by Erica Ridley
She and Tommy stood at the edge of the chaos, in the empty corridor that led to the wards and Miss Spranklin’s private office. Tommy, dressed as dancing-master Mr. Jones, was part of the entertainment.
Miss Spranklin would not step from center stage until the painstakingly orchestrated reel was danced and the last melody was played.
Unfortunately, given that only the elder girls could play anything at all, this did not afford the Wynchesters as much time as they might have liked. Rehearsals had taken less than ninety minutes. Chloe assumed Miss Spranklin would wax poetic between performances, but anything could go wrong, and there was no time to waste.
“If Miss Spranklin attempts to leave the stage, distract her,” Chloe told Tommy. “If you cannot stop her for any reason, make the sign and Jacob will take action.”
Tommy nodded. “And Graham?”
“He’s in place.”
“What about the...” Tommy’s jaw slackened as she stared at something down the corridor over Chloe’s shoulder. Tommy’s next words were a breathless whisper. “Who is that?”
Chloe turned to look.
Tommy grabbed Chloe’s arm before she could turn about.
“Don’t look,” Tommy hissed, “or she’ll know we’re talking about her.”
“I don’t even know who we’re talking about.” Chloe tightened her hold on her basket. “Describe, please.”
Tommy’s gaze softened. “She looks like a literal angel. Golden hair in perfect ringlets... more lace than I’ve ever seen anyone wear in my life... plump, rosy cheeks...”
“Tommy. This is not the time for a tendre. We have orphans to save.” Chloe straightened her sister’s cravat. “You can talk to the pretty lady later.”
“Talk to her?” Tommy’s words were strangled, and her face went bright red. “I can’t talk to her. I can barely look at her and think at the same time. Besides, we have orphans to save.”
“That’s what I just—”
Tommy dashed off, threading through the noisy, milling crowd before Chloe could finish her sentence.
“‘Orphans to save’ is what I just said,” Chloe grumbled as she turned down the corridor.
Good God, Tommy was right.
That was a lot of lace.
And a problem.
It wasn’t just one woman blocking the exact corridor that Chloe needed to sneak down unobserved. It was an entire gaggle of women. Five of them, with the ball of lace in the center.
“They can’t see me,” Chloe muttered to herself. She was invisible to everyone, especially society ladies. These looked the same age or younger than Chloe herself, and were not accompanied by husbands or children.
Without meeting their eyes, Chloe pasted on a vague expression and began to stroll down the corridor, casually but purposefully. She didn’t wish to appear as though she were in a hurry, but nor did she want to give them an opening to strike up a conversation.
She almost made it.
“Good evening!” two of the ladies chirped at once. Their expressions were slightly befuddled. “Do we know each other?”
“No,” Chloe said quickly.
“But you look so…” mused another.
The ordinary, “vaguely familiar” features that allowed Chloe to meld with any environment were causing her to stand out amongst this particular crowd of women determined to be friendly at all costs.
Should she keep walking? She should keep walking.
But if she did, that would be rude, and rude was memorable.
Blast it all. She was going to have to make small talk.
“Good evening,” Chloe responded tightly and tried to inch past them unobtrusively.
“Are you the mother of one of the children?” asked a young lady with dark hair and a pert nose.
“I am not,” Chloe answered. “I am the French tutor. Are you mothers?”
“Heavens no,” said the walking lace explosion with the pretty blond ringlets. “We’re a reading circle.”
Chloe blinked. “A... reading circle?”
The one with freckles nodded. “Do you like to read?”
“Of course she likes to read,” snapped the one in spectacles. “She’s a governess. What kind of tutor hates books?”
“Why is a reading circle,” Chloe asked politely, “at a boarding school children’s musicale?”
“Oh, that.” Pert Nose smiled beatifically. “We do works of charity when we’re not reading Gothic novels and vulgar prose. We came to see if this institution is one that we should be donating to.”
“When you’re not reading... what?” Chloe asked faintly.
“It’s not all Gothic novels and vulgarity,” said Lace Explosion.
“It’s mostly Gothic novels and vulgarity,” whispered Freckles.
“And then we drink wine and eat cakes!” said Spectacles.
“You should come,” chirped Pert Nose. “What was your name again?”
“She didn’t give it,” said Lace Explosion.
“Well, surely she has one,” said Spectacles.
They all looked at Chloe expectantly.
She could see that the fastest way to be rid of them was to agree with whatever they said—and, honestly, their reading circle sounded like the greatest idea ever invented—so she forced a quick smile.
“I’m Jane Brown,” Chloe said. “Thank you so much for the lovely invitation.”
“Do come,” said Pert Nose. “We meet at Philippa’s house on Thursdays at three and talk for hours. Oh! I’m Gracie, and this is—”
Chloe’s stomach tightened. Her bad feeling about this group was worsening.
“Full names, Gracie,” Freckles said sternly.
Gracie’s cheeks colored. “I’m Miss Grace Kimball. This is Miss Philippa York, in whose well-appointed sitting room we and the other ladies discuss highly inappropriate literature—”
“We also read serious works,” Spectacles interrupted. “And plenty of non-fiction.”
Freckles rolled her eyes. “Not when it’s my turn to pick.”
“—and this young lady is—” Gracie continued.
Chloe was no longer listening.
Miss Philippa York.
The beautiful, blond-ringletted, literal-angel-on-earth that had caused Tommy to stop in her tracks in the middle of a rescue mission was none other than the generously dowried, highborn young lady angling to marry the Duke of Faircliffe.
The statesman Chloe had watched and listened to and—oh, very well, ogled—through a tiny hole in an attic for the past decade.
This was the future Duchess of Faircliffe.
“Yes, of course,” Chloe forced herself to say briskly. “What an honor. I’d be delighted to attend the next reading circle.” She would do no such thing. “But you should hurry to the salon so that you don’t miss any more of the performance. I’ll be there in a moment. Please don’t wait for me.”
“Oh, she’s right!” said Gracie. “The music has started.”
“Thursday,” Spectacles called out over her shoulder as the ladies bustled down the corridor toward the salon.
Chloe would definitely not be attending any sort of riotous, extremely amusing, weekly literature appreciation event with wine and cakes and friendly, vivacious young ladies... hosted by the type of dazzlingly perfect woman the Duke of Faircliffe did pay attention to.
She clenched her teeth and tightened her hold on her basket. She was not jealous. She didn’t even like the Duke of Faircliffe.
Not anymore.
Over the past weeks of countless returned letters and endless rebuffs in person, Faircliffe had shown his true colors as a lofty, smug, self-centered knave. The only thing Chloe wanted from him now was the rightful return of the Wynchester family heirloom.
If Philippa York thought she could melt that pompous arse’s icy heart, then she was welcome to him.
Chloe had orphans to save.
Chapter 13
Chloe pulled out her pocket watch and grimaced.
T
en minutes.
Those gracious, sociable, vexingly entertaining connoisseurs of depraved literature had managed to waste ten precious minutes of rescue time.
Now that the corridor was empty, Chloe gave up all pretense of nonchalance.
She tightened her hold on her basket and burst into a sprint, skidding around the corner past the wards, past the kitchen...
Here.
Miss Spranklin’s private office.
Chloe dropped to her knees to peek through the keyhole. Dim light filled the room from wall sconces.
She fished in her pocket for her iron picks and set to work on the lock.
The first trick was to push up... there, just like that. The delicate part was not letting the lever drop whilst the other pick... jiggled... and teased... and coaxed... until...
In.
She sprang to her feet, flung open the door, and closed it tight behind her.
Miss Spranklin’s private office.
The room was small but did not feel cramped. Likely because nothing was out of place. The floor was empty, the surface of her desk was empty, and the bookshelves lining the walls were meticulously organized. There were no paintings or flowers or little personal touches to give an indication of what sort of person spent her time within these walls.
Chloe supposed that in itself was an indication.
She peeked through the curtains. The window frames were nailed in place and painted shut. Apparently, Miss Spranklin preferred to swelter in the summertime than risk easy external access to her private office.
Chloe smirked. Unluckily for Miss Spranklin, Wynchesters were not limited to doors and windows. With a stone from her basket, Chloe gave a tat, rat-a-tat, tat on the fireplace to let Graham know she’d breached the locked door.
An answering pattern sounded against the brick of the chimney, followed by a soft rustle high above.
From his position on the roof, Graham could not be seen from the windows. He was sequestered behind a gable on the side opposite the road, well out of view of the carriages.
For now.
Chloe looked about the room. She needed to find a ledger or album containing contracts, and there were shelves everywhere. Books squeezed side by side upon each shelf. It would take hours to flip through each volume in search of the one with damning evidence of Miss Spranklin’s unconscionable actions.
With a frustrated sigh, Chloe turned to the first bookshelf and checked the spines of its volumes.
Unmarked.
Of course it wouldn’t be simple.
She picked up the first book and thumbed the pages, sending up a choking cloud of dust. Shopping lists. Who kept old shopping lists?
Chloe put down the book and picked up another. Rents paid on the current building. That was financial, at least, though it didn’t help in the slightest.
She flipped through the next book, and the next, and the next.
Something light fell down the chimney. Another of Chloe’s wicker baskets, this one attached to a rope so that Graham could pull the incontrovertible proof up and away the moment Chloe found it.
If she found it.
The girls were half an hour into their performance.
Chloe glanced about in desperation. For such a small office, it contained far too many journals. How did Miss Spranklin find the ones she needed?
With a quick intake of breath, Chloe rushed to the escritoire and seated herself in Miss Spranklin’s chair. The headmistress would not keep important volumes far from her reach.
But there were no books on the escritoire.
None in the drawers.
The floor surrounding the desk contained a parasol, a pair of boots, and a shawl half-covering up some kind of old wooden...
Strongbox!
She tossed the shawl aside to reveal a rectangular wooden box. This was exactly where Chloe would put something that she didn’t want anyone else to stumble across. Well, not exactly. Chloe would have chosen an iron strongbox, like the sort used in ships.
And then hidden it beneath a floorboard or behind a false wall.
As she placed the box on the escritoire, coins jangled inside. She inspected the lock. It was trickier than the one on the door. She worked at it for several long minutes without success, then flipped the strongbox on its side. The way in was not through the lock, but rather the joints or the hinges.
All she had to do was loosen the joints just enough to... There!
Several leather volumes thumped onto the desk, followed by loose papers and a prodigious amount of bills and coins. The stolen wages. Chloe picked up a book.
The first page bore the name of a student, the date of ingress, the names and direction of her guardians, followed by notations for marks earned as well as a sequence of dates indicating progress reports had been sent home.
This student had left long before Chloe’s tenure. The records seemed to be in chronological order, so she riffled through the pages starting from the back. These would be the most recent acquisitions.
Dorothy.
Agnes.
In order to pen fraudulent progress reports to the guardians of the orphans who were not in classes, Miss Spranklin had no choice but to keep a record of the girls’ names and original addresses.
The journals also contained the names and directions of the employers she’d sent orphans to, in order for Miss Spranklin to ensure she received their monthly wages. In the meantime, she continued to collect school and housing fees from the families and parishes. It was unethical, illegal, and now thoroughly documented.
Miss Spranklin’s meticulousness—and greed—would be her undoing.
Chloe picked up the papers. Contracts! She put everything back into the strongbox, the documents, the ledgers, the stolen funds, then carried it over to the fireplace. Carefully, she placed the unlocked strongbox inside of the basket, and gave the rope three quick tugs.
That was Graham’s signal. The basket disappeared up the chimney.
She closed the door behind her and hurried back down the corridor toward the sound of the pianoforte.
The music stopped.
Chloe’s heart skipped. What if Miss Spranklin had noticed her French tutor’s conspicuous absence? Chloe strode faster toward the anteroom. If Miss Spranklin had made it past Tommy, Jacob would launch his distraction. It would happen in three… two… one…
A piercing scream came from the salon.
Shouts of alarm and the confusion of chairs crashing into each other filled the air.
Pale, wild-eyed ladies clutching smelling salts burst from the salon, practically trampling each other in their haste to dash through the entryway and out into the night.
“Rats!” came the call from inside the salon. “Miss Spranklin’s school is infested with rats!”
That was Elizabeth, who continued the cry in various voices projected from all corners of the salon.
“Rats carry plague!” came another shout, which was almost certainly still Elizabeth.
“Run for our lives!”
After the first wave of stampeding students and guardians came the reading circle ladies Chloe had met in the corridor. Miss Philippa York and her friends looked more confused than panicked, but they were caught up in the flow of running bodies and had no choice but follow the river out of the door and into the street.
Men were fleeing now, too, dragging wives and children with them. They were reacting more from panic than from logic, but to be fair, when Jacob received the signal, he had poured six large baskets of rats and three large baskets of mice in through the open windows.
“I will never let a child of mine anywhere near this school again!” came a shrill voice that was no doubt also Elizabeth. “To think my Annie lived in filth!”
“I would never allow any child near a hovel run by Miss Spranklin!” answered an indignant gentleman that was also probably Elizabeth.
By now, the panicked, fleeing guests would feel much the same way. Parents and guardians ran with their hands locked w
ith their children and wards. Frocks and tailcoats disappeared into the night.
As the salon and the school emptied of potential customers, Miss Spranklin stumbled out into the entryway and turned dumbfounded eyes on Chloe. “Miss Brown! What on earth is happening?”
“Follow me.” Chloe linked her arm through Miss Spranklin’s and guided her out through the door and toward the carriages. “Hurry!”
Miss Spranklin had to trot to keep up. “Where are we going?”
“Right here.”
The door of a smart carriage swung open and two Bow Street Runners leapt lightly to the ground, one of them holding Miss Spranklin’s ledgers in his hand.
“What?” she gasped. “How?”
The carriage behind theirs opened to reveal Marjorie, Graham, and a third Bow Street Runner.
An hour earlier, Marjorie had gone to their headquarters, posing as a distraught mother with a child at Miss Spranklin’s school. She had begged the Runners for immediate assistance, claiming her daughter was being held in squalid conditions.
“Rats!” screamed one of the mothers. “Everywhere!”
Two of the Runners took hold of Miss Spranklin’s elbows. “You’ll come with us, madam.”
As the Runners bundled Miss Spranklin off to the magistrate, Tommy emerged from the school’s servants’ entrance, leading a troupe of bewildered girls to the carriages.
“Agnes!” called Dot. “Over here!”
Dot scrambled from the carriage and the two girls ran to each other’s arms.
“How can I ever repay you?” Mrs. Pine asked in relief.
“You can help us talk to the girls who have no guardians to go home with,” Chloe replied. “They must be frightened, and we need to let them know tonight everything changes for the better.”
The remaining coaches contained a small valise of clothing for each child, all of whom would now possess scholarships to legitimate girls’ schools in London, courtesy of the Wynchester orphan fund. Graham would use the guardians’ directions from Miss Spranklin’s ledger to contact the girls’ guardians and inform them of their new address.
