A Secret Surrender Page 20

  “Mr. Winter, what sorts of things do you need?”

  “Clothing, books, money for food, and the other items I mentioned. Also for medicine. Mrs. Winter is now fetching a tonic, which is an extra expense.”

  “And you manage all this yourself, all these children—how many are there again?” Rachel asked.

  “Fourteen today,” Luther said. “The number varies. Some children don’t stay. They don’t believe they will be cared for here.” His tone was sad and appropriately heart wrenching.

  “So they leave?” someone asked, sounding aghast. “How can we stop that?”

  “I’m not sure.” Luther gave the woman a bright smile. “We do our best. Any funds you donate go entirely to the children. I work as a blacksmith. However, it’s becoming more difficult to maintain that work while I help Mrs. Winter care for the children. And we do hope to train them for domestic service.”

  “You can’t keep working at the smithy,” Lady Aylesbury said. “We must start a subscription so you will have a steady income. Then you can focus your efforts entirely on the children. I wonder if we might take a tour of the home to see what we could do to improve your situation?”

  “Yes, of course. I can answer any of your questions, as can Millie.” Luther gestured to the girl next to him. She was one of the oldest, maybe twelve.

  Selina had said they didn’t want to accept a subscription—because this wasn’t real. But what if it was? What if she truly started a home for wayward children? The idea seeded in her mind.

  Luther left the parlor, and most of the women filed out after him before the loud slam of a door crashed from the back of the house.

  Selina hoped that was just one of the children. “Would you like me to check on that, Mr. Winter?”

  “Yes, please,” he called from halfway up the stairs. The women following him continued on their way. However, the two that had not—Harry’s sisters, Rachel and Imogen—stayed behind with Selina.

  “You go on ahead,” Selina urged. “I’ve seen the home before.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need assistance?” Imogen asked.

  “No, thank—”

  Selina was interrupted by the arrival of Theresa, who’d swept in from the back of the house. Her dark hair was partially up, but lank strands hung around her face and neck. She looked pale except for the dark purple circles under her bloodshot eyes. “I forgot ’tis fancy lady day!”

  She was still drunk. Blast it all! Selina rushed toward her, making sure to use the walking stick and maintain her slight hunch. “Mrs. Winter, my goodness, you look as if you’ve become ill yourself. Likely from tending to the sick child. Let me help you upstairs.”

  “We can help her,” Rachel offered, coming toward them.

  Theresa turned on Selina. “I don’t want your ’elp. Luther’s always going on ’bout you. ’Ow smart you are, ’ow pretty you are, ’ow—”

  Selina took her walking stick and moved it atop Theresa’s foot, pressing gently—for now. “Mrs. Winter, you sound as if you’re feverish. Best to be quiet and go get some rest.”

  Theresa glared at Selina. “I’m feverish, awright.” She lunged toward Selina, reaching for the veil.

  Horrified, Selina reacted quickly—too quickly. She jerked back to avoid having the veil torn from her face, and in so doing, lost her balance. Rather than try to remain upright, she used her stick to take Theresa down with her.

  Rolling so she was closer to Theresa, Selina whispered, “If you ruin this, you get nothing. Just go upstairs to your room and stay out of sight.”

  Theresa’s eyes widened briefly. Then Imogen helped her up while Rachel crouched down beside Selina.

  “Are you all right, Madame Sybila?” Rachel asked with concern.

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Poor Mrs. Winter needs to lie down, I’m afraid. We should see her upstairs.”

  “I can do that,” Imogen said.

  As Rachel helped Selina to stand, Selina’s hat teetered. She felt her veil begin to shift. Moving more adroitly than she probably should have, Selina righted herself, then readjusted her hat to keep herself covered lest Rachel see beneath the veil. Though Selina wore cosmetics, she worried Rachel would still recognize her.

  Rachel retrieved the walking stick and handed it to Selina. “You’re sure you’re all right? That was quite a fall.”

  Selina had landed on her hip, and it did hurt. She prayed Harry’s sister hadn’t seen anything that would lead her to the truth. God, this was becoming completely untenable. “I’m fine, thank you.” She would be fine as soon as this bloody excursion was over. If she hadn’t already decided Madame Sybila needed to go, she would have done now.

  The danger of Harry finding out she was the fortune-teller was too great. If Rachel told him what had just happened, he would surely investigate Theresa, Luther, and Sybila more intently than ever.

  Hopefully, Beatrix would find success today, and they would be that much closer to having what they needed. Selina would do one more week as Madame Sybila and then be finished.

  The rest of the visit transpired without further incident, and by the time the ladies left, Selina was in desperate need of a glass of whatever wine or alcohol Luther had in the house. “All I have is gin,” he said when she asked.

  “Then gin it is.” Selina dashed upstairs to change out of her costume. When she returned to the sitting room at the back of the house, her disguise stashed in a portmanteau save the walking stick, which she’d left upstairs, Luther was there with two glasses of gin as well as the bottle.

  He handed a glass to Selina as she set down the portmanteau and her bonnet, then tapped it with his. “To a successful afternoon.”

  Selina let out a sharp laugh before taking a fortifying drink. She winced slightly, for she hadn’t drunk gin in some time. “I hope it was successful. Theresa almost bloody ruined everything.”

  “I heard the commotion. What happened?”

  “She came in drunk and blathering. She called you Luther and went on about—” Selina stopped herself. She didn’t want to tell him what Theresa had said and invite any discussion about how Luther might feel about her.

  “I had to knock her down to shut her up.”

  Luther chuckled. “Just as terrifying as you were when we were children.” His eyes glowed with admiration, making Selina uncomfortable. Yes, she’d had to exert her physical prowess in the past—she’d been taller than all the other girls, and it had helped—but she didn’t do that anymore. She hadn’t in a very long time.

  “I’m not really,” Selina said, taking another sip of gin and then setting the glass down. She picked up her hat and veil from the chair where she’d placed them.

  Luther touched her forearm. “I don’t care who you are—a fortune-teller, a Society lady, or the girl I’ve known nearly my whole life. I know you.”

  Selina jerked away from him. “You don’t know me at all. It’s been eighteen years since you saw me last. You know nothing, and don’t pretend you do.”

  He dropped his hand to his side, his eyes darkening. “Maybe I don’t. But I made you a promise that I would take care of you. I still take that seriously.”

  Selina’s chest constricted, but she forced herself to breathe. “I release you from that promise. The only person I expect to take care of me is me.” Except the idea of Harry caring for her stole into her mind along with a flash of joy. She put on her bonnet and picked up the portmanteau before departing through the back door and making her way to Newgate, where she caught a hack.

  She didn’t need anybody. She hadn’t needed anybody for a very long time. For the first time—with Harry—she wanted somebody. But want was not the same as need, and she would make sure they never were.

  Chapter 16

  “You look rather pleased with yourself,” Remy noted as Harry joined him and Dearborn at a table at the Brown Bear on Monday afternoon.

  “Do I?” Harry didn’t bother suppressing his smile. He couldn’t seem to stop his joy from leaking out.
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  Twice more, he and Selina had stolen away since he’d gone to her house on Thursday evening. He’d gone to her house again on Friday night, and then she’d come to his on Saturday afternoon. He could hardly wait to see her again, especially since they hadn’t seen each other yesterday. Perhaps tonight…

  “Why is that?” Dearborn asked before taking a long drink of ale.

  The serving maid brought a tankard for Harry, but didn’t linger.

  “No particular reason,” Harry lied. He had no intention of sharing his affair with anyone, least of all Remy and Dearborn. It was bad enough that he’d all but told Jeremy. But then, who else would Harry tell? “When I came in, it looked like you two were deep in discussion,” Harry said, diverting the conversation. “Working on something?”

  “Yes, actually,” Dearborn said with a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. “There’s been a string of robberies in Mayfair. Prominent households. I was just assigned the case.”

  Harry could see the young man’s eagerness and recalled when he’d started as a constable four years before. “I haven’t heard about these thefts.”

  Remy snorted. “You think you should have because you come from a prominent family?”

  Harry gave him a sardonic smile. He was used to being teased about his station. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You know I’m not one for gossip. Who are the victims?”

  Dearborn pulled out a small notebook and read from it. “Mapleton-Lowther, Whitney, Tilden, Balcombe.”

  All those names were familiar to Harry. They were friends of his parents. “What’s gone missing?”

  “Jewelry.” Dearborn returned the notebook to his pocket.

  Harry thought of the bracelet theft at Spring Hollow. To his knowledge, it had never been found. He wondered if Bowles had given the victim its replacement cost.

  Dearborn continued, “It looks like nearly all the robberies are happening while events are going on at the victims’ houses—during a rout or a ball.”

  “An excellent time to steal something—when everyone is occupied.” Harry took a drink of ale. “But you said nearly all?”

  “One was in the middle of the day,” Dearborn said. “Last Friday.”

  “A guest could be the culprit,” Remy said, cocking his head to the side in contemplation. “Though that would be strange. Presumably, any guest to an event like that wouldn’t need to steal things.”

  “Perhaps need isn’t part of it.” A few years back, Harry had caught a young woman stealing in a shop. She’d tucked a pair of gloves into her reticule. When Harry had taken her aside, she’d been surprised because she hadn’t even realized she’d taken them. Her genuine puzzlement—and alarm—had quite convinced Harry that she hadn’t been lying. He’d let her go on the promise she’d pay more attention and never to do it again.

  “Greed, then,” Remy said with a slight sneer. “That wouldn’t surprise me.” He inclined his head toward Harry. “No offense to you and your kind.”

  Harry clenched his teeth before taking a drink of ale. He might be used to taunts, but that didn’t mean they didn’t irritate him from time to time.

  “Any news of the Vicar?” Dearborn asked.

  Remy swallowed a drink of ale. “I heard a rumor he’s no longer going to lend money.”

  Harry frowned into his tankard before setting it down. “I suppose he’ll fade away again, and we’ll never catch him.”

  Remy blew out a breath as he tapped his fingertips on the table briefly. “That happens sometimes.”

  “It’s still wrong,” Harry said. “He should pay for his crimes.”

  Dearborn looked between Harry and Remy. “But we don’t really know if he’s responsible for that fire. Wasn’t there another man you were looking into?”

  Harry nodded as he leaned back, one hand curled around the base of his tankard. “Frost. I spoke with Thorpe at Hatton Garden, and he confirmed Frost is in charge in Saffron Hill.”

  “I did the same,” Remy said with a short laugh. “But not with Thorpe. It seems Frost is less of a menace than Partridge was. He doesn’t own any flash houses, just receiver shops. And he doesn’t press children into his gang. Though he makes it enticing to work for him. He’s quite magnanimous, from what I hear.”

  “Still a criminal,” Harry said brusquely.

  “Definitely.”

  “Do you think he’s the one who started the fire?” Dearborn asked. “Instead of the Vicar, I mean.”

  Harry exhaled. “It’s possible. I want to talk to him. He should be easier to find than the Vicar, eh?”

  “One would think,” Remy agreed. “I’ll try to find him too. One of us will run him to ground.”

  Harry picked up his tankard. “Bring him to Bow Street.”

  “Will do,” Remy said, clacking his ale against Harry’s.

  Dearborn rushed to add his to the toast, then they all drank.

  Harry dropped his mug to the table. “How are Alice and the children, Remy?”

  “Loud.” Remy chuckled. “How is your family? Any new women they’re hoping to match you with?” He sniggered.

  “Yes, but I think I’ve set them straight. Again.”

  Dearborn ran a hand through his hair. “My mother does the same thing. Lately, she keeps trying to pair me off with the girl down the lane.” He shook his head. “It’s so bad, I don’t want to go round there!”

  “Harry’s a glutton,” Remy said. “He still goes to his parents’ for dinner every week.”

  “Not quite every week.”

  “Who’s the young lady this time?” Remy asked. “Another chit whose father is too high in the instep to see her wed to a Runner, even if he is the son of an earl?”

  Harry pulled out his pocket watch in an effort to avoid this conversation. “I need to be going.”

  Remy grinned as he leaned over and stage-whispered to Dearborn, “That’s Harry’s blatant attempt to avoid discussing it. Which tells me the chit is maybe worth a second look.” He winked at Harry.

  Finishing his ale, Harry stood. “See you later, lads.” He shook his head, smiling before dropping coins on the table and taking himself off.

  Selina was worth a second, third, and fourth look. And he’d be damned if he was going to discuss her with Remy and Dearborn. Or with his family. What they shared was special.

  It was also tenuous. They’d made no promises, no assurances, and there were no expectations—at least on his part. He’d wager she had none either.

  For now, that was perfect. But would it remain that way?

  * * *

  After dinner, Rafe sent a coach to fetch Selina to his new house on Upper Brook Street. An imposing structure with a grand Palladian façade, it was beyond anything Selina could have imagined.

  Inside, she followed Rafe’s butler into the ground floor sitting room. The size and grandeur were awe-inspiring. She couldn’t believe this was his.

  The sitting room boasted a large fireplace, windows that looked out to the substantial garden behind the house, and two seating areas—one clustered in the center of the room and another near the windows that included a round table. Several paintings stood against the walls, clearly waiting to be hung.

  She felt small and strange.

  “Lady Gresham, welcome,” Rafe said as he strode into the sitting room.

  Selina snorted into a laugh. “This is excessive, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” He surveyed the room, then looked back to her. “Wait until you see the drawing room upstairs—it’s not finished yet. Nothing is, really. But we’re working on it.”

  She wanted to know how he could possibly afford all this, but also didn’t want to ask for specifics. Not yet. Maybe they would get to a point where they were open with each other.

  Maybe they wouldn’t.

  Instead, she focused on the reason for her visit. “I’ve been trying to see you.”

  “I know. I got your note. As you can see, I’ve been busy.” He’d finally sent her a message that afternoon, inviting her to
come here to his new house.

  “Are you going to host a ball?”

  He frowned. “Do you think I should?”

  Selina threw up her hands. “How should I know? I infiltrated Society for one purpose—to promote Beatrix. Once that is finished, I’ll be done, thank goodness.”

  “You don’t like London?” he asked. “Society, I mean. London is far more than just this.” He gestured to the large room.

  “Society is rather superficial.”

  “Haven’t you met anyone you like?”

  She had, actually. The Spitfire Society ladies. Harry’s family.

  Harry. Leaving him would be as painful as leaving Rafe had been all those years ago. More, probably.

  Selina decided to ignore the question. “You could host a ball for Beatrix since she’s your sister. In fact, you probably should.”

  “You raise a valid point. However, I have not been properly introduced. I’ll need to establish some contacts in Society first.”

  “You haven’t been invited to the Earl of Aylesbury’s house yet?” Selina had been certain that Rachel would encourage her parents to do so.

  “Not as of yet.”

  “I’ll see what I can do to make certain that happens.”

  “Thank you. I have other…connections I can exploit.”

  His choice of words made her flinch inwardly, which was also strange. This was the life they led—they sought opportunity and then made the most of it. If they didn’t, they starved.

  Well, Rafe was clearly not in danger of that any longer. But it seemed he had other ambitions. She looked at him intently. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

  “Simply to establish a solid footing here in Society.”

  There had to be more to it than that, but maybe there wasn’t. As children, they’d dreamed of a comfortable life. Specifically, he’d longed for a library, one of the things he remembered most about their home before their parents had died. And a horse. Unlike Selina, he’d learned to ride before they’d been orphaned.