“Now that I’ve assumed my new duties as Under Superintendent of the Alien Office, Superintendent Reeves has asked for a recommendation for the chief’s position.”
Ethan’s breaths were coming harder, and he found it difficult to maintain his calm mask. “Of course.”
“The candidate I’m considering is someone I’ve known for many years and someone whose career I helped mold.”
“Someone you trust.”
“Implicitly. His integrity is above reproach, and he has the intelligence and strength to coordinate an international operation.”
“Who have you chosen, sir?”
“Helsford.”
Ethan’s vision blurred. An image of his best friend hovered between them, blocking thought, arresting sight, and stealing every snatch of sound. He shook his head to clear the confusion. “Helsford?”
“Yes. I had considered your sister, Cora, but after all that’s happened in the last few months, I don’t believe she’s ready to take on such an onerous position.”
Blood pumped through Ethan’s veins like thick, black sludge. It oozed from one extremity to the other, slow and deliberate. He closed his eyes as the meaning behind Somerton’s announcement struck him full force in the chest.
He wouldn’t be chief, after all. He’d lost his one true goal in life.
Somerton had chosen Cora and Guy over him. Two people who had joined the group for reasons other than a belief in the Nexus’s core mission—to stop Napoleon. Cora had learned what she could from Somerton in order to track down the French assassin responsible for their parents’ murders. And Guy had joined only to watch over Cora. Both were noble reasons, but neither had devoted their life to the advancement of the Nexus’s cause.
Ethan had. Every decision he’d ever made had been in support of this organization. An organization that was now kicking up its nose at over a decade’s worth of dedicated service. Anger like nothing he had ever experienced slashed against the thin thread of his control.
He would not give Somerton reason to believe he’d made the right decision. Through his nose, he forced his breathing into an even rhythm. He focused his entire concentration on the smooth, slow glide of air. In, out. In, out. Over and over until the anger building in his heart tempered into something manageable. In a low voice, he asked, “Has Helsford accepted?”
Somerton’s gaze sharpened. “I haven’t approached him yet. Before I did, I wanted to hear your opinion on my decision.”
“Why?”
Somerton paused, studying him. “Because you know Helsford better than anyone. Do you think his concern over Cora will distract him too badly from doing his duties as chief?”
A dozen answers swirled around Ethan’s mind, each one confirming Somerton’s fears about Helsford’s inability to lead the Nexus. All he had to do was voice one—just one—and he knew Somerton would bypass his best friend and move on to the next candidate. But who would that be? Him? Somehow Ethan didn’t think so.
He thought back to the mission before last, when he had gone off on his own in search of his sister’s abuser. He had wanted to remove the threat against her. Kill Valère before the French bastard had an opportunity to settle on English soil. But someone had known what he was about and had him attacked and left him to rot. What followed after had caused his family great distress when no one knew whether he was alive or dead. That incident had secured him the epithet King of Rogues, and not because of his prowess in bed.
No, he had earned that ignominious title by ignoring protocol. One mistake. That’s all it took to lose the one thing that mattered to him most. He lifted his gaze to Somerton’s. “If Helsford accepts the position, he will not disappoint you.” Ethan rose to his feet; his head and arms felt as though they weighed twenty stone. “If you have nothing more, I have an appointment to keep.”
Somerton unwound his tall frame. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there? I’m sure you’ve put a lot of thought into your selection and your mind is set, no matter my input.”
“Your opinion matters a great deal, Danforth.”
Ethan clenched his teeth. “Helsford will lead the Nexus well.”
Silence darkened the chamber. Then Somerton asked, “How is the investigation going? Have you managed to catch sight of Giles Clarke?”
“Not yet, sir, but I expect to soon.”
“Keep me updated. I want to know if there is a link between the boys’ home and Latymer.”
Latymer. The disgraced former Superintendent of the Alien Office had plagued them for weeks. Not only had he sold his soul to the French, but he had also betrayed and tried to kill Somerton, his friend.
“You’ll be the first.” Ethan pivoted on his heel. “Good day.”
“Danforth.”
He drew in an unsteady breath and released it. Glancing over his shoulder, he lifted an inquiring eyebrow.
“Is there anything more you wish to say to me?”
You made a damn mistake? What’s the point? “No, sir.”
“You’re sure?” Somerton pressed. “No concerns about taking direction from your friend?”
His jaw hurt from the pressure of keeping damaging words behind his teeth.
“If so, I can make special arrangements—”
“There’s no problem, sir,” Ethan cut in before the man could eviscerate him further. “I’ll report back in a few days.”
Not waiting for a proper dismissal, Ethan strode from Somerton’s presence, praying he would not come across Sophie or Catherine. His long stride did not falter all the way home. It wasn’t until he closed the door to his bedchamber that he allowed his rage its freedom. He tore off his coat and wrenched the cravat from around his neck. Breathless, he raked his fingers through his hair and grabbed onto his skull as if the pressure alone would stop the insidious voice of failure.
Dropping his hands to his side, he searched the chamber. He searched for nothing in particular. Just something, anything, to relieve the pain of Somerton’s words. Alcohol. He needed alcohol to dull his senses. And sex. A vision of Miss Hunt glommed on to his thoughts. No. Dear God, no.
He needed mindless sex with a woman who would not make him think about every damn word coming out of his mouth. Better yet, he would speak to Madame Rousseau to make sure the woman she sent to his bed did not utter a single syllable—unless it was to beg for more. All he needed was a quick release and maybe, just maybe, the tension cramping his muscles would ease enough for him to breathe normally again.
Four
Sydney clasped her gloved hands before her while the stern-faced Mrs. Drummond closed the door. She performed a thorough sweep of Abbingale’s entrance hall, taking in the restrained interior that bespoke of both functionality and a care for cleanliness.
“No companion today?” Mrs. Drummond asked.
Shaking her head, Sydney replied in her silliest voice. “I’m afraid not. Poor Mrs. Cartwright wasn’t feeling quite the thing, so I insisted she stay behind.” Sydney wrinkled her nose. “No one wants to be around a dribbler. So, you have me all to yourselves!”
In truth, Sydney had asked Amelia, along with the O’Donnell brothers, to spend the day meeting with the agency’s many service clients to see if anyone could provide information on Lord Latymer’s whereabouts. Instinct urged her to use every resource at her disposal to find the gentleman before he caused any more harm.
Unfortunately, when Amelia realized that Sydney planned to visit Abbingale alone, her assistant had made her promise to take Mac and Mick. Sydney reluctantly agreed but insisted Amelia return to the agency in two hours to retrieve Mick for the rest of her interviews. All in all, their debate ended quite equitably, which was why they all worked so well together.
Mrs. Drummond continued, “Matron is settling in a new unfortunate. She asked me to take you about the facility, then she’ll meet
us on the third floor, where the fortunates sleep.”
In the midst of surveying her surroundings, Sydney paused. “So the children are considered unfortunate when they arrive and fortunate once they become residents?”
“Yes, ma’am. Matron likes symbolizing each child’s turning point with a descriptive word. It gives them something they can aspire to, or some such thing. I’m afraid most of it’s lost on me. And if it’s lost on me, these ignorant boys aren’t likely to understand.”
For a woman who worked with children all day, Mrs. Drummond had no idea how intelligent and perceptive they could be. Drawing forth her most grating feminine voice, Sydney asked, “Oh, la. Such things are so tiresome. I have a dear friend who insists that I should read poetry to expand my mind. Honestly, who can follow such wandering, nonsensical thoughts? It’s as if the poet spent time searching for the words at the bottom of a bottle before applying them to paper.” She let out a sigh and then started walking. “What do you do here, Mrs. Drummond?”
The woman took a moment to respond, no doubt stunned into speechlessness by the seemingly unending stream of words, followed by an abrupt change of topic. Mrs. Drummond cleared her throat. “I’m one of two nurses employed here. When it comes to the boys, whatever needs done, I do.” Her back straightened into a proud line. “I make sure the children rise at six, wash their faces, eat their meals, attend the schoolroom, complete their chores, and then I send them to bed by eight.”
Halting, Sydney asked, “You do all that in a single day?”
Mrs. Drummond’s barely contained disgust was something to behold. “I do all that every day, Mrs. Henshaw.”
Hearing the name of her old, beloved schoolmistress sent a wave of nostalgia through Sydney. Word of Agnes Henshaw’s sudden death had reached Sydney only a month ago. When she’d decided to assume another identity for her observation of Abbingale, it seemed fitting to use the name of the woman she had admired so much.
Sydney flipped open her frilly pink fan and worked it enthusiastically. “Goodness, I feel faint just listening to you.”
The nurse pursed her lips. She motioned up the stairs. “Shall we?”
Sydney nodded and preceded the scrawny woman up two flights of stairs, even though she had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that the nurse was studying her figure. Mrs. Drummond barely came to Sydney’s shoulder and weighed little more than a candelabrum—and was about as wide as one, too.
Over the years, Sydney had grown comfortable with her height and more robust frame. As a matter of fact, she had used it to her advantage on more than one occasion. But there were still times when her height felt like a lodestone hanging around her neck, taunting her to drop her shoulders and curve her spine. Anything to make her appear smaller, more feminine. More accepted amongst her female counterparts.
At five-foot-nine, she towered over most women and some men, especially when wearing her walking boots, with their two-inch heels. Mac had never minded her size, probably because he stood several inches taller. Then his scapegrace brother Mick came onto the scene a little over a year ago. The first time he saw her, he murmured, “My, aren’t you a Long Meg,” in his soft Irish bur. He followed the comment with a devilish wink, and no more was said on the subject. She wished all her encounters could be so painless.
All the same, she was thankful for this chance to speak with another one of Abbingale’s staff. The opportunity allowed her to crosscheck the matron’s facts. “How many children are living here now?”
“The new unfortunate makes twenty-eight boys.”
“No girls?”
“Thankfully, no,” Mrs. Drummond said, with an ugly twist to her mouth. “I shudder to think of the problems we would have with boys and girls under the same roof.”
“What are the boys’ ages?”
“Most of them are between five and thirteen.”
“What happens at the age of thirteen?”
“Mrs. Kingston finds them a situation where they’ll spend the next five years apprenticing.”
“How wonderful that you prepare the children for a life beyond Abbingale.”
“It’s too bad, however, that our funding only provides for a change of ill-fitting clothes, a hat and coat, and a coach ride to their destination.”
“What a dreadful way to begin a new life.” Sydney produced a tittering laugh. “I suppose you’re going to tell me the boys are dropped off with little or no understanding of what they’ll be doing for the next five years.”
The nurse’s back went rigid. So much so, that if a strong wind blew against her, she would likely snap in half. “There’s simply not enough time or money for such things, Mrs. Henshaw.”
Sydney sighed. “Poor little dears. Their fates are not unlike a new bride’s. No one dares to explain The Act to her, so she goes to her husband’s bed ignorant and frightened and makes quite a mess of it.”
“My word, Mrs. Henshaw,” the nurse said. “There are children about.”
Whirling, Sydney exclaimed, “Brilliant. Where are the little darlings?”
Mrs. Drummond sputtered, “They’re not here in this room, but they could pass by at any moment. It wouldn’t do for them to hear such scandalous talk.”
“Do not tease me so, Mrs. Drummond.” Sydney infused disappointment into her voice. “I am ever so anxious to meet the boys.”
“I was not trying to tease you, ma’am—”
Sydney sailed away, scanning the next room with an intent eye masked behind airy nonchalance. The more she played the role of twit, the more she liked it. There was something oddly liberating about hiding one’s identity in full view of others—and saying whatever came to mind. “How are their apprenticeships chosen if they’re not exposed to the various crafts ahead of time?”
“Matron decides where the boys go.”
“Do their new masters expect them to be at least peripherally aware of their livelihood?”
“They have only two expectations of our boys—learn quickly and work hard.”
Anger simmered beneath Sydney’s thin facade. She had heard many tales of abusive masters. Last year, a shipwright beat an eight-year-old boy to death for losing his draw-knife. The only punishment served was to force the shipwright to pay the boy’s annual wage of five pounds to his parents. “How does Mrs. Kingston ensure the boys are being sent to a good situation?”
“If the craftsman or merchant is unkind, the boys choose the streets rather than endure years of abuse. I don’t blame them their choice. However, I’m not sure they would fare any better living hand to mouth and thieving their way through life.”
“How horrible,” Sydney said. “Mrs. Kingston knows all this and does nothing about it?”
“Matron knows everything concerning the boys.” Mrs. Drummond paused in the massive dining hall. “Thankfully, the poor situations do not occur often.”
“Why don’t the boys return to Abbingale, rather than live on the streets? Surely, Mrs. Kingston could find another apprenticeship for them.”
“Who’s to say? Children are beggars at heart. Perhaps, pickpocketing is a truer vocation for them at that age.”
After an arrested moment of silence, Sydney dug deep into her repertoire of acting skills, rather than doing what she really wanted—wrap her hands around the woman’s scrawny neck and finish her off with a rather zealous bout of squeezing and shaking. “Dear Mrs. Drummond, you quite had me under your spell for a second. ‘Beggars at heart,’ indeed.”
Sydney linked her arm with the nurse’s and gave it a small jerk as she sailed onward once again. Being in such close proximity to the woman made her muscles bunch and her nose quiver over the abundance of starch the woman used. “Come, Mrs. Drummond. Tell me what the boys are doing when they are not at their studies.”
She didn’t think it was possible for the older woman’s back to get any straighter or her lips to get
any firmer. But Mrs. Drummond managed it with great aplomb. “Each child has a task he must complete before the sun sets.”
“Intriguing,” Sydney said. “Do these tasks ever take them outside of Abbingale?”
The woman’s gaze shifted to the floor above. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mrs. Kingston your question. She develops the task schedule each week.”
They made their way down the long corridor, and Mrs. Drummond continued highlighting the different aspects of Abbingale Home. This floor held three large, rectangular sleeping chambers, each one holding ten narrow beds and little else. The beds lined each side of the room, with a corridor of empty space down the middle. Trunks rested at the foot of each bed, holding the boys’ meager belongings. Everything was uniformly in its proper place, much like what she would expect from a rigid military installation. Outside of the single portrait on the far wall, the room held not a speck of color.
“Who’s the stern-looking gentleman with the odd-looking creature sitting on his lap?”
“Sir Francis Abbingale and Zeus.”
Sydney’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a feline?”
“Matron calls the abomination a scant-haired cat.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone making a mouser into a pet.” Sydney wondered if the cat’s lack of hair was one of those unusual birth defects that occur not only in the animal world but with humans as well.
“And you’ll likely not hear of it again. Sir Francis has a penchant for finding the unusual.”
“Obviously, Sir Francis is one of the founders. Who else sits on the Board of Trustees?”
“There are five trustees, including Sir Francis, Lady Kipland, and Mr. Livingston.”
Sydney ticked off the names on her fingers. “Francis, Kipland, and Livingston. What about the last two?”
“They prefer to keep their involvement anonymous.”
“Anonymous?” Sydney repeated, confused. “Is that even possible?”
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