Her brother shook his head. “That’s not true. I tell you, I was winning every hand. I-I . . .” He scrubbed his hand over his face and slumped onto the ottoman. “Dash it all. I fell right into their hands. Didn’t I? The perfect pigeon.”
“Is that why you came home over a week ago? To gamble again?”
“I thought I could win some of it back, but I only fell further into debt. When I saw your neighbor outside, I thought one of the Devil’s thugs had found out where I live.”
Now everything made sense. “You must return to school.”
Michael stood and set his hands on his lean hips. “I’m not going, Em. I must take responsibility for my actions. I will go and talk to Mr. Wolf at his place of business on Danbury Street in Spitalfields.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She couldn’t allow Michael to go to this wretched man, or his thugs, without the money. She would figure something out. “You will do no such thing.”
“But—”
She slipped her hand behind her back and crossed her fingers. “No. I have nearly enough to pay him, and in a day or two, I’m to receive a commission from a nobleman,” she lied.
Wide-eyed, Michael’s mouth gaped. “God blind me, really?”
“Yes.” She stepped up to the tall secretary desk, stood on the chair before it, and removed a key from the top of the piece of furniture.
As she stepped down, Michael grabbed her elbow to steady her.
She opened the desk, unlocked the small door centered between a series of drawers, and removed her bank passbook. She tried not to frown at the amount. She’d spent all the money from Mrs. Naples. And used a substantial amount of the money Simon had paid for the painting of the family walking in the park. What was left would have lasted them several months until she found another commission, but it didn’t come close to the amount Michael owed.
Forcing a smile, Emma waved the book in the air. “I sold one of my paintings to a wealthy gentleman, and he’s commissioned me to do his portrait, so I shall have the full amount shortly. You need not worry.”
“Thank God.” The relief in Michael’s voice was almost tangible.
“Yes, and the gentleman is so pleased with my work, he intends to send more clients my way shortly.” Lying wasn’t her best skill, but since Lily’s escapade at Simon’s residence, Emma believed she might have perfected her duplicity. “And I’ve sent a note to an art dealer, Mr. Bishop, asking him if I might show him some of my work, so he might send some new clients my way.” At least this was true.
Michael slumped against the wall. His blue eyes shone with unshed tears. He rubbed the heels of his hands against them and looked back at her. “I’m sorry, Em. So sorry. I will pay you back. I promise.”
“Just promise on Mama’s and Papa’s graves that you will never gamble again.”
Standing up straighter, he nodded.
“Good. Now, you must head to Victoria station first thing before daybreak tomorrow morning and return to school.”
He squared his shoulders. “No, I will bring the money to Mr. Wolf.”
“You can’t be serious. It is dangerous. I will wait for his men to return here.” Emma turned away from her brother and slipped the bank passbook back into the secretary desk and locked the small center door. She couldn’t allow Michael to see her balance and know she lied. “I must go to the bank tomorrow, and you must return to school before the headmaster realizes your absence. When the two men return, I’ll give them the funds.”
Emma opened the doors and stepped into the entry hall. “Mrs. Flynn!”
The woman rushed down the stairs.
“Will you pack Michael a small satchel with food? He is to return to school at daybreak.”
The housekeeper’s gaze volleyed between Michael and Emma.
“Please, Mrs. Flynn,” Emma said.
The older woman wiped her thick fingers on her white bibbed apron and nodded.
Emma dashed up the stairs so fast the toe of her shoe caught on her hem. She stumbled and fell forward at the first-floor landing. Her knee rammed against the hard wood. Tears blurred her vision.
Lily stepped out of the drawing room. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” She battled to keep her voice calm. “I just tripped.” Emma avoided her sister’s direct gaze and swiped at the tears trailing down her cheeks and righted herself. “Michael must return to school first thing in the morning. You may spend some time with him before you go to bed.”
“What is wrong, Em?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m not a fool. I know something is wrong.”
“It shall all be taken care of. You needn’t worry yourself about it. Now go see your brother.” She gave Lily a quick hug and moved up the steps. Emma closed the door to her bedchamber and swiped at a fresh batch of tears.
After allowing herself to cry for a minute, she dragged the cuff of her sleeve across her wet eyes. Crying would not solve this problem. She needed to do something. But what? She glanced down at her aching arm. Several specks of blood spotted the fabric. That little runt had not only meant to frighten her, but hurt her. And he’d succeeded. What would those two thugs do if they caught up to Michael, who didn’t have the funds he owed the moneylender? Too dreadful to think about. On her deathbed, Mama had asked Emma to take care of her siblings. And she would.
She lit the gas lamp on her dresser and flipped open the lid to her mother’s jewelry box. Her fingers brushed against the ruby necklace. The stones might be paste, but if genuine they would be worth a great deal. She removed the necklace, along with Mama’s cameo and gold wedding band.
As soon as Michael left tomorrow, she’d go to the pawnbroker and see what the pieces were worth. Perhaps if she gave the moneylender some of what Michael owed the man, he wouldn’t harm her brother. She undid the top buttons of her dress and touched Simon’s gold signet ring. It weighed quite a bit. How much was it worth? Most likely more than any of the other pieces.
She slumped on the bed and curled her fingers around it. She could pawn it, and when she had enough money, reclaim it. It was wrong, but she couldn’t weigh her moral convictions against her brother’s life.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The following morning, right after Michael snuck out the back door to make his way to Victoria station, Emma dashed up the stairs and into her bedchamber. She unfolded a linen handkerchief with a lily of the valley flower embroidered in the corner and spread it out on top of her dresser. Mama had stitched it for her, stating the flower represented luck in love. Obviously, it hadn’t worked.
Emma gathered up Mama’s ruby necklace, cameo, and wedding band. She set them onto the pristine linen, removed Simon’s signet ring from around her neck, and placed it with the other jewelry. As she gazed down at his ring, guilt made her eyes sting with tears. Pawning it was wrong. So wrong, but she needed to protect Michael. Shoving aside her guilt, she gathered up the ends of the handkerchief, tied the blue ribbon around it, and dropped it into her reticule. She rubbed away the moisture blurring her vision. She would not, could not, question her actions. Not now.
Downstairs she found both Lily and Mrs. Flynn in the morning room. Emma looked about, hoping to spot something of value. But there was nothing worth more than a pittance left. “Mrs. Flynn, I need that silver tray you have been using.”
“You need money, dear? Is Michael in trouble?” The housekeeper nervously twisted her hands together.
Emma glanced at Lily’s anxious face. “No, all is fine. He just needs new clothing. He fears he looks the pauper compared to the other lads.”
The expression on the housekeeper’s face betrayed her doubt. “I have twelve pounds, dear. I can give it to you.”
Mrs. Flynn used nearly all of her pay, the measly amount Emma gave her, to buy some of the ingredients she needed to bake her decadent desserts. “I cannot take it, but if you don’t mind, I will borrow it from you.”
“No need, child.”
“I insist. Wi
th interest.”
Mrs. Flynn nodded. “I shall get the money and tray.” Grabbing her skirts in her pudgy fingers, the housekeeper dashed from the room.
Lily grabbed Emma’s hand. “Something is wrong, isn’t it, Em?” Without waiting for a response, she added, “I have a threepence, and you can sell my Inspector Whitley books.”
Teary-eyed, Emma pulled Lily toward her and hugged her tight. Maybe she wasn’t a complete failure at helping raise her siblings. Whatever their problems were, they did love one another, especially if her sister was willing to give up her prized books. Drawing in an unsteady breath, Emma kissed the top of Lily’s head. “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry.” Though her voice sounded calm, her knees wobbled under her skirt.
Mrs. Flynn returned and handed Emma a green carpetbag with worn seams and frayed handles. “Here is the tray. I put it in my carpetbag so that nosy Mrs. Jenkins doesn’t see you leaving the house with it. She’ll know what you’re about, and she’ll tell the whole street before tomorrow.”
The heavy weight alerted Emma to the fact that it not only held the money and tray but something else. She peeked inside to see two brass candlesticks.
“They were my mother’s. I never use them,” Mrs. Flynn said.
“Thank you, but I can’t pawn them.” She reached inside to remove the candlesticks.
The housekeeper stilled Emma’s hands. “Now, don’t you worry about it, dearie. You, Lily, and Michael are like my own flesh and blood.”
* * *
Pedestrians, drays, and hackneys clogged the streets of Bloomsbury as Emma made her way to Mr. Morgan’s pawnbroker shop. She touched the flowered hat she wore, regretting purchasing it. The proprietor would give her very little compared to what she’d paid for it.
She turned the corner and onto a narrow street. Up ahead, the three gold globes of the pawnbroker’s shop projected from a wrought iron hook.
Guilt over Simon’s ring made her steps slow as she made her way to the entrance. A woman with a green dress of finely spun linen stepped out of the place while another woman, who looked less regal, entered with a bundle of clothes in her hands.
Inside, Emma waited for Mr. Morgan to help the other customer. He examined the woman’s bundle of clothing and dropped a few coins into her hand and the pawn ticket. The amount so small, the proprietor waved off the halfpenny for the ticket, causing the customer to smile and bless his soul.
As the woman chatted with the proprietor, Emma glanced around. Clothing, pots, and pieces of furniture crowded every inch. Her stomach clenched when she saw one of Papa’s suits hanging near the front bow window and a familiar rose-colored glass bowl. The suit had been pledged to the pawnbroker only a couple of months after Papa died. The bowl over a year ago. The jangle of the bell over the door drew Emma from her thoughts. She turned to see the bedraggled woman exiting the shop.
“Can I help you?” Mr. Morgan smiled. He probably hoped she was here to collect her belongings and pay him the interest.
Though the shop was empty of other customers, she wished to conduct her business in one of the small rooms that afforded more privacy. “Can we go to a box, sir?”
“Follow me,” he said in a businesslike voice.
They stepped into a tiny room with a single window. A pendant fixture with a milk-glass shade hung above the square table. The proprietor turned the lamp up, and Emma placed the carpetbag down, removed her hat, and set it on the table.
“I’ve my hat. It’s all but new, and”—she opened the bag, pulled out the silver tray and the two candlesticks, and set them down—“I have these items.”
The proprietor brought the jeweler’s loupe that hung from a gold chain around his neck to his eye and peered at the silversmith’s marking on the bottom of the tray. He inspected the candlesticks. “I’ll give you twelve pounds for the lot. And you know my rates. Plus a halfpenny for the ticket.”
Twelve pounds? Tears burned the back of her eyes. A pittance compared to what she needed. She opened her reticule, withdrew the linen handkerchief and untied the satin ribbon, and placed Mama’s cameo, ruby necklace, and wedding band on the table. The jewelry caught the light from the gas lamp.
A smile lifted the corner of the man’s lips. He held the necklace up to the window. The sunlight reflected off it, sending shards of muted red light around the room. He made a noise as if intrigued. Did that mean the stones were real or paste? She didn’t wish to ask him—make him aware of her naïveté regarding the jewelry.
He withdrew a small pin from the lapel of his wool coat and ran it over the largest of the three red stones. Without saying a word, he placed it back on the table and picked up the wedding band and cameo. He angled the ring to the light.
“I’ll give you thirty-five pounds for everything.”
Disappointment swirled within her. “Can’t you do better? I should go to a jeweler instead.” Something she didn’t wish to do, since she’d not be able to reclaim the items at a later date should she be fortunate enough to get the funds.
“Thirty-seven pounds. Not a penny more.”
Her heart sank. Even with Mrs. Flynn’s twelve pounds and what Emma had left in the bank, that wasn’t enough. Her fingers flexed around Simon’s ring. She set it on the table.
He cocked a brow and lifted his monocle and examined it. He glanced up at her with narrowed eyes. “Where did you get this?”
“Um, my father won it at some gaming hell years ago.”
The proprietor nodded and slipped it onto his own pinkie. “Very well, seventy-five pounds for the lot.”
Emma’s heart sank. Not enough. Fighting her tears, she outstretched her hand for Simon’s ring and gathered her belongings.
“Good day, sir.” Setting her hat on her head, she strode from the room.
“Seventy-nine pounds,” Mr. Morgan called out.
Still not enough. She needed another plan and knew just what she had to do—visit that blackguard the Devil of Danbury Street and barter with him. The thought of dealing with such a man made a shiver crawl up her spine, but what other choice did she have?
* * *
Mrs. Flynn set her hands on her hips and frowned. “Dear child, you cannot go running willy-nilly to the rookeries all by yourself. I’ll accompany you.”
After returning from the pawnbroker, she’d told Mrs. Flynn about the trouble Michael was in. Emma shook her head and glanced at the mantel clock in the morning room. She needed to leave. “No, you must remain here with Lily.”
“But there are vagabonds, thieves, and even murderers there. And this moneylender they call the Devil of Danbury Street is the worst of the lot.”
The anxiety already making Emma’s palms sweat, amped up as the woman spoke. She knew the rookeries could be a dangerous place. She’d read articles about the crime. Even some policemen were leery of several areas in the East End, but she needed to protect Michael, and she could see no other way around it.
“I’ll bring that blackguard what Michael owes him,” Mrs. Flynn said, breaking into Emma’s thoughts. “Not safe for a sweet thing like you to venture into the dark part of London, but no one shall mess with me.” The housekeeper fisted her hand and shook it in the air.
What would Mrs. Flynn do if she realized Emma didn’t have all the money Michael owed the moneylender? That she intended to barter with the man? The older woman would suffer an apoplexy. “Mrs. Flynn, you know I love you dearly, but I need to handle this—”
“You can’t go there!” Lily said, stepping into the room.
What had her sister heard? Too much, by the tears shining in her eyes. “Lily, you shouldn’t be eavesdropping. And there is nothing to be concerned about. I shall be fine,” she said, feigning bravado.
Lily knotted her fingers into the skirt of her dress. “Why did you send Michael away? Why didn’t you make him go with you?”
Because Emma had promised to care for her siblings, and she would not break that pledge. And hopefully her plan would work. She stepped up t
o Lily and hugged her. “Everything will be fine.” Thankfully her voice remained steady, even though her heart beat erratically.
Sniffling, Lily rubbed her tear-streaked face into the bodice of Emma’s dress. “Why don’t you have Mr. Radcliffe. . . Lord Adler go with you? I bet he’s not frightened of anyone. He’d take care of this dastardly character, Mr. Wolf. I know he would.”
The thought of seeing Simon again—of having him accompany her—held great appeal, but she wouldn’t be indebted to him. “I cannot do so, Lily. Now, I will be back shortly.”
God willing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Surely, there was a demented woodpecker in Simon’s head striking his brain. It seemed the only explanation for the constant pounding filling his skull. He opened his eyes to find everything upside down. It took him several painful minutes to realize he was supine on his bed in his Curzon Street residence. His feet were on the pillows and his head teetered over the edge of the mattress.
What was he about? Wincing, he sat upright. The agonizing tapping in his head slowed, but didn’t cease. He swallowed in an attempt to remove the bitter taste coating his tongue.
Bugger it all. Had he drunk himself stupid last night? He had a slight memory of Huntington and Caruthers helping him into his house after he’d gotten himself soused at their club.
Moaning, he set a hand to his throbbing skull and jumped when he noticed both Baines and Harris standing in the room, frowning at him.
Simon sighed. “I know I look a bloody mess. You don’t need to lecture me.”
Without a word, both servants walked out of the bedchamber, reminding Simon that Baines and Harris had barely spoken a word to him since they’d all returned from Bloomsbury, over a week ago.
They thought him a deceptive cad. Simon should have told them the truth about Emma—that she was a thief and a liar and more duplicitous than he. He had half a mind to go over to Emma’s and demand she reveal the name of the blackguard who’d hit him.
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