The rain finally let up and Serephina couldn't take being shut inside any more, deciding to return some books to the lending library. Millie had gone to call on a friend, and Serephina had declined to accompany her, not being in the mood for endless gossip and conjecture.
Instead, she decided to take some exercise and return books while Mary accompanied her. She wished she could go alone, but she couldn't afford to create scandal now, especially when they were so close. When Millie was married, Serephina would embrace spinsterhood, even if she were technically too young.
Dressing in her heavy coat, she walked down the street. Mary wore her mittens and hat, carrying a basket as they would stop at the market on the way back. The sky was gray and rain still threatened, but at this time of year, they had to take these opportunities of clear weather when they came. Speaking of opportunities, Serephina had to consider her next move. There was another piece she wanted to pursue, belonging to an awful woman who was at the very heart of society, deciding who was successful and not, cutting girls she didn't approve of—particularly the pretty and powerless.
Walking around the corner of her street, she stopped short when she saw the form of Mr. Cox standing in the walkway, leaning on the iron fence along a house. Her heart sped up and her hands instantly grew clammy. She didn't need Turner's warning to know he was a dangerous man. He was built as a predator—muscles for fighting, sharp eyes and a disposition to hunt.
Looking up, he saw her. Recognition registered in his eyes. Any hope that his focus on her the other night had been accidental fleeted out like water through sand. Was he here for her? What did he want? Surely, he couldn't have been waiting for her. He had nothing to charge her with. There was no evidence and he needed evidence.
Now she didn't know what to do. He was in her path. Mary kept walking, not understanding that she'd stopped. Serephina couldn't look suspicious; she had to keep walking. If Mary hadn't plowed ahead, she could have crossed the street, but now she needed to pull herself together and just get on with it.
Straightening her spine, she started walking again, watching for him to tense up. She didn't know what she'd do if he grabbed for her. She wasn't remotely able to fight him off, even if she could claim that he was some random man on the street attacking her.
He stayed relaxed, but he shifted on his feet when she moved closer, but not letting go of the spire his hand grasped. His eyes were drawn with suspicion as she approached, and she decided to ignore his presence. Holding her breath, she walked past.
"I know it's you," he said. His voice deep and gravelly, harsh even.
Her lungs burned with her held breath and she didn't know what to do. She could ignore him or she could respond. If he was a perfect stranger, he could not approach her like that, and he was a perfect stranger.
Stopping, she turned slightly, without giving him her full gaze. "I don't know what you're speaking of. Please do not speak to me," she said, trying to sound haughty. There were people around. If he did anything, she could plead for assistance and it would likely be given, but then she'd learnt that she couldn't depend on others when things were dire. She hated feeling so completely vulnerable. She hated him for being there.
Finally she looked at him and he raised his eyebrow, looking like he was about to say something more, but held his tongue. His hair was longer than fashionable, curling down to his collar, framing his strong jaw. He wasn't a bull of a man, but he was strong—a very different kind of man from the men she knew—the men that attended the events and balls of the season.
Turning her head away, she kept walking, wary that she was giving him her back and he might grab her from behind, but if he decided to grab her, it wouldn't really matter which way she was facing.
Grimly fighting tears, she walked away, listening intently for any sign that he was following her, and she was happy to know that he was restrained in some way. He knew it was her—he'd said as much, but he still hadn't grabbed her. Knowing it was her obviously wasn't enough. His beliefs were unimportant—he needed proof and he had none. To take her, he needed someone who would attest to her crimes or else there was nothing he could do. And there were only two people who could attest: Mrs. Rushmore and Turner, and neither of those would—Serephina was certain of it. Turner because he would incriminate himself, and Mrs. Rushmore because she had only things to lose by doing it. Mrs. Rushmore cared enough about them to not want the harm that would happen to both of the girls if Serephina was caught.
Serephina swore she had to invest in an annuity for Mrs. Rushmore that would provide for her as assurance or for when Serephina stopped her activities once Millie was married and settled.
Continuing to the library in a calm walk, she walked up the steps and perused the shelf of the library. She didn't know if he was still there, refusing to let herself look. Tears still stung the back of her eyes just from the tension and shock, but she refused to give in to them. She was stronger than this, she determined. Doggedly, she studied the shelves, although she couldn't take anything in from the spines she ran her gaze over, continuing to act in exactly the way she would have if he hadn't been there at all. She would not let him change her behavior, let alone chase her away. That would only give credence to his assumption—and it was nothing more than that. It was just an assumption on his part. She had no idea how he'd reached that conclusion, but he was a professional at investigating—that didn't mean he could connect her in actuality and she had to ensure it remained that way.
There had been no sight of him the last time she'd entered a house and she recognized that she had to be more random in how she picked the pieces she pursued. He could only be in one place at a time and she had to ensure it was always somewhere else.
Mary was bored by the time Serephina was done. Steeling herself, she held herself stiffly as she exited the lending library a good forty minutes later. Scanning the street, she couldn't see him around anywhere and she drew a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Mary," she said. "I don't think I can go to the market after all. I seem to have developed a head ache." Mary nodded and they started walking in the direction of home.
Chapter 10:
* * *
It took no time to find her house as her address was on one of the invitation lists. It was a handsome, whitewashed house on a good street. Apparently there were five occupants and Serephina Woodhouse was the head of the household, chaperoned by a Mrs. Rushmore. A sister, a maid and a kitchen servant lived at the address as well. It wasn't an unusual set up for the season, young women in a house, guarded by an older woman, as far as he understood, but normally there was family out in the country somewhere—and that was something he didn't know.
There were precious few records as she had never been in any kind of trouble with the law. Normally, his cases involved people with records going back to childhood, but with her there was nothing and he’d only learnt what he could ask. And in this case, Amelia Summers knew nothing other than that her father had been a degenerate drinker and a gambler—the kind of man Rowan knew well. He was deceased from what he'd been told. There weren't a great deal of records for the father either, which meant that they had enough money to cover his debts. Rowan also had no idea if there was now any money in the family to support these girls. Men like Mr. Woodford tended to deplete family fortunes considerably. Perhaps Miss Woodford's illicit activities provided the means to support them now—kept them in this lavish lifestyle.
Looking up at the façade, Rowan wondered at the layout of the house. There would be an entrance in the back of the house and also a servant's entrance down the stairs.
He didn't know where they hailed from. Her family was absent from the last census, which meant that they could have property and a home elsewhere. That also meant that she could disappear at a moment's notice, perhaps at the end of the season, which meant he couldn't dawdle.
The costermongers further down the street confirmed that they were new to the street and that these were rented rooms. Rowan bet the people living in these houses would be
astounded over the things that the street life knew about them, but in this case, they didn't know as much as he wanted to know.
Judging from Miss Summer's knowledge of their father, they were not unknown in London. Rowan would need to establish whether the father's lack of character had been visited on his daughter, or maybe even both of them for all he knew. From experience, these things ran in families.
Rowan wasn't sure he'd ever had a target that was so inaccessible. He couldn't intrude on where she was in all things—unable to follow her into the drawing rooms where she picked her target. He would never be able to blend into the environment and no host would accept him skulking around their soiree. He couldn't even speak to her without drawing concern from the gentry on the street and he would soon find himself being beaten by every walking stick, parasol and umbrella on the street. Normally, he would just grab her by the neck and slam her to a wall, ensure she answered every one of his questions—another tactic he couldn't employ.
But he knew where she was now and the fact that she'd surrounded herself with exclusivity was not going to deter him. He'd commissioned a boy to keep watch on the house when he wasn't there. As he expected, the boy wasn't far away, looking scruffy in worn clothes and with a dirty handkerchief around his thin neck—the kind of boy no one noticed.
"Gone walking with her sister," the boy said, indicating the direction. "As you only pay me to watch the house, I watched the house."
"Cheeky sod," he said and gave the boy some coins, and the kid smiled broadly. "Anything else?"
"Fancy gentleman came to call. Uniform and all."
That was interesting. "What kind of uniform?"
"Military"
"Good work."
The boy gave a little salute and disappeared into the crowd. He'd make a decent bobby one day when he was old enough. Rowan would put in a good word for him when the time came, while for now he made a living by helping out and keeping watch.
Rowan walked in the direction the boy had indicated, toward Regent Street. Searching the crowd, he eventually spotted her, standing in front of a jewelry store. He snorted and stood back, watching her.
She wore a pale yellow dress with a narrow-waisted velvet jacket. She looked so utterly demure, but he knew better. Actually, he didn't know better; he only knew that she wasn't what she presented. The mind of a criminal lied behind the innocent-looking countenance.
He wondered if she was untouched. The state of her dress certainly insinuated so. Perhaps she was; otherwise she could rely on the patronage of a man, rather than clamber around the roofs at night. Perhaps she was innocent, courting some young military man. He shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all. She was playing a dangerous game—perhaps she didn't understand that.
He decided to approach as she carefully looked over the goods in the jeweler's window. "Thinking of expanding your enterprise?"
She startled and turned around sharply. "Excuse me," she said and went to move ahead, but he placed his hand down on the window blocking her path. She wasn't going to get away that lightly.
"Politeness doesn't avert the course of justice, I'm afraid," he said, smiling. It wasn't a kind smile, just an amused smile. He still kept watch on the surroundings in case someone came to her rescue.
"You are entirely misguided," she finally said, holding her head high and looking him in the eye. Her eyes were clear blue and her cheeks rosy. A small, perfectly formed head on a slight neck, wisps of brown hair escaped her bonnet. One would think she'd break in a stiff wind, but her body was lithe, maybe even deceptively strong, judging by what she achieved. She looked the picture of innocence—pink, full lips slightly open in disbelief. She was quite beautiful.
"How old are you?"
"That is none of your affair."
"I'm afraid it is. See, everything you do is now my affair."
She stared daggers at him. There was gumption in the girl, lightening in her eyes. Perhaps she didn't understand the situation she was in, and things had turned very serious for her.
Another girl marched over, a maid. Irish by the look of her. Coming over to protect her lamb.
"I'm the law, girl," he said, utilizing the harsh rumble that made people cease what they were doing. "Believe me, this is much more civilized than the alternative."
"It's alright, Mary," his target said. Serephina Woodford—that was her name. Serephina—what a name. He wasn't entirely sure, but he suspected it was mythical or even Egyptians in origin. The gentry liked such names. "As you insist on harassing me," she said sharply in crisp tones, her voice pleasant and educated, "is there something particular I can help you with? You seem to have me confused with someone else."
He smiled. It was something everyone said to him, but not normally in such a refined fashion. "You could confess. It would make my job much easier."
"I have no idea what you are referring to. Good day Mr.—" She paused like she'd just caught herself about to say his name. She knew his name, which meant she was more connected than he gave her credit for. He'd kind of hoped she was an innocent party dabbling in criminality, perhaps out of challenge and boredom, as he would assume a wealthy young man would, but she was connected enough to know who he was, which placed her in another league.
She was about to walk away, so he grabbed her arm. That was taking a risk in the company of the street, but no one interfered. "It is a dangerous game you play. Your background will not immune you from facing the consequences, and it will have a devastating effect on your freedom. Prison is a harsh place and you don't have the constitution for it. You will lose everything."
She glared up at him accusingly, then pulled her arm out of his hold. He considered not letting her, just to show that she had little control in this situation, but he let her go, suspecting that he'd said enough.
"Come, Mary. Let's return home. The streets are disagreeable today." They hurried off, collecting another girl coming out of a store further down the street. It was the sister, who looked even younger.
Rowan stood back and watched them, hoping she was smart enough to heed his warning. He'd made it strong enough that she couldn't misunderstand its intent. If she stopped now, there wasn't enough evidence and this case would sit for months gathering dust, until someone deemed in too old to keep around.
After another night guarding a rooftop, he returned home and lay down on the bed in his rooms. The room was cold and he'd run out of coal, but he couldn't bother going out and getting some more. The blankets were warm enough for sleeping, which was all he intended to do.
He would hunt her again that night. Serephina Woodhouse. Possibly the prettiest target he'd ever had. It made no difference though. He would not be swayed by such sentimentality. Nature warned that the most beautiful things were sometimes the most poisonous.
Staring up at the ceiling, he recounted the things he knew of the case. The state of it had changed quite dramatically. He knew who she was and visa-versa. The real chase would begin now and he would win—he always did.
Chapter 11:
* * *
Fog had settled on London like a curtain, hiding all its secrets. It gave the city an eerie quality, leaving Serephina feeling isolated as if nothing existed in the all-encompassing fog, which made everything look like ghostly specters. It was weather for staying inside, although it was perfect for going around the city unseen.
She had a target and she'd been putting off pursuing it. The new development with Mr. Cox had her hiding in her house, although she'd told herself it was the unpleasant weather. He was a singular man, she'd decided, but the worst part was that she didn't really know anything about him, about men like him. With a man of her own class, she would have a rough understanding of the things he did and had experienced, even his values and expectations. With Mr. Cox, she had no idea—where he lived, what he did or the kind of people he knew.
The problem was that she couldn't afford to stop her activities, not now that they were so close. Millie's dowry was starting to become d
ecent and if she stopped now, she would undo the good position she had finally achieved for them.
Pacing, she wished there was more to see through the window than wet fog outside. Stepping to the window, she looked down on the street, drawing breath sharply when she saw him as a ghost watching the house, standing on the other side of the street, leaning against Mr. Hosier's fence. He wasn't a ghost—he was there.
Suddenly, Serephina drew back from the window, feeling like she needed to hide, to do something. He was watching the house, waiting for her to emerge, to do what, she didn't know. He was effectively making her a prisoner in her own house.
Bringing her hand up to her lips, she stood there, uncertain what to do. Was he going to be her shadow—following her wherever she went?
Softly stepping back to the window, which was ridiculous as he couldn't hear her, she peeked out again. He was still there, standing in the same place with his arms crossed and his foot resting on the bottom of the fence. It was the first time she had the opportunity to properly observe him.
He thought he was so clever having found her and was now harassing her, waiting for her to what—confess? Admittedly, he was good, considering that he had found her, but at the moment she didn't want to concede that—she wanted to think of him as a stupid, plodding man who had was fixated on an innocent victim. The problem was that she wasn't innocent—even if her activities were in response to the impossible situation she'd been placed in.
She could see how powerful his body was, so very different from her own, and she wondered what he did with it—chased down criminals, fought bad men and got his way.
He looked up and spotted her. Her heart jumped up into her throat and she fought an urge to quickly move out of sight. Instead, she firmly stayed put and received his attention. Part of her wanted him to see her, up there safely in her room, out of reach. It was a perverse thought which she didn't understand. "You will not get me, Mr. Cox," she said quietly.
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