“No.” Truth.
“Then tell me.”
She sighed, then looked up at Seb, her gaze locking on his. “Very well. But you must promise something first—if I tell you, you won’t use it to take Ivy away from me.”
“I hardly think that’s likely—unless you’re a wanted criminal.” Any idiot could see she was an adoring and protective mother. Every child should be so lucky. He tried not to get so caught in those eyes that he forgot to question her properly.
She studied his face and then nodded, obviously placing her trust in him. A flustered warmth swelled in his chest at that faith. “Ivy is not my natural daughter. I adopted her when her mother died in childbirth. I really do have no idea who fathered her. Cathleen—Cathleen Marie Neely, Ivy’s natural mother—never told me who he was, just that he was married.” Mostly truth.
“That’s not quite true, is it? You know something.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How can you tell?”
He shrugged. “Professional training.”
After a scowling pause, she surrendered with a dip of her chin. “I think she’d been seeing the husband of one of our patrons. I believe he was someone important—perhaps even a Member of Parliament. Whoever he was, though, he’d abandoned Cathleen when he found out she was with child. Gave her a tenner and arranged for the modiste to turn her off.”
An MP? Perhaps there was something to this line of questioning. “Would you recognize him if you saw him?”
“Probably.” Truth.
“Anyway, after she passed, Jane and I found employment at a different dressmaker, way across town. The money wasn’t as good, but we changed our names, so no one would know that Ivy wasn’t mine.”
“Jane and Cathleen, the names of her dolls. It was one way you could keep her mother in her thoughts without giving the game away.” And that spoke worlds about her intentions. She hadn’t stolen the child, she’d simply rescued her. The life of a London orphan was a grim one at best. Seb couldn’t justify taking the child from such a caring guardian to rot in an orphanage.
Mrs. Shaw only nodded.
“Do you think Ivy’s father might have found you? Might have been trying to steal his daughter back?” Seb rooted through his desk for a photograph—one he’d been given so he didn’t accidentally arrest an untouchable. While Seb wouldn’t let high office stop him if he saw fit, he knew he’d saved it for a reason.
“I honestly don’t believe so. I don’t think he’d even acknowledge her existence if she was shoved in his face, and I doubt he knew of my existence, by either the name Shaw or Shepherd, which I used before.” Truth.
“Here.” He showed her a photograph of the House of Commons, less than a year old. “Is the man here?”
She studied the page intently and then nodded. “Here.” She pointed to a man in the back row. About thirty or thirty-five, an obvious dandy, he was also someone Seb recognized.
“Andrew Mayfield. He’s dead. Hit by a steam car about a week after this was taken. His wife and children retired to the country, and a distant relation was appointed to fill his seat.” Seb shook his head. “I don’t see how he could be responsible, do you?”
She grimaced. “No.”
“Well, then, I’m off to ask some questions of your employer.”
“Former employer,” she said. “I was let go when Ivy became ill.”
“Former employer.” He coughed. “Make yourself and Ivy at home. There’s a nursery on the third floor. Help yourself to any toys or books you think she’d like. Or in here, if you like to read yourself.”
He kicked himself. She might not even be able to read.
Instead, she smiled. It transformed her face from pleasant to lovely, lighting up her eyes and showing the grace of her bone structure. “Thank you. I’d love to relax with a novel while Ivy naps. That’s been a rare luxury for me in the past few years.”
“Well, there you go.” He gestured at the wall of shelves behind her. “Help yourself.”
After he had her write down the names and addresses of both her former shop and the school Ivy attended in the basement of a local church, Seb collected his hat and set out. The wind had died down overnight, and although the air was still cold, it felt good to be out and about, away from the almost intoxicating presence of Mrs. Shaw—or rather Miss Shepherd.
He wondered why she had never married. She was pretty enough, in her subdued fashion—beautiful when she smiled. Obviously, she was capable of deep and abiding love. She hadn’t lied when she’d said Ivy was her daughter. Minerva, as he chose to think of her, rather than the confusing Shaw or Shepherd, had truly adopted that child as her own. Seb vowed that whatever this case turned up, he was going to make sure that somehow, that small family would have an easier path.
Chapter Four
Being alone in someone else’s home was an odd sort of feeling. Minnie found herself smiling as she folded and put away her borrowed clothing, making sure the Claypooles’ room was as tidy as when she’d found it. She started a soup with the hambone left from breakfast, dried beans and vegetables from the root cellar, and mixed up a batch of bread dough. When Ivy woke, Minnie played quietly with her, spreading regiments of toy soldiers out on the white coverlet. It was obvious that the last resident of the nursery had been male. Had Sebastian grown up in this house?
Later, while Ivy napped, Minnie treated herself to a long, sweet-smelling bath, even washing her hair with the lemon-scented soap. Leaving her damp medium brown tresses hanging straight down her back to dry, she put on her last clean dress, the one she usually saved for church. She checked the soup and bread and gave the kitchen one last spit and polish. Finally out of obvious chores, she curled up in front of the gas fire in the parlor with a Jane Austen novel. As she lounged in warmth and comfort, it was hard to believe that only twenty-four hours earlier, she’d been utterly terrified. What a difference a day made.
Now, she was still afraid, and she knew that later, when she wasn’t as concerned for Ivy, her grief for Jane would come back like an avalanche. It had been that way with Cathleen. Minnie hadn’t truly been able to grieve until they’d resettled, assured of Ivy’s safety as Minnie’s daughter. Then one night after Ivy was asleep, Minnie had wept until she was physically ill. It would happen again, she knew, dreading it. But not today, when Ivy’s safety was still in doubt.
For now, Ivy slept secure in this house, and Minnie was warm and clean and ensconced in comfort. She liked this house, although given her druthers, she’d add a pillow or two and maybe a painting above the mantel.
It was really too bad Sebastian—what a lovely name and it suited him perfectly—already had a housekeeper. Minnie would have applied for the position in a heartbeat. A little smile tugged at her lips. If it weren’t for Ivy and the need for Minnie to maintain a spotless reputation, she wouldn’t mind being more than just a housekeeper, despite his autocratic nature. Something about the stern but kind policeman touched Minnie’s heart and left her wanting things she’d long since put behind her. She hadn’t had a suitor since after Ivy was born, and there’d been precious few, even before then. Usually, Minnie shied away from men, having been hurt by one too many in her past. She could count her actual lovers on the fingers of one hand without using her thumb, or even all her fingers. For just a moment, she let her eyes drift shut, thinking of Sebastian’s strong, dependable face and his warm hazel eyes. A pity he didn’t have a wife and children. He’d have made a wonderful father.
A small shriek woke Minnie sometime later. She looked up into the eyes of a very startled older woman. Her salt-and-pepper hair was confined in a tight bun, and her blue serge dress was cut almost exactly along the lines of the brown one Minnie had borrowed.
Minnie blinked and brushed a few strands of hair out of her face. “Oh. Good afternoon, Mrs....” She paused a moment to remember the name. “Claypoole, right?” She sorted herself out enough to stand and bob a curtsy. “My name is Minnie Shaw. It’s a long story, why I’m here. Mostly that Dr. G
rant’s house was full. My daughter’s upstairs. She was horribly sick yesterday, but now she’s recovering.”
“I see.” The older woman eyed her up and down, then gave her a slight smile. “Are you the one who tidied up the kitchen and started dinner?”
Minnie nodded. “I hope you don’t mind. I just thought it would make it easier on you when you returned.”
“Not at all.” Mrs. Claypoole’s smile widened. “I simply thought Effie Parrish must’ve done it for some reason, though I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what. And the inspector—well, he’s good at a lot of things, but cooking isn’t one of them.”
“It gets worse, I’m afraid.” Minnie couldn’t quite meet Mrs. Claypoole’s eyes. “I had to borrow some of your clothing. The inspector insisted. I’ve laundered everything and put it back exactly where I found it. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Well, if Mr. Brown thought it was necessary, I’m sure it was.” With a brisk nod, the housekeeper began to back away. “Go ahead and get some more rest, girl. Looks like you could use it. Claypoole is the butler, so don’t be surprised if you see him about. Now that we’re back, you just give a call if you or the little one need anything. Dinner will be whenever Mr. Brown gets home, but you can have a tray whenever you like.”
“Thank you. I’ll run up now and check on Ivy. We’re staying in the room at the top of the stairs, by the way. The doctor wanted her to stay in bed for another day, so we’ll likely leave tomorrow.” Minnie had no idea why she was rambling so. The woman seemed kind enough. If she had suspicions, she was too polite to show it.
Before she could flee, the front door opened. Sebastian’s syncopated steps sounded from the hallway.
“In here, sir,” called Mrs. Claypoole. “I was just meeting your guest.” One steel-gray brow arched, indicating that this was a test.
He rounded the corner wearing a polite smile. “Good, good. Nice to have you back, Mrs. C. And how are you this afternoon, Mrs. Shaw?”
Minnie felt herself flush as she dipped a curtsy. “Much better, Mr. Brown.”
“Ivy’s resting well, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. We played with some tin soldiers for a while on the bed, as you said we could. Then she went back to sleep.” Minnie didn’t mention that she had as well.
“Soldiers, eh? I’ll be that was a first for her.” He grinned. “I’d forgotten all the toys were likely mine and therefore martial in nature. Good thing I happened across this on my way home.” He held up a book of paper dolls in the very latest fashions, his face taking on the slightest tinge of pink.
He’d bought Ivy a gift? It seemed there was no end to his kindness. “Thank you. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.” She looked up into his eyes. “Did you learn anything about Jane’s killer?”
Mrs. Claypoole gasped.
“Not much,” Sebastian said. “Being Sunday, the shop was closed, of course. I tracked your former employer down, but she had nothing of use to say. I went by the church and got the names of the people who run the ragged school. None of them were at their residence.”
Minnie nodded. “The school should be open in the morning. I can go with you, if you like.”
He opened his mouth as if in instinctive denial but stopped and shrugged. “We’ll see. Right now, I think I hear your daughter stirring.” He thrust the book into Minnie’s hand and nodded to both her and Mrs. Claypoole. “If either of you need me, I’ll be in my study. Please let me know when supper’s ready. Mrs. Shaw, I hope you’ll join me at the table?”
Minnie gulped. She felt like such a fraud when he insisted on treating her as a proper guest. She’d have felt lucky being asked to eat in the kitchen with the Claypooles. At least this time, he’d asked rather than ordered. That was progress.
“Oh, and Sir Liam will be here afterward. He has some things he wishes to discuss.” His tone brooked no argument whatsoever.
Minnie dipped her head and turned toward the stairs, just in time to hear Ivy call, “Mama?” Apparently he had the hearing of a cat, if he’d heard her waking moments earlier.
As she hurried up the stairs, Minnie could feel the weight of Sebastian’s gaze follow her.
* * *
Watching her move up the stairs, Seb drank in the sight of Minerva with her hair hanging down. Neither raven nor golden nor copper nor any other distinctive color, it was a soft, middling shade of brown. It ought to have seemed ordinary, but somehow, on her, with her soft, slender curves and gentle face, it seemed perfect. Freshly washed, it hung in a straight, shining curtain to the center of her back, swaying as she moved. So did her bottom, swishing beneath her skirt and petticoat, with no hoops to disguise her outline.
“Will Mrs. Shaw be staying long, Mr. Brown?” Mrs. Claypoole stood before him with one eyebrow lifted, no sign of approval or disdain on her round, usually cheerful face. “And the child, of course. How old is she, by the way? I may need to alter my grocery orders.”
“Four.” He answered the easy question first. “Ivy’s four, and seems a bright little thing. As to how long, I don’t know. Their flat is currently the scene of a murder investigation. I imagine they’ll return home once we’ve cleared it and locked up the perpetrator.”
“Murder! Good heavens.” Both eyebrows lifted this time. “Well, then. I suppose there’s no point locking up the silver. She could have made off with it this afternoon, rather that falling asleep with a book.”
Seb glanced at the novel on the floor beside the sofa. “She’s—they’ve—had a rough night. Hell, they’ve had a tough few years, let alone the last week. I’m quite sure that Mrs. Shaw is no thief.”
“She had supper started when Claypoole and I returned,” Mrs. C said. “And she’d done the washing and cleaned the kitchen. I’d say she’s a girl used to earning her keep.”
“Yes. A seamstress.” Which didn’t at all explain her educated speech and fondness for novels. She’d been more than a bottom-tier sewing girl at some point, or Seb would eat his hat. “Expect Sir Liam at eight. Please be sure supper is over in time.”
“Yes, Mr. Brown. Six sharp.” Mrs. C nodded but there was no serious deference in her tone or her smile. The woman had been in the family’s employ since Seb was a toddler. She knew he didn’t mean anything with his gruffness. “Find out if the mite has any favorites, would you? I do the marketing tomorrow.” With that she marched back to the kitchen while Seb stepped into his study.
He sat at his desk, writing up his report for the day’s futile investigations. The reverend had confirmed that several students from the school had passed away recently, but he’d added that with the lung disease prevalent among London’s poor, it wasn’t any surprise. There was a charity group that provided filtration masks to the students, but there were always some who lost or even sold theirs.
This “Black Death,” though, wasn’t the typical black lung disease found all over London, and it sure as hell wasn’t the black plague that had devastated Europe in centuries past. If Dr. Grant had never seen it before, odds were good that it was, indeed, something new. Perhaps Liam would know more when he had a chance to ask Wink.
Dinner proved to be mostly silence, but to Seb’s relief, it wasn’t an awkward one. Minerva seemed to be perfectly content to eat her food without chattering like a magpie. Once in a while, she’d ask a question about the investigation, or he’d ask one about her background. The other would answer and they’d relapse into comfortable quiet, much as if they’d done this a hundred times before. Seb’s only disappointment was that she’d put her hair back up in its braided coronet. One thing he missed about India was that so many more of the women had worn their hair down. Come to think of it, he wouldn’t mind seeing Minerva in a thin silk sari either. Particularly in some cheerful shade of pink or blue.
After the meal, they retired to the parlor to wait for Liam. “Do you play chess?” he asked on impulse.
“Not well.” Minerva gave a wry smile. “But I’m a dab hand at gin rummy. Have you any cards?”
“Of course.” He did somewhere. It was practically a rule, wasn’t it, in any proper house? He’d played gin before. He simply couldn’t remember when. Somewhere in India, no doubt, with the wives and daughters of other Englishmen. He found a deck in the second drawer he checked, and settled across from her with a small table between them.
She slaughtered him. There was no other word for it. He was down two games to none when the doorbell chimed and Claypoole showed Liam into the parlor—unexpectedly accompanied by his wife. Seb stood and moved the card table off to the side before introducing Minerva to Wink, who actually wore a tailored walking dress instead of her usual coveralls. As usual, George, Wink’s masterpiece creation, stood right behind her. Seb finished up with, “And the mastiff is George. I encourage you to treat him as if he’s alive. The rest of us do.”
Minerva stood and curtsied. “Lady McCullough. It’s an honor to meet you.” She smiled tentatively at the huge automaton dog. “And George too, of course.”
Wink caught Minerva’s hands. “Call us Wink and Liam. You’re Seb’s guest, and he’s a dear family friend. Besides, it’ll make us all more comfortable.”
A pulse beat at Minerva’s temple, but she nodded. “Very well. I’m Minnie, then.”
Mrs. Claypoole brought in a tea tray, and Seb gestured for Minnie to pour, which she did with ease, again proving there were depths to her background that she hadn’t shared.
“I had Wink look at the samples of the black perspiration,” Liam said. “I’d like her to explain what she saw, as I’m not sure I could.”
Wink nodded. “It’s a concept that as far as I understood is only theoretical, but I can’t see any other explanation. You’ve heard that with recent advances in microscopy, scientists have discovered that most diseases seem to involve microscopic organisms—we’re calling them bacteria, at this point. We’re pretty sure that these organisms actually cause the disease. People transfer them, one to another, like a dog transfers fleas—through touching, kissing, even from touching the same objects. Mind you, these are too small to be seen by the naked eye, so no one knows when this happens, probably all the time.”
Ashes & Alchemy Page 5
