Amelia glanced down at her hands. “That was kind of him—and you. I shall never forget it.”
Not liking the direction of their conversation, Sydney leaned back in her chair and strove for calm. “What is it you’re trying to tell me, Amelia?”
“I must go.”
Sydney closed her eyes for a brief, heartbreaking second. “Why?”
“After all you’ve done for me, you deserve to know.”
“But you won’t—or can’t—tell me.”
A battalion of conflicting emotions swirled in Amelia’s eyes. “I couldn’t bear your hatred, too.”
“Hate you? What do you mean?” Sydney asked, confused. Then it hit her. “Mac does not hate you.”
“He does. And I can’t blame him. What I did in my youth is too much of a bitter reminder to what he endured as a boy.”
Mac never spoke of his youth. In fact, he avoided it like a disease. “I can assure you that my good opinion of you will not change—no matter what you reveal.”
“How can you be so certain?”
Sydney sent her a gentle smile. “Because I know you, Amelia. Whatever you did, you did it for the right reasons or because it was the best option you had at the time.”
A tear tracked down Amelia’s pale face, and Sydney’s throat prickled in reaction.
“I bore a son and then gave him away.”
“Oh, Amelia.” Sydney’s throat tightened. “I’m so very sorry.”
Clearing her throat, Amelia said, “I never lost track of him, despite the Foundling Hospital’s protocol for changing the foundling’s name upon arrival and then fostering the babies out to families in the country. My son will celebrate his fifth birthday next week. After which, his foster family must return him to the Hospital for the remainder of his care. When that day comes, I will reclaim him.”
“How wonderful.” Sydney had always thought Amelia was an extraordinary woman and amazingly talented. But this tale left her stunned and awed. “I’m so happy for you both. This is the reason you must go? Because you have a child?”
Amelia nodded. “This is a place of business. You cannot have a five-year-old running about, disrupting your meetings.”
“We could hire a nurse to help watch over him.”
“Thank you, Miss Hunt. Yours is a kind offer.”
“You’re still leaving me.”
“I must. The disruption my son would cause is only one reason I must sever my employment.”
“The other?”
Sydney watched the other woman’s chest rise on a deep inhalation.
“I have developed inappropriate feelings for Mr. O’Donnell.”
“Mac?” Sydney clarified.
“Yes,” Amelia whispered. “After hearing about how their mother, without warning, shipped them to a home for orphans in London, my heart opened to him.”
“Dear God. Why would she do such a thing?”
“You didn’t know?” Amelia asked, her eyes rounding.
“No. Mac has never spoken of his childhood.”
“Do you know about Mick’s bones?”
Sydney nodded. “They’re something of a precursor to danger, I believe.”
“Yes, but they do much more than ache, at times. One morning, I found him writhing on the floor and that’s when he told me their story.”
She was missing something, and she knew it. Sydney stopped to consider the O’Donnells’ mother and why she would abandon her children. That line of thought led her to their Irish heritage and how they would react to a boy who could forecast danger. “Please do not tell me that their mother sent them away because of some ridiculous superstition.”
“Their mother’s side of the family called it a curse.”
“Of all the stupid, ignorant—” Sydney stopped her unladylike rant. It was pointless at this juncture in time. Somehow the O’Donnell brothers had survived their mother’s betrayal and had become fine men in the process.
“Because of my past, Mac will never love me as I love him.”
“Do not underestimate him, Amelia. I see how he looks at you.”
Amelia bit her bottom lip. “Even if you are right, his attraction could never transform into love. How could it?”
“Tell him what you’re planning to do.”
“It will not change the decision I made in the past.”
Sydney stared at her assistant, unable to come up with the persuasive words to change her mind.
“You have been kind enough to allow me to stay here without contributing to my room and board. Because of your generosity, I’ve managed to save most of my wages for the last four years.”
“It won’t be enough to live on your own and raise a child.”
“Your statement would be true if I had not managed to invest a portion of my savings.”
“Investments? Who is assisting you?”
“Your father.” Amelia’s pale face regained some of its color. “Not long after I started, you asked me to sit in on a meeting, where your father advised you on money matters. After several days of thought, I approached Mr. Pratt and asked for a recommendation on who I might speak to about investing my meager savings.”
“He never said a word to me.”
“You are surprised? Was it not your father from whom you learned the art of keeping confidences?”
Sydney’s head was spinning. “Where will you go?”
“I found a little house just outside London, far enough away for my son to play with abandon and close enough for me to visit regularly.”
“I should have known you would have it all worked out before you approached me.” Sydney swallowed around a building lump in her throat. “I miss you already.”
“And I you.” Amelia swiped her fingers over her cheek. “I have much to do before next week, including finishing my research on Abbingale. Perhaps now would be a good time to collect the O’Donnells.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Once the door closed behind Amelia, Sydney buried her face in her hands. What would she do without the sure, anchoring presence of her assistant? They had worked together perfectly in every way, and Amelia had been with her since opening the agency’s doors, as had Mac. It wouldn’t be the same without her. Not only would she be losing her assistant, but in some way she would lose Mac, too. Despite what Amelia said, Mac had come to care for her—albeit it reluctantly—but he did care and was likely trying to figure out what to do about it.
Now she had this to worry about on top of managing Lord Danforth. She lifted her head and stared at the ceiling. Every conversation, every lingering look, every tangled feeling circled through her mind like the waterwheel of a gristmill. Images, words, and a vibrant, pulsing need to kiss the man senseless made her tired eyes grow heavier. Not with fatigue, but with a mixture of yearning and helplessness.
Earlier today, they had worked well together. Very well. While searching for Giles Clarke, they had communicated with little more than a brush of their gazes. Each time his beautiful eyes had settled on hers, lightning arrowed straight into her core and quivered upon impact.
Now that he had found the boy, she wondered if she would see him again. The possibility that she would not did ghastly things to her body. Not the least of which, a blinding headache. Sydney squeezed the bridge of her nose, trying to stifle the oncoming pressure.
She recalled Amelia’s prediction, and her faithful assistant’s logic sawed through the pain of her loss. The more she was around Ethan, the more he might learn about her operation. She could not afford such exposure. She could not.
But a tiny seed of the forbidden had nestled itself in the depths of her heart. Would it be so bad if he discovered what truly happened at the docks? Given his work with the Nexus, did she honestly believe he would jeopardize her agency’s more covert affairs?
A resounding
no blared between her ears, and Sydney was warmed by the revelation. But, within seconds, her mind shied away of putting so much faith in someone she barely knew, someone who used people to obtain information. Someone who could so easily tempt her into setting aside years of caution and an obsessive need to protect her privacy.
The sound of approaching footsteps forced her to redirect her energies. She squeezed her eyes once, as if to blast away her dangerous musings. Releasing the bridge of her nose, she rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin.
Amelia entered first, followed closely by Mac and then Mick.
Restless, Sydney stood and strode around her desk, being careful to keep her inner disquiet hidden from her companions. “Amelia, do you still have Abbingale’s annual reports?”
“Yes.”
“Did you come across Lord Latymer’s name on the donor or subscription registers?”
“No. Latymer does not appear anywhere.”
“What about his family name?”
“I did not think to search for his surname.” Amelia frowned. “My apologies. That’s an inexcusable oversight.”
“Don’t apologize. We cannot each of us think of everything. We’re in this together. If you would, please scan the lists again, searching for any variation of his title and family name. Something tells me he’s there, merely hidden beneath our noses.”
“Of course.” Her assistant made a note. “I’ll locate our copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage and look up Latymer’s surname as well as other familial connections he might have used.”
Sydney glanced between Mac and Amelia. “Have you uncovered anything on the staff at Abbingale?”
Mac deferred to Amelia. She said, “I met with one of our informants today—Lizzie Ledford.”
“The seamstress?” Sydney clarified.
Amelia nodded. “Evidently, her sister is good friends with a maid at the Markham Boardinghouse.”
A number of boardinghouses came to mind, but no Markham. “What is Markham’s relevance?”
“It sits across the street from Abbingale,” Mac said.
“Go on.”
“The maid, Annie, witnessed an altercation there not long ago.” Amelia’s fingers clenched the stack of papers to her bosom. “The skirmish occurred between their tenant William Townsend and someone named Roosh.”
“Roosh?”
Amelia shared a look with Mac. “After some discussion, Mac and I believe the name she heard was LaRouche, rather than Roosh. She was listening through the ceiling of the room below Mr. Townsend’s.”
Excitement stirred in Sydney’s chest. “You’re sure?”
“Not as much as we would like, but enough to recommend that we turn our attention to the schoolmaster.”
“Anything else?” Sydney asked.
“Only that LaRouche wants something from Townsend,” Amelia said. “But, as Mac pointed out, that’s a given, considering the type of visit he paid the lodger.”
Amelia’s use of Mac’s name for the second time distracted her for a moment. Could it be the two had formed a sort of truce over the last few days? A truce could lead to friendship, and friendship to love.
Mick spoke up. “While waiting for you today, I spied a gentleman slipping inside the same boardinghouse. I couldn’t see his face, but the sight of him set my bones on fire.”
Sydney sensed, rather than saw, Mac go rigid.
“William Townsend, do you think?” Sydney asked.
“Possibly.”
Her gaze touched on Mick. “See if you can track down Cameron Adair. He might know of Townsend.”
“The thief-taker’s information won’t come cheap.” Mick’s tone was grim.
“I’m well aware of the price of Mr. Adair’s cooperation. But since my tour of Abbingale has proven mostly fruitless, I fear our options are rather limited.”
Sydney understood Mick’s distaste about working with Cameron Adair. The government paid the thief-taker a handsome reward for apprehending the city’s most heinous criminals. In addition, theft victims—and no doubt victims of other lesser crimes—paid him a fee to locate their stolen property. She had also heard whispers that Adair wasn’t opposed to charging an anti-prosecution fee to some of London’s petty criminals so they could stay on the streets.
“What if he doesn’t have intelligence on Townsend?”
“Then hire him to amend the deficiency.”
Mick’s handsome face scrunched up, as if he were trying to swallow a foul-tasting insect, only the insect was clinging to the back of his tongue.
“You don’t have to befriend him. Simply get what information you can and bid him adieu. The more we can learn about Townsend, the better we’ll understand LaRouche’s position.”
“If it were for anyone but you…” He allowed the thought to trail off.
His gruff sentiment made her smile. Mick could be serious when he needed to be, but most of the time, he swept through life with a wink and a grin. So, his reaction to working with Cameron Adair surprised her a little.
To Amelia and Mac, she said, “Focus your efforts on LaRouche. Who are his people? Why is he here? How long has he been in the country?”
They both nodded.
“It’s time to enlist Specter’s help, I think.” Sydney’s announcement produced three pairs of intent and expectant eyes. She understood their reaction. Her own anticipation shot through her like small, fiery arrows.
She peered at the clock—not quite noon. Specter never emerged before dark.
Eighteen
Ethan backed into the shadow of the town house, allowing the darkness to shield him from too curious eyes. Then he waited. And waited. He waited for nearly two hours before the first boy climbed up from Abbingale’s lower-level servant’s entrance, or the area, as many were wont to call it.
He squinted into the gloom, scanning the boy’s scrawny body for signs of a package. Nothing. The same as before. Though, to be certain, he would have to search the child.
Once the boy reached street level, he became a blur of movement. Even though Ethan’s mind urged him to race after the boy, his instincts cautioned him to proceed with care. He held back a full five seconds before stepping into the betraying lamplight.
Rather than donning one of his many disguises, Ethan chose an uninterrupted black ensemble, from his well-worn Hessians to his borrowed wide-brimmed hat to his whiskered face. As he jogged down the pavement, he wondered which boy he tracked. Jacob? Noah? Arthur? Giles Clarke? Based on his quarry’s size, Ethan narrowed it down to one of the younger residents of Abbingale.
A full street ahead of him, the boy darted to the right, moving out of Ethan’s line of sight. He increased his speed, no longer caring about the attention he drew. If questioned, the few individuals loitering the neighborhood would only recall a tall man dressed in black. A chap in a great hurry.
Several minutes later, the boy skirted across the next intersection and then barreled down a side street. Ethan followed, exertion burning low in his chest. It had been a long while since he’d given chase.
Minutes later, he became aware of the slow degradation of his surroundings. Tidy shops and corniced town houses gave way to ramshackle buildings. Clean paved streets turned into filth-strewn dirt roads. Pavements peppered with modestly dressed shopkeepers were reduced to bedraggled men and half-clad women. And London’s normally odiferous air was clogged with a stench beyond anything Ethan had ever inhaled.
All this eased its way into his consciousness, and he slowed his pace in order to take better stock of his situation. Unlike the previous street, this one was teeming with people. Many sent him wary glances, others stared at him with territorial anger, and the rest paid him no mind, for they were otherwise engaged.
Focusing his attention ahead again, Ethan found the boy winding his way through the unsavory crowd as if he were
dodging pesky vendors at market. A little before the next intersection, the boy veered toward one of the buildings on his left.
Lungs straining against the fetid air, Ethan slowed once again. The multistory stone structure sat alone, stark and gray-white, on a small parcel of land. Not a tree or shrub occupied a square inch of space. The moonlight seemed to favor the building, though. The ghostly facade pulsed with a strange glowing light.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders and continued past. Beneath the cover of his wide brim, he searched the area for a surveillance location he could use until the boy emerged again. A spot large enough to conceal his big frame and close enough to view the comings and goings of the glowing building.
He crossed to the other side of the hard-packed road, ignoring high-pitched feminine calls and an unnerving masculine whistle. Up ahead, he noticed about six feet of empty space separating two crumbling buildings. Having never been to this part of the city before, Ethan had no way of knowing what lurked beyond the darkness.
But his options were few. Actually, he had none. Too many people populated the area. Even the space between the buildings was questionable due to a group of older boys loitering on the steps of one of the structures.
Seeing no other alternative, Ethan tugged his hat lower and strolled toward the ruffians with slow menace. Their conversation halted at his approach. “Lads.” He infused a smattering of East End into his voice.
“What you want?” the largest of the four young men asked.
“To get rid of you.”
Three pairs of wary eyes glanced between Ethan and the gang’s leader.
“This is our area,” the leader said. “My brother won’t like you causing us trouble.”
“Your brother?”
“Jonas White. He owns this street.”
“Owns it, does he? I suppose I could give Jonas my blunt.”
“You didn’t say nothing about any blunt.”
“What will it take for the four of you to give up your perch for an hour?”
“Ten bob,” the leader said without hesitation.
A Lady's Secret Weapon Page 20
