  The man frowned. “Blackwell, maybe? Or Blakewell? Blakely? Something like that.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  Scrunching his face, the man thought for a moment. “I think one of them was tall? Or maybe one was just short. I can’t rightly recall.”

  Harry wrote down the man’s murky recollections. “Did Madame Sybila leave anything behind after she left?”

  “Not that I could find. She was quite tidy, actually. If not for the heathenish behavior, she was a good tenant. Can’t abide that ungodly rubbish, though.”

  “Did she by chance tell you where she moved to?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. Good riddance.”

  After closing his notebook, Harry stuck it and the pencil back into his coat. “Thank you for your time.”

  Harry turned from the boardinghouse and looked around the street. He could make other inquiries. Surely someone would have seen the women who’d been visiting—or staying with—Madame Sybila.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have time at present. He needed to get to Saffron Hill to pursue the information he’d received at Spring Hollow the other night. Though his rendezvous had been interrupted by the theft of the woman’s bracelet, the informer had found Harry later. He’d asked a footman to tell Harry to meet him.

  Middle-aged, with a nervous demeanor, the informer had refused to give Harry his name. He’d said the fire in Saffron Hill hadn’t been started by the Vicar, but that everyone had been told to say that it was. When Harry had questioned him for more information, the man had been frustratingly ignorant. He didn’t know who had told everyone to say it was the Vicar, nor could he say who had started the fire. He also couldn’t provide a description of the Vicar. And of course, he wouldn’t say how he knew this information or why he’d chosen to give it to Harry. The entire encounter had left Harry feeling annoyed and more than a bit skeptical.

  Nevertheless, he was on his way to Saffron Hill to see what he could learn. He caught a hack and had it drop him near the location of the fire four years ago. There was a new building there now. A clothing merchant occupied the ground floor.

  Harry briefly closed his eyes and saw the charred remains of the flash house where the feared leader of the gang who’d controlled this neighborhood and his right-hand man had perished along with several children and young women. Blinking, he took in the bustling street around him. There were women shopping, men going into a tavern, and children—so many children. Too many, in fact. Harry had to assume a good portion of them were orphans or perhaps had a single parent who couldn’t provide for them. Some were begging, while others carried a haughty air of defiance as they stood in small clusters.

  As Harry walked, he considered what the informer had told him—that someone had instructed the residents of Saffron Hill to say that the Vicar had started the fire. Who had the power to convince them all to go along with that story? Would they still? There was only one way to find out.

  Harry went into a cobbler’s shop situated across and down a few buildings from where the flash house had been. The proprietor had been one of the witnesses who’d reported seeing the Vicar leave the flash house.

  The shop was small but tidy. As Harry walked toward the counter, a man with close-cropped dark hair eyed him warily. Though four years had passed, Harry immediately recognized him as the cobbler he’d interviewed.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Gregson,” Harry said with a smile.

  The cobbler squinted at him. “Do I know ye?”

  “We spoke several years ago—after the fire across the street.” Harry had reviewed his notes that morning, so he recalled precisely what Gregson had told him. “I was a constable at Hatton Garden. Now I work for Bow Street.”

  The man’s gaze remained guarded. “How can I help ye?”

  “I’m here to ask about the fire again. Back then, you told me a man called the Vicar started it. I’ve some new information that requires me to reinvestigate the crime. At the time, you were confident the Vicar was responsible. However, your description of him doesn’t match anyone else’s. In fact, everyone seemed to have a slightly different recollection of what the man looked like.” Harry cocked his head to the side. “Did someone tell you to say it was the Vicar?”

  Gregson paled. His throat worked, but he hesitated to speak. Harry waited patiently, allowing the uncomfortable silence to prod the cobbler to spill the truth. At length, he croaked, “No.”

  Harry clucked his tongue with a shake of his head. “That’s not what I hear. As a man of the law, I remind you of the importance of giving
honest testimony, Mr. Gregson.”

  “Everyone said it was the Vicar.” The man seemed to shrug, but the movement ended up looking more like a flinch, as if he were physically trying to keep himself from talking.

  “You were just going along?” Harry asked. “I can understand doing that. It’s difficult to be the one person who says something different.”

  The man’s eyes widened and stayed that way, making him look incredibly frightened.

  Harry continued. “Would it help you to know that I’ve already spoken to someone who said he was told to say it was the Vicar?”

  Gregson exhaled, but the apprehension didn’t completely leave his expression. “Who told you that?”

  “Ah now, that wouldn’t be fair to him, would it?” Harry leaned over the counter. “The fire was so long ago. Surely whoever cared about it then doesn’t anymore.”

  “Please don’t ask me anything more.” There was a desperate plea in the man’s voice.

  “Then direct me to someone else who will tell me something. Otherwise, I may bring you to Bow Street for interrogation.”

  The stark fear returned to Gregson’s eyes. “It wasn’t the Vicar. I don’t even know who he is.”

  “Who’s in charge of this area now?” Harry asked.

  “Frost.” Gregson cowered, as if uttering the name would bring physical harm down upon him.

  “Where can I find Frost?”

  Gregson shook his head. “That’s all I know. Please, sir,” he begged. Though he didn’t say what he wanted, it was clear to Harry: he wanted Harry to go away and never return to his shop.

  “I’ll go in a moment,” Harry said benignly. “Who else can I talk to?” Hopefully, his meaning was also clear: give me a name and I’ll leave you alone.

  “Maggie. She weaves baskets down the street a bit.” Gregson used his thumb to gesture to his left.

  “Does she remember the fire?”

  Gregson nodded. “She was in the building.”

  “Thank you for your…cooperation.” Harry frowned. “I’m sorry you’re so frightened.” No one should have to live like that. Whoever terrified the people of this neighborhood should be brought to justice, and Harry would do his best to make sure that happened. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to look further than Frost.