“There are similarities between Lord Devon Roxbury and Eastly, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Cal grunted. She wasn’t wrong. He’d have to pray a decent chap caught Emma’s attention quickly. And clearly Roxbury didn’t have any intention of holding to his side of their bargain. Puppy was right about one thing—if there was a baby, Roxbury would have to do his duty. Which meant Cal couldn’t call him out. More’s the pity. Getting to his feet, Cal plopped his hat on his head and handed the rest of the bread to Puppy.
“Let’s get going. I have to write investors and prepare them for bad news.” Granted, without knowing what percentage of cargo had been salvaged, there was no way to determine the full losses. If they were lucky, people might break even. But that would take tremendous luck, and luck wasn’t something working in his favor lately.
Outside, Puppy handed off the loaf to the first urchin they saw, then climbed into the hack.
“Hill Street,” Cal called to the driver.
Somehow, while the drive out to the docks had seemed to take a year, the ride to Mayfair was a blur of buildings growing steadily larger on wider streets as the smell of the Thames lessened the farther west they traveled. And through it all, Cal observed the woman across from him.
“You’re staring again, Calvin.”
A smile crept over his face. “Oh, I know.”
A delicate pink stained her cheeks, but then she worked her jaw into that stubborn line he recognized, and stared at him in return. “Are we going to do this all the way back to your house?”
“I can’t speak for you, but I’m enjoying the view.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, as if rethinking her words.
“If I’m making you uncomfortable, I’ll find something else to do. But I enjoy looking at you.”
“Because I’m suddenly a woman?”
“Because I’m realizing that I’ve been remiss in appreciating you properly on several fronts. You’re quite extraordinary, and to overlook that for another minute would be tragic. Without the relationship you’ve built and maintained with Peggy, today’s errand would have been a waste of time. The docks, Shoreditch, Almack’s—you seem to find a place for yourself anywhere you go. I am guilty of underestimating you, Puppy. I thought I knew you, so I stopped paying attention.” An idea occurred to him. “You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to. But I have a dare for you. Might be the hardest one yet.” And God knew there had been quite a few absurd dares over the course of their friendship.
She raised her chin, but her lips quirked in a smile. “Harder than running along the rooflines above the pub that one time? I didn’t think I’d make some of those jumps.”
“And I swear my heart stopped until you landed safely. But yes. Harder than that.”
“What’s the challenge?”
“I dare you to give me one more piece of honesty…Tell me your name.”
It took her a minute. A slow blink, then a deep breath that became a heavy sigh. “Ophelia. My name is Ophelia.”
Chapter Nine
Adam’s sister? So Adam is real?”
“Yes, Adam’s sister.”
A footman in pale-blue livery opened the door and waited for them to disembark. Cal hadn’t even realized the carriage had stopped. Motioning for her to go first, he averted his eyes so he wouldn’t give in to the urge to stare at her pert bum in those snug breeches as she stepped down to the pavement.
Getting new personal information from her was like pulling teeth from a chicken, as his childhood cook would have said. That phrase had never felt more appropriate.
“I’m going to finish a few pieces of correspondence in the drawing room before I go home for the day,” she said.
When Cal handed his hat to Higgins, the butler said, “A young man by the name of Nelson Shaw arrived at the servants’ entrance. Cook got one look at him and insisted on feeding him. We have him in the kitchen until you’re ready to see him, milord.”
So the butcher’s son had decided to accept his offer of employment after all. “Put him in the library. I’ll be there in a moment. Thank you, Higgins.”
Exactly five minutes later, Cal made his entrance.
From the side, Nelson Shaw didn’t look like a ruffian. If anything, he resembled a scared kid whose mama had combed his hair, then spit on her thumb to wipe the dirt off his face. His clothes were freshly pressed but fit him poorly as he stood at attention in the middle of the room, as if afraid to move a muscle.
The anxiety evident in Nelson’s stiff posture and profile made Cal want to soften, but looks could be deceiving. Ophelia proved that. No matter how he appeared at the moment, Nelson had participated in the attack on her. Fresh anger brewed in his gut.
Had this nervous kid been the one to kick her ribs and stomach? Cal had seen the bruises himself, blossoming beneath the edge of the bandage around her torso. Had Nelson let her fall, watched her head smash against the cobblestones?
Maybe Nelson had kept some of her clothing for himself. With a critical eye, Cal examined what the young man wore. None of it looked familiar, which worked in the lad’s favor. One thing Cal knew was clothes—particularly her clothes, since once upon a time they’d been in his own wardrobe. But no, these garments would make his tailor wince, although Nelson had made an effort for the interview.
Cal closed the door behind him with more force than necessary, announcing his presence. He hadn’t thought it possible, but Nelson straightened further.
“We meet at last, Mr. Shaw. I’ve heard so much about you.” Cal took a seat behind his desk but refrained for the moment from waving Nelson to a chair. “Not all of it good.”
A ruddy blush stained Nelson’s cheeks, but he acknowledged the statement with a jerky nod.
“You are here today to discuss a position in my employ because of one reason, and one reason only. Even after your role in his attack, Mr. Hardwick vouched for you. He claims you’re redeemable. Are you?”
“What? I mean, pardon, milord?” Nelson gulped. Goodness, the young man’s voice cracked. For a moment, Cal felt sorry for him.
“Redeemable, young Nelson. Are you a good man who made a bad choice, or are you a thief taking advantage of Mr. Hardwick’s kindness?”
“I’d like to think I’m a good man. Or at least, I could be.”
Cal grunted and steepled his fingers under his chin. “We shall see, won’t we? My offer of employment comes with one condition.”
Hope lit Nelson’s features. “Yes, milord?”
“I expect loyalty from my staff. By extension, that implies loyalty to my friends and family. Those that enter this house are under my protection. That would include Mr. Hardwick. You see where the dilemma lies, do you not?”
Nelson shifted slightly and stared at his shoes.
“Yes, I think you do see. If I take you on staff and you steal from me, I will see you prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. They hang thieves, you know.” A smooth chill wrapping around the words. Silence descended until Nelson cleared his throat and met Cal’s gaze.
“I won’t steal from you, milord.”
Meeting his gaze took stones—he’d give him that. “And Mr. Hardwick? What about him? You’ve already stolen from him. How do you propose to make that right?”
Nelson opened his mouth but shut it again. With a frown, he finally asked, “How can I, milord?”
It felt like a hunter catching prey in a trap, and when Cal smiled, he made sure to show teeth. “Information. In this position, you will have a smart uniform, ample food, and a salary that contributes to your family significantly. In exchange for wearing my colors, you will tell me everything you know about the crew from your neighborhood.” Cal eased out of his chair, rising to loom over his desk. Were he built like Ethan, intimidation would be easier. The broad and burly Scotsman would have this youngster pissing himself with one broody glower. “I want names. I want to know why you attacked my friend. Was it random or targeted? If targeted, you’ll tel
l me why and who ordered it.”
The intent turned out to be effective, even without Ethan’s size. Nelson shuffled back a half step, keeping a wary eye on Cal, but gave a terse nod. “Understood, milord. I won’t run with them no more. I won’t need to with this job.”
Cal moved around his desk to lean against the front, crossing his arms. “Don’t cut ties entirely. Not yet. You must walk a fine line for a while. Obviously, I expect you to refrain from criminal activity. But you’ll have to be close enough to hear and report to me if Mr. Hardwick becomes a target again. If you hear his name in any context, I expect a report.”
“You want me to be a turncoat.”
“I see we understand each other. As long as you and I are on the same side, you’ll find your time here valuable. And should you find that a position in service isn’t one you want to pursue long-term, I will write a reference for you in line with the man of character Mr. Hardwick believes you to be. Agreed?” Cal offered a hand, and after a brief hesitation, Nelson shook it.
“Agreed, milord.”
“Good, then you and I should sit for a chat. Afterwards, I’ll take you to Higgins. He will get your livery and assess where you’ll fit best in the house.” Waving his new double agent toward the fireplace, Cal took his customary chair.
Nelson paused in the air, hovering briefly over the seat.
“Second thoughts, lad?”
Nelson sat. “The crew,” he began. “If they find out I’ve betrayed them, things won’t go well for me or my family.”
It was a valid point and showed forethought. It also made him think of Ophelia a short time before, when she explained territorial street gangs with a flippant that’s London. He and young Nelson lived in very different versions of the same city.
“I have several properties across England, Scotland, and Wales. If you feel you or your family are in danger, please tell me. There are plenty of places to hide. Temporarily or permanently.” Softening his tone, Cal said, “You’re not making a deal with the devil. I understand I’m asking you to do something dangerous. My orders come from a deep desire to protect my friend. Your crew could have killed him.” His throat closed over the word killed, making his voice crack. “I need details if I’m to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
There must have been some measure of loyalty within Nelson, because the rigid line of his shoulders softened. “Understood, milord.”
“Good. Let’s have that talk, then, shall we?”
A half hour later Cal handed Nelson over to Higgins, then made his way upstairs to the portrait gallery, where he and Puppy fenced nearly every day. Not the use his forefathers had intended for the room, but certainly a more logical use of space than displaying paintings of dead people.
Lines of perfectly coiffed men and women looked down their noses from gilded frames. Their rows of golden perfection had intimidated him as a child, before he fully understood what a herd of degenerates they’d been. Sure, a few had been generally upstanding members of society. Or at least, their misdeeds hadn’t made it into the family lore. The male ancestors in particular had possessed the moral fortitude of meringue—pretty on the outside, utterly empty beneath the decorative finish.
Running a hand over the plain waistcoat he’d chosen for the day’s jaunt to the docks, Cal paused before the portrait of his mother. She fit right in with the others. Lovely. So utterly lovely. Maybe in the beginning, she’d been faithful. As the story went, his parents were a love match. Until they weren’t. The spectacle of his parents had been exhausting to watch as a child and humiliating to deal with as a young man. The clearest memories from his childhood were of standing at the window, watching as servants loaded his mother’s trunks onto a carriage again—sometimes only days after unpacking them amidst showering kisses and declarations of love for her family—and knowing no matter how obedient a boy he’d been, it wasn’t enough for her to stay. Or to take him with her.
“She was beautiful. You look like her,” Ophelia said from behind him.
Cal turned, oddly relieved to see her. “You’re still here? I thought you’d gone for the day.”
She shrugged a slim shoulder. “I got bored. Figured you might be too. Thought I’d stay and see if you’d indulge me in a match.”
“Feel the need to be trounced, do you?”
“You always say that, and I always win.” She grinned.
A bit of the tightness he’d been carrying in his chest unfurled with a laugh. Puppy, or rather, Ophelia, had a knack for doing that—making him laugh when he didn’t think he could.
“Today might be the day I send you home with your tail between your legs. You never know.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” She seemed relieved that he wasn’t going to press her for more details after she’d shared her name. What she didn’t realize was that over the course of the interview with Nelson, his priorities had shifted. Yes, he wanted to know her secrets. The why to all of this. But first, he had to find the words to warn this woman that despite her clever disguise, her uncle wanted her dead.
* * *
“Cal was right.” Her voice cut through the empty room, punctuating the mess the intruders had left behind. Somehow, Milton had found her amidst the masses of the city. That precious bubble of anonymity she’d constructed since leaving her uncle’s house over a decade before, by keeping her head down at school, then during her years in London—poof. Gone. Just like that.
And she’d been so close. A few more months, and she could reclaim her life. Reclaim her honesty.
The attack wasn’t random, Ophelia. Nelson claims an older man ordered it. Cal’s words earlier that evening weren’t ones she’d wanted to believe. The proof lay before her.
Phee scanned the room to make sure she was alone, then closed the door.
A man calling himself Smith paid cash. The gang’s spy followed him to a room at the Clarendon. Mr. Smith registered under the name Milton Keating. If Nelson spoke the truth—and how could he pull such a credible lie out of nothing?—Uncle Milton had somehow figured out where she lived. Not only that, but he’d visited the offices of Hapsburg Life and Property Insurance on three occasions during this trip to Town. It would appear Milton had taken out a life-insurance policy on Adam. With mere months before the birthday that would remove the family fortune from her uncle’s reach, he’d taken action to collect on his investment. It all came down to money.
Money. Phee charged toward the bed, with its bits of ticking and strips of blankets piled into a messy heap. “Please, please, please,” she breathed in a chant. There, pressed between the wall and the side of the bed, was the small pillow she cuddled close every night. Miraculously, the seams were intact. Wrapping her arms around it, she squeezed until a muted crinkle within the stuffing provided reassurance. They hadn’t found her nest egg. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes as she slumped onto the edge of the bed, clinging to the one thing that mattered within the chaos of the room.
How had he tracked her?
Nothing on paper tied her to this address. When she needed a bank, she traveled to the farthest corner of London from where she laid her head at night. The measly quarterly pittance from her parents’ estate was always paid out in person from a solicitor in Cheapside that she knew served Milton’s interests over hers. Fat lot of good those protective measures did her.
A piece of paper stuck to her boot, and she bent to pick it up. They’d even shredded John’s latest letter. At least it had been happy news—Vicar Arcott had rallied after her visit and grew stronger each day. She threw the bits of paper into the fireplace.
Phee carefully righted the broken footstool, its slashed cushion bleeding stuffing onto the floor. Cramming the bits of fluff into the gaping fabric hole might be a lost cause, but she tried for about fifteen seconds before setting it aside. Pieces of cotton and feathers drifted onto the toe of one boot, pale against black leather.
Cal had told her, but she hadn’t wanted to believe. Not while feeling vuln
erable and exposed after sharing another piece of herself with him. After each revealed truth, they seemed to have a period when they scrambled to reclaim a sense of normality. Being in the pub today had been another piece of blessed routine—he hadn’t accompanied her lately, but he used to canvass the neighborhoods with her all the time. The light flirting in the hack on the way to Mayfair was certainly new, and she didn’t know what to do with it. But that was an issue for a different day.
Now this. Information showing the robbery wasn’t a random act of violence. Accepting it meant accepting that her charade was truly over, short of her goal. Yet to ignore the evidence of her destroyed room would require a level of self-delusion even she couldn’t muster.
She plucked two pieces of a torn waistcoat from the floor. They’d even stolen wooden buttons.
A gentle tap at her door made her sniff, then swipe at her eyes with the back of a hand.
“Mr. Hardwick?” Mrs. Carver’s voice came from the other side. The landlady’s tone said it all. Adam Hardwick was getting evicted.
Dread settled heavy in her limbs as she flipped the latch and opened the door, still clutching the pillow in her other fist.
Mrs. Carver’s face softened with sympathy. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hardwick.” The landlady pulled a few coins from her apron pocket and held them out.
Phee nodded, knowing what came next.
“Here’s the rest of this week’s rent returned to you. You’re a good lad. I don’t know what kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, but it’s not trouble I want on my doorstep. Gather your things. I’ll need you gone by nightfall.”
Phee squeezed out a breath and tightened her hold on the pillow. The faint crinkle soothed the panic tickling the edges of her brain. “I understand. Thank you, Mrs. Carver.”
She would be fine. No, this wasn’t ideal. But she was not without resources. She just needed to survive until the end of the year. Straightening her chin to stand as tall as possible, Phee closed the door and surveyed the room once more.
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