by Galen, Shana
She hadn’t known that, actually. She hadn’t considered that it must have been as hard for him to leave her as it was for her to be separated from him.
“What haven’t you told me?”
He sighed and sank onto her bed. Her first reaction was to tell him he couldn’t sit there. Not because it was improper; it was beyond improper. But because she didn’t want to look at the bed every day and imagine him on it. Imagine herself there with him.
“I’m not living in this boarding house by choice. The Foreign Office put me here.”
This made sense. She’d thought they would pay him enough that he could retire to the country if he wished. He could at least afford a decent flat. But if he was still working with the Foreign Office four years after Bonaparte’s surrender, something was not right.
“I never told you what I was training for before I left.”
“We weren’t allowed to talk of such things. I didn’t confide details of my work either.” No, they’d been too busy with other matters to discuss work overly much. Looking at him sitting on the bed reminded her of those other matters all too easily.
“I think I should tell you something of it now, so you understand my present circumstances and the risk you are taking—the risk I put you in—if we begin this search together.”
“I don’t care about the risks,” she argued. “I’ll take any risk necessary if it means I find James.”
“Little consolation it will be to find him if you’re dead.”
Bridget leveled a look at Caleb. “You’re right. I think I’d better understand your present circumstances better.”
“You must have suspected I was training to be a spy.”
She nodded. “Why else the secrecy?”
“You were correct. And when I left you, I infiltrated the ranks of the French. One of the French commanders had an aide-de-camp who died from illness. The commander sent back to France for another man who had been recommended to him. The Foreign Office had that man killed, and I went in his place.”
Bridget took a breath. She did not think she would have done anything but worry and fret for Caleb if she’d known these details all those years ago. It had been an incredible risk to take. So much could have gone wrong. “You were accepted?”
“I was able to avoid the few who knew the man I replaced. If I couldn’t avoid them, I took other measures.”
He’d killed them. The haunted look in his eyes as he remembered was proof enough that he hadn’t quite forgiven himself for the sins of war. “I can see you would have been in a unique position to send information back to the Foreign Office.”
“Exactly. But I was also in a dangerous position once Napoleon’s generals realized they had a spy in their midst. For months, they tried to discover who it was, and I was able to evade them. But no one can escape the noose forever.”
Caught up in the story now, Bridget crossed to him and sat on the bed beside him. “How did they catch you?”
“They had suspicions about three or four of us, including me. They held strategy meetings in which only one of the men under suspicion was present at a time. In each meeting, they gave different, false information. When the information I sent was intercepted, they knew who their spy was because they knew who was in the meeting when that false information was given.”
“Did they capture you?” Bridget stared into his blue eyes, bright and vivid like the color of a kingfisher’s feathers.
“They tried. I escaped and hid all over the Continent for several years. I think, during certain periods, the Foreign Office really did not know whether I was alive or dead. And then the war ended.”
She stiffened. This was where he should have come back, found her, saved her from prison, and reunited her with her son.
“I came back. I wanted to look for you, Bridget.”
“I wasn’t hard to find.”
“Neither was I, and that was the problem.” He looked down at his hands. “They tried to kill me. They almost succeeded.”
“Who?”
“The French army put a price on my head, and even though Napoleon was defeated, my treachery was not forgotten. It still hasn’t been forgotten.”
If he was still being pursued even four years after the end of the war, he had to be worth a great deal.
“How much?” she asked.
“Ten thousand pounds. Dead or alive.”
Her heart sank into her belly. It was a fortune, enough to tempt the most skilled assassins, not to mention the lowest criminals, though she knew Caleb could probably outwit all but the cleverest of men. “Why did you even come back to London? Surely they will expect you to want to return.”
“And now you know why I’m biding my time in this fair establishment.”
“Except I’ve asked you to risk your life by searching for my son.”
His hand covered hers, large and warm. “Our son. And if there’s ever been a worthwhile cause, this is it.”
“But?” She should have pulled her hand away, but she didn’t. She liked the feel of his strong hand on hers.
“But every criminal in London has probably heard about the price on my head and has seen sketches of me. You won’t be safe in my presence.”
“Then perhaps it’s best if we work quickly.”
“I agree.” He squeezed her hand. “And once we find the boy, I’ll disappear. For good.”
Chapter Four
SATURDAY DAWNED GRAY and rainy. The rain started as a drizzle, but by the time Caleb led Bridget to Spitalfields, the skies opened in earnest. She’d brought an umbrella, black and battered. It did little to keep her dry, but she came from good Irish stock and wouldn’t perish from wet feet in June.
“This is where the orphanage stood,” she said, pointing to a corner in Spitalfields. “I think it was a splendid house at one time. It was rather more run-down when I left James here, but it still looked better than most of the places I visited.”
Caleb surveyed the debris-strewn lot. “I’m surprised whoever owned it took the time to clear away the burnt husk of the building.” He looked about at the dilapidated buildings surrounding them. “There certainly wouldn’t have been any penalty for leaving it as it was.” He took her arm and steered her away from the lot. “Yesterday, I took some time and looked through various bank records. It appears there was a St. Dismas in Spitalfields, but I can’t find records for it after 1816. I assume you already know all of that.”
“I do.”
She was warm, and her breast pressed against his arm when she moved closer to allow a woman to hurry by. He tried not to notice how she felt beside him. He tried to be a gentleman, but it was damned difficult. “What we want to know is whether the orphanage ceased to exist or reopened with a different name. Something had to be done with those orphans.”
She nodded, her movements jerky. Her arm tensed, and he realized he hadn’t even considered her greatest fear. “You don’t think James is dead, do you?” he asked.
She took a shaky breath. “I don’t know. I don’t want to believe that. When I asked if anyone died in the fire, I was told there was at least one death.”
“It wasn’t James.” He stopped under a ripped awning and turned her to face him. Her face was so pale, her expression so stricken, he put his gloved hands on either side of her drawn cheeks. “We’ll find him. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I just did.” He wanted to kiss her then. It seemed the most natural thing to do. But she wasn’t his any longer. She hadn’t been his for a long, long time. “As I see it, we have two options.” He let his hands drop because he didn’t know if he could resist if he touched her much longer.
“Tell me.”
“We risk showing my face to every criminal in the area by visiting every gin house and tavern and asking questions, or we go to the one man who can tell us what we need to know.”
“Who is that?”
“Joseph Merceron.”
“That’s an easy decisio
n. We go to Merceron.”
He gave her a tight smile. “You haven’t heard of him.”
“Should I have?”
“You haven’t lived in London’s East End, so I wouldn’t expect it. He’s something of a politician in this area, and nothing happens without him knowing about it. Nothing gets done unless he is paid.”
She sighed. “One of those. You can hardly go to him. He’s likely to know who you are or be flanked by someone who does.”
“I agree. I wouldn’t go to him.”
She frowned. “But you—” Her eyes widened. “You want me to go to him.”
“If we find him in a public place, I think you’d be safe enough. I can stay close by and intervene if there’s trouble.”
“I’ll do it.”
Now his brows lifted. “That was a quick agreement.”
“If this Merceron knows how to find James, then I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Caleb swallowed. This was what had made him fall in love with her all those years ago—this strength and single-minded purpose. She was beautiful and intelligent and talented, but more than that, she was strong and loyal. She never thought of herself first. The more time he spent with her now, the more he would fall in love with her all over again.
“There’s a tavern he frequents in Bethnal Green. Do you want to go now?”
“By all means. Anything to get out of this rain.”
BRIDGET RECONSIDERED that statement a quarter hour later when she stepped into the Hog and Hen. The place looked as though the hog and hen in question had run rampant through the public rooms. She’d entered by herself about five minutes after Caleb had gone in. He’d told her he’d stand near the bar, and she spotted him easily. She must have looked as uncertain as she felt, because he gave her a firm nod as though to say, You can do this.
She took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and moved forward. Of course she could do this. She’d dealt with crying, screaming, fighting ten-year-old girls. A corrupt politician was nothing to her.
She made her way to the bar, aware that several pairs of eyes followed her. She was dressed more…completely than most of the women in the place, but she wasn’t here to advertise her charms. Still, her lavender gown and spencer were nothing to make anyone take notice. In an area of Town known for its silk weavers, the cloth of her dress was obviously inferior, as were her battered half boots and her drooping hat. She was nothing to waste time over.
Or so she hoped.
Without looking at Caleb, who was now only a few feet away, she cleared her throat. The barkeep flicked his eyes at her, then went back to polishing a glass. “What can I get you?” he asked flatly.
“Information.”
He sighed heavily. “Do I look like a book to you? I don’t ’ave no information. I ’ave ale and spirits.”
“I need to speak with Joseph Merceron.”
The barkeep set the glass on the counter. “What’s that to me? Do I look like ’is butler?”
“Where is he?”
The barkeep jerked his head to a dark corner of the tavern, and when Bridget squinted, she spotted an open door that led to another room. “Thank you.”
He muttered something under his breath as she walked away. She hoped Caleb followed. She was trembling now, but Satan himself couldn’t have stopped her from going into that room. Perhaps she would find James today. She might even hold him in her arms tonight.
She moved through the doorway and into the back room, and a man stepped in front of her. He was short but muscled, his head completely bald. “Can I help you, missus?”
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Merceron.”
“Do you owe him blunt?”
“No.”
“Then he’s busy.”
Bridget scowled. “It won’t take long. Just a few questions.”
“Come back tomorrow. Maybe he’ll see you then.”
“I can’t come back tomorrow. I need to speak with him today. Please.”
The man put his hand on her shoulder and, with strength she had no hope of matching, turned her around. “Goodbye, missus.”
She walked out and continued walking. Tears burned in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing them.
A few minutes later, Caleb caught up to her. “Bridget! Wait!”
She swiped at her eyes furiously before waiting for him to catch up. She related the conversation.
“So we come back tomorrow.” He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“And what if he won’t see me then?”
“We come back the next day and the next.” He pulled her close, and though she knew she should resist, she went willingly, happy to be tucked safely against his side. “Sweetheart, you’ve been doing this all on your own the past few years. You’re not on your own anymore. Together we will find our son.”
Our son.
Robbie had never referred to James that way. She knew he’d cared for the little boy, but he’d never thought of him as his own son. He’d always spoken of him as the boy or the baby. Bridget hadn’t thought she’d ever want to tell Caleb about his child. She’d done it out of sheer desperation. She was glad she had, because he was right—she had been on her own for a long time. She was grateful to have someone stand beside her and be her partner. Someone who wanted to find James as much as she did.
“You’re cold and wet,” he said, rubbing a hand up and down her arm. “I’ll take you for tea.”
“Is it safe for you to be seen in a tea shop?”
“I know one a little out of the way. We’ll sit in the back.” He took her hand in his and led her down back streets and through alleyways until she was thoroughly lost. Finally, they emerged in front of a small shop she’d never seen before. The sign hanging above the door read Mrs. Scott’s Tea Shop. The paint was flaking and the window to the shop rather small, but when Caleb opened the door, a little bell tinkled prettily. Bridget looked around and noted that though the window was small, white lace curtains with cheery yellow sashes framed it. The cozy round tables were covered with lace cloths, and vases of the sort an apothecary might use sat at each table with a single flower inside.
Caleb hung his coat on the stand, then took her wrap and did the same.
A plump woman with doe-brown eyes and a welcoming smile came over and bobbed a curtsy. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith.” She smiled at Bridget. “Table for two today?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Scott. In the back, please.”
“Your usual table, then. Right this way.” She led them past a scattering of others taking tea. No one paid them any mind. These were not members of the upper echelons of Society—men and women always looking for gossip. These were merchants and tradesmen enjoying a respite on a Saturday afternoon.
They took seats, and Caleb asked for tea and scones. “A bit too early for cakes still,” he said when Mrs. Scott departed for the kitchen.
“It’s never too early for cake,” Bridget retorted.
“You still have a sweet tooth, I see.”
“Unfortunately, as I don’t have the coin to indulge it very often. The cook at the academy, Mrs. White, makes a delicious trifle on special occasions, though.”
He leaned forward, his stunning blue eyes intent on her face. She could have stared into his eyes all day. “I’m not surprised you’re teaching now,” he said.
“You’re not? I’ve only been at the academy a year.”
“I always thought you would make an excellent instructor. You’re patient and good at explaining.”
Bridget felt her cheeks grow warm. “I like to think I am.”
“You were certainly patient with me when the undersecretary asked you to show me how to counterfeit currency.”
She had to hide a smile at the memory. How could she have forgotten that?
“Go ahead and laugh. I know I was a poor student.”
“You tried very hard, and eventually you caught on.”
“I don’t have your artistic abilities.”
She swallowed at the burst of emotion within, and Mrs. Scott chose that moment to bring a tray with their tea and scones. The tea was hot and strong and the scones absolutely some of the best she’d ever had. They were apple today, and she tasted bits of apple dusted with cinnamon in every bite.
“I have a confession to make,” Caleb said after they’d each had a scone and were warm from the tea.
“What’s that?”
“I might have pretended to be worse at counterfeiting than I truly was.”
“Why would you do that?” But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew the reason.
“I had a fondness for the teacher.”
“I confess I didn’t mind extra lessons with you.”
His gaze on her seemed to warm, and she looked down and took a hasty sip of her tea.
“What about your art?” he asked before the silence could become uncomfortable. “Do you still sketch?”
He really did remember everything about her. For so long, she’d thought she meant nothing to him. More and more, she believed he hadn’t wanted to leave without telling her. He’d had no choice.
“Ostensibly, I teach art at the academy. We don’t make public the skills like forgery and lockpicking we show the girls. We hope our students will never need them, but we also want them to be prepared for anything. This world is not always easy for females.”
“True enough.”
“I teach art as well as counterfeiting. When I have James back, I plan to advertise for a few private students to supplement my income.”
“That’s a clever idea. But when will you have time to create your own art?”
She frowned, perplexed. “I enjoy art, but I don’t think my pieces are good enough to sell. I certainly wouldn’t make enough to offset the cost of charcoals, pencils, and paper.”
He refilled their cups with tea. “I think you’re good enough, but regardless, I didn’t think you sketched for money. I thought you did it for joy.”
Bridget stared at him for a long moment. She hadn’t realized how well he understood her.
“Or perhaps I misunderstood,” he said when she merely stared at him.
“You didn’t misunderstand,” she said, feeling self-conscious. When was the last time anyone asked her about herself and what she might like? For years, her life had been about survival. When had she had time to think about joy? “But drawing for pleasure has not been something I’ve had the time or funds to do for the past few years.”
