by Burke, Darcy
“Along with many innocents.” Harry hated that no one had paid for the deaths of several children and young women. “The Vicar started the fire, so he could take over the gang.”
Dearborn looked between them. “Why wasn’t he arrested and tried for the crime?”
“He’s a bloody ghost,” Harry spat before taking another drink.
“We couldn’t find him,” Remy said. “He’s exceptionally good at being evasive—we don’t even know what he looks like for certain.”
Dearborn’s brow creased with confusion. “But you know he’s leading this gang in Saffron Hill? And lending money in Blackfriars?”
“We can’t confirm either, unfortunately. The moneylending came to our attention last year, but then he went underground again,” Harry explained before leaning toward Remy. “How do you know he’s back?”
“One of my informers. I knew you would want to know.”
“I appreciate that,” Harry said. The fire had been one of Harry’s first investigations after becoming a constable. That it remained unsolved had always unsettled him. It wasn’t that there weren’t other unsolved cases, but this one was different. He’d established an informer in the Saffron Hill neighborhood, a sweet young woman who’d been hoping to change her life. Harry had been trying to help her. Then she’d died in that fire. He clenched his jaw. “Looks like I’ll be paying a visit to St. Dunstan-in-the-West.”
“Just know the Vicar’s as guarded as ever,” Remy warned.
“Of that I have no doubt. This time, however, I’m going to catch him.”
“For a four-year-old crime?” Dearborn asked. “Will he actually be convicted?”
Remy chuckled. “You forget that Harry here used to be a barrister. He’ll ensure he has the evidence necessary for a conviction.”
“I did forget.” Dearborn looked to Harry. “Why’d you make the change? I’d think being a barrister would be a more comfortable occupation.” He snorted. “Certainly more profitable.”
It was a question Harry was asked rather often. “I wanted to get out on the street and ensure justice.” It wasn’t that he hadn’t liked being a barrister. He’d just found it…boring. He’d considered purchasing a commission and going to war, but his father had convinced him to stay and make a difference here at home.
Remy took a drink and set his tankard on the table with a clack. “What evidence do you have, Harry?”
“We know it was arson—the circumstances of how it started are documented, if you recall.” At Remy’s nod, Harry continued, “Every person we interviewed said the Vicar started the fire.”
“Sounds like you’ve got him,” Dearborn said with a grin.
“Except no one could provide a consistent description of the Vicar. They didn’t see him. They just reported they knew it was him, meaning they were probably repeating a rumor.”
That had frustrated Harry most of all. It had also troubled him. Why could no two people describe him the same way? He was tall. Or of average height. Oddly, he was never short. He had blue eyes. Or brown. Or gray. He wore a patch on one eye. His hair was dark or fair. Or he was bald. He had a scar. He had a tattoo. He walked with a limp and used a walking stick.
“The Vicar is a powerful figure,” Remy said darkly. “It wouldn’t surprise me if those people didn’t describe him out of fear.”
Dearborn frowned. “But they name him, so that doesn’t seem to make sense.”
No, it didn’t, which was another reason the crime had lived in Harry’s mind. There was just something wrong with it. Now that the Vicar had reemerged, perhaps Harry could finally put it to rest.
“Why is he called the Vicar?” Dearborn asked.
“It’s a nickname,” Remy said. “Some say he listened to the confessions of his fellow criminals before putting them out of their misery.”
Dearborn blew out a whistle. “So he’s a murderer beyond just starting that fire?”
“It’s more than likely,” Harry said. “Men like him have no moral code.” Instead of making him angry, that made Harry sad. What had happened to them to make them that way?
“So you’ll try to catch him?” Remy asked. Harry nodded, and Remy went on, “I’ll assist you in whatever way I can—just say the word.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Now tell us about the fortune-teller.”
Harry thought back over his unproductive meeting with Madame Sybila. “There isn’t much to report yet.”
“Did she discern your future?” Dearborn asked. “Will you be head of Bow Street one day?” He grinned.
Harry shook his head. “She refused to provide her services. Seems she’ll only help women, so I either need to dress as a woman or find a woman to see her and report back to me.”
“There is no chance you could pass for a woman.” Remy laughed, and Dearborn joined in.
Harry cracked a smile as he nodded. “Which means I’ll find someone to help me. Furthermore, she insisted she doesn’t tell the future.”
Remy snorted. “Well, that’s hogwash. What else does a fortune-teller do?”
“Precisely,” Harry said. “But I’ll get to the bottom of her scheme. Then I’ll put a stop to it.”
“I’ve no doubt.” Remy lifted his tankard. “To honesty and lawfulness.”
Harry and Dearborn joined him and repeated the toast.
Yes, he’d find out precisely what Madame Sybila was up to, and then he’d shut her down before she could do real harm to his mother or anyone else. Hopefully, she hadn’t already.
Chapter 2
“He’s been over in front of Somerset House for more than an hour.” Mrs. Kinnon, the owner of The Ardent Rose perfumery, closed the door of Madame Sybila’s small room after stepping inside.
“Thank you for being so observant.” Selina Blackwell set the bonnet over her honey-brown hair and tied the lavender bow beneath her chin.
Mrs. Kinnon blinked, her age-heavy lids briefly obscuring her dark eyes. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”
Selina smiled at the woman she’d known as long as she could remember. “You have always been—and will always be—a wonderful friend.”
Mrs. Kinnon came forward and gently pushed Selina’s hands away from the ribbon. “It’s not straight.” She’d always tried to be a mothering influence since Selina didn’t have one.
“Was he alone?” Selina asked. She’d recognized him from the numerous times she’d walked along Bow Street on her way between her house and the perfumery. He was often in the company of other Runners—either outside the magistrates’ court or in the window of the Brown Bear pub across the street.
“As far as I could tell. But you never know with those Runners. Far too cunning for their own good.”
Indeed, and Selina suspected Harry Sheffield was shrewder than most. She’d expected him to return, though maybe not as quickly as the day after he’d come to see her, and was grateful to have friends looking out for her. It was a strange feeling after so many years of just her and Beatrix, a luxury really.
Apprehension roiled through Selina. She wanted to get out to The Strand and see him for herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Mrs. Kinnon… Well, maybe it was that, at least a little. With the exception of Beatrix, trusting people was hard.
“There.” Mrs. Kinnon stepped back with a satisfied nod. It was astonishing how elegant and respectable she looked now compared with the woman Selina remembered from her youth. Gone was Mrs. Kinnon’s wild, dark hair, replaced by a smooth silver that was always coiled neatly into a knot. And her clothing was impeccable and modest, a far cry from the cheap, coarse gowns she’d sewn for herself, along with the few gowns Selina had owned as a child. “Now you look like the proper lady you’re supposed to be.”
Selina was absolutely not a lady, and she had no notion what she was supposed to be. Dead, probably. The dark turn of her thoughts threatened to paralyze her. But she wouldn’t fall. She couldn’t. She mentally chided herself. Returning to London after so many years was playing
havoc with her equilibrium.
As if that’s all it is.
Selina ignored the voice in her head as she picked up her gloves from the table. Her Madame Sybila costume was safely stowed behind the hidden door in the corner that opened to a tiny closet. She’d also draped a curtain over it just to be sure it remained hidden. “Thank you, Mrs. Kinnon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“And Mr. Sheffield as well, I imagine.”
“Probably,” Selina agreed. “I’m not entirely sure what he’s after.”
“His kind don’t like ours.”
“How would he know what ‘kind’ we are?” Selina asked. It wasn’t as if they wore their rookery origins on a sign around their necks.
“As I said, far too cunning.” Mrs. Kinnon tapped her temple with her fingertip.
Perhaps. Selina often attracted skepticism when she portrayed the fortune-teller, but that hadn’t stopped the scheme from being incredibly profitable. Which was precisely what she needed right now if Beatrix was to be a success.
“Be careful when you leave,” Mrs. Kinnon said as Selina went to the door.
She flashed the older woman a smile. “Always.”
Turning to the right, Selina walked down the corridor, then took a doorway to the right into a small chamber before opening a door that led into the alley behind the shop. Surreptitiously surveying her surroundings, she moved cautiously along the alley. A few minutes later, she turned left onto The Strand. It wasn’t her normal route, but she wanted to see if Sheffield was still across the street.
A quick examination of Somerset House did not reveal the Bow Street Runner. Perhaps he’d grown tired of his surveillance.
Or not.
As Selina approached the front of The Ardent Rose, two things happened at almost the same moment: she saw the tall, hulking figure of Harry Sheffield just past the perfumery, and someone to her right—in a doorway two shops down from The Ardent Rose—cried, “Stop, thief!”
A blur of gray and brown darted past Selina just as she saw Sheffield start to run. Without consideration, Selina pretended to trip and put herself directly in his path. He was either going to catch her, or she was going to get a face full of pavement.
Thankfully, it was the former.
His strong arms swept her up before she hit the ground. Selina wrapped herself around him, clutching at his arms and neck with a loud cry.
“Are you all right?” he asked with great concern even as his gaze followed the fleeing child.
Selina could see the boy—or girl, it was impossible to tell—from the corner of her eye and was glad to see he—or she—was fast.
Even so, Selina wasn’t going to let the Runner go after the child. “I’m afraid I twisted my ankle a bit,” she said with an apologetic smile. “My apologies for falling in such an ungracious manner.”
“Is there a gracious way to fall?” he asked with a hint of a wry smile.
She’d expected him to be annoyed that she’d foiled his pursuit. “I suppose not. Unless one is trying to fall.” Which she absolutely had. “And look good doing it.” Which she had not.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
“Let me try,” she said and, as he lowered her to the pavement, added, “slowly, if you please.” She’d buy as much time as possible for the child to escape.
Sheffield set her gingerly upon the ground, and Selina was careful to put all her weight on her right foot. Then she tested her left, wincing as she did so.
“Does it hurt?” His eyes crinkled at the edge as he asked, and Selina thought he was rather handsome in his concern.
No, a Bow Street Runner is not handsome.
Even if he possessed eyes the color of a warm tawny port and the clear ability to show humor, which only accentuated his good looks. Or that he was quite possibly the most muscular man she’d ever seen.
“It’s a little tender,” she said, ignoring Sheffield’s physical…attributes. She clutched his forearms as she balanced on one foot. “Would you mind giving me a moment?”
His gaze swept beyond her once more, and this time she followed his line of sight. The child had disappeared, likely heading toward the Thames where he or she would almost certainly turn east toward Blackfriars.
Sheffield exhaled, his disappointment palpable.
“Is there something amiss?” Selina asked. She wasn’t sure what made her ask the question, but she was incredibly curious for his answer. Would he tell her the truth?
“I was going to run after a suspected thief.” His use of the word “suspected” was not lost on Selina.
“So I did hear someone yell about a thief.” She looked up at him and tried not to be drawn into his captivating gaze. “You were going to chase him down?”
“I work for Bow Street.”
She feigned surprise. “Oh! And here I got in your way. My apologies.” She let go of his arms and stepped back, wobbling for effect. “Perhaps you can still catch him and make an arrest.”
His auburn brows pitched into a V as his magnificent eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t going to arrest him—or her. It was a child.”
Selina’s breath snagged. “What would you have done?”
“Questioned the miscreant. The child stole from a bakery, so I presume he was hungry. A child like that isn’t a criminal.” His voice dipped. “No child is a criminal, at least not on purpose.”
Now Selina’s lungs utterly arrested. So much so that she had to remind herself to breathe. Mr. Sheffield was not what she’d presumed. And that made him even more dangerous than she’d originally thought. A person she couldn’t anticipate meant higher risk.
As if her life wasn’t already risky enough.
She’d prefer to avoid Mr. Sheffield completely, but it didn’t seem that would be possible given his attention toward Madame Sybila. Which meant she’d have to return the favor and keep a close watch on him.
“You truly believe that?” she asked. “That no child is a criminal?”
“They must be taught, and that isn’t their fault. They can also be taught to be law-abiding citizens.”
“You see to that personally, Mister…?”
His gaze snapped to hers, and Selina realized—too late—that she’d said something very similar to him yesterday as Madame Sybila. Damn, she was usually far more careful. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the similarity since she used an accent when she was in disguise.
She held her breath until he blinked. “Sheffield.” He bowed. “At your service, Miss? Missus?”
“Lady Gresham.”
Surprise flashed in his eyes. “Lady Gresham. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” He glanced around. “No groom?”
She shook her head. “I don’t see a need.” She also didn’t have the budget for one. Her “retainers” were few and had been recommended by Mrs. Kinnon. Only two lived in the small house Selina had rented on Queen Anne Street: the housekeeper—who also served as a cook—and her daughter, who performed the duties of maid. The housekeeper’s nephew occasionally filled the role of groom or coachman when they rented a coach.
Sheffield cocked his head slightly. “How interesting. What does your husband think of that?”
She gave him a mild smile. “My poor deceased husband would have approved. He saw no need for things that aren’t absolutely necessary.”
“I see.” Did he? Since meeting Harry Sheffield the day before, Selina had made inquiries about him. She’d been surprised to learn he was the son of an earl, and as such, he was likely used to a bevy of footmen. The fact that he was a Bow Street Runner only added to his enigmatic aura—another reason she couldn’t afford to lower her guard around him. Especially since he was also the son of one of her clients.
That made Selina wonder if she’d somehow upset Lady Aylesbury so that she’d asked her son to investigate. Selina found that surprising since the countess was one of her most charming clients and always seemed quite happy after their meetings.
“I probably should have brought a groom.” She want
ed to see what he would say. It was imperative she carry on like a respectable lady, and if she had to employ a groom to needlessly follow her around in order to sell the lie, she would. She’d do whatever it took to ensure Beatrix accomplished her goal of conquering London.
He shrugged. “If you don’t need one, I see no reason. But then, I am not particularly adept at Society’s rules.” His tone was cool, and she recalled what she knew of him from Lady Aylesbury. When she mentioned her second son, which was often, it was to ponder how different he was from the rest of the family, how he shunned Society and sought an occupation dealing with criminals and degenerates. Selina wondered what had prompted him to take that path.
“Well, that makes two of us,” Selina said with a light laugh. “I’m fairly new to town, and I’m afraid my country manners aren’t enough to launch my sister in Society.”
“That is no easy feat, even if you aren’t new to town,” he said with more of the warmth he’d demonstrated after she’d fallen into his arms.
“I’m glad to hear it isn’t just me.” Selina put her foot more firmly on the ground. “I think my ankle will be fine. I should be on my way.”
“Shall I call you a hack? Or are you on a local errand?” He glanced about. “Perhaps you’re going to see the fortune-teller.”
“The what?” Selina was eager to hear what he might say about Madame Sybila.
He waved his hand dismissively. “It was my pleasure to save you from certain disaster. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
“I can’t imagine how, but that would be nice.” Selina could well imagine how. In fact, she was already formulating plans to do so. Sheffield bore watching. “Actually, I will take that hack, if you don’t mind.” She didn’t really want to spend the funds, but it would look odd if she didn’t, given that she was supposed to be a lady and she’d just injured herself.
“Of course.”
While Sheffield went to the street to hail a vehicle, Selina glanced toward the perfumery. Mrs. Kinnon stood watching them in the window. She inclined her head slightly, then turned.
“Here you are, my lady,” Sheffield said, gesturing to the hack that had pulled to the side.
