by C. J. Archer
"Keep your voice down," I hissed. Quin was most likely just on the other side of the door.
"Do you know what he did?" His voice wasn't quiet. "Do you know why he's in Purgatory?"
"Yes," I whispered. "I know."
The door crashed back and a shadowy figure flew out of the bedroom. Quin stood between de Mordaunt and me, his sword in his hand.
De Mordaunt stumbled back, but recovered before he fell.
He bared his teeth. "St. Clair." He spread his arms wide. "Are you here to destroy me?"
Quin's fingers flexed around his sword hilt. He didn't speak, and although his back was to me, I knew he was furious from the set of his shoulders.
De Mordaunt chuckled. "Go. Take your lovesick fool with you. I have no need for her when there are prettier girls in the house."
Whip-fast, Quin smashed his fist into de Mordaunt's jaw, sending the other man reeling back into the wall. De Mordaunt recovered and hurled himself at Quin, but Quin put up his blade and stopped him with the flat edge pressed into the other man's throat.
"You hurt anyone on this realm and I will hunt you down and kill you." Quin's voice was low, quiet, but the menacing tone was unmistakable.
He took my hand and dragged me away, his gaze on de Mordaunt until we rounded the corner. He dragged me down the stairs, catching me round the waist when I stumbled. The butler gaped at us as we passed and I mumbled an apology as we headed out the door.
Quin did not stop. He marched me up the street. I had to run to keep pace or risk him dragging me again. His rigid shoulders and hard jaw invited no arguing and certainly no stopping. Once we'd entered the next street, and I was sure nobody followed us, I tried to break through his steely exterior.
"No response about me not being the prettiest girl in the house?" My joke fell flat, but it did get a reaction. He spun me round and forced me against a wall of a house on the corner.
He slammed his hands onto the bricks on either side of my head and leaned in until we were nose to nose. "What were you doing?"
I tried to dampen my racing heart, but it was no good. While I wasn't afraid of him, I was uncertain of how he would act. He was, after all, a medieval man who'd been locked away in Purgatory for hundreds of years. It was possible he'd just been acting the gentleman all along. I swallowed. It seemed I was a little afraid.
"That is my affair," I told him quietly. "And I do not appreciate you trying to bully me into telling you."
His lips thinned. "What. Were. You. Doing?"
I bunched my fists in my skirts. If he wasn't going to listen then I wouldn't say anything. I lifted my chin and waited for his next tirade to begin.
"He could have hurt you."
"He didn't."
"It was foolish and dangerous."
"Much like scaling three levels to a locked window."
He slammed the flat of his hand against the wall near my ear. "Enough, Cara! You're not listening to me. That man has a cruel streak. If I hadn't interrupted—"
"I would have handled him, Quin. I can deflect a man's interest."
"And if not? He despises me. What do you think he would have done after he found out about us?"
I ducked under his arm and stalked away. I was very aware that if he had wanted to keep me there, trapped against the wall, I would not have been able to escape so easily. "I do not have to answer you or do as you say," I tossed over my shoulder.
Next thing I knew he grabbed my shoulder and spun me round to face him. I would have lost my balance if he hadn't grasped my arms and held me up. He was still looking as ferocious as a swarm of bees. "I heard you," he snapped.
"What?"
"I heard you ask him for the book. For the information in it."
"Then why did you ask me what I was doing there?"
"I hoped you would answer me yourself instead of lying."
"I haven't lied. I merely avoided telling you the truth."
"Stop it, Cara. This is not a game and you are not to endanger yourself for me." He shook me. "Do you understand?"
"Quin," I began, meeting his gaze with my own determined one. This required some delicacy if I were to diffuse his temper. "I will not give up. I will fight for you and your life, even if you don't want me to."
He let me go and straightened to his full height. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but I think his eyes softened a little, although his body was still ramrod straight. "You must not endanger yourself for me. Do not go near de Mordaunt or Myer."
"Myer knows where the book is, even if de Mordaunt doesn't."
The lamplight picked out the flash of his eyes in the dark. "And how am I meant to live with myself if something happens to you because of me?" he ground out through a clenched jaw.
There was nothing to say to that. He was right. That's why I hadn't wanted him to know what I was doing. If he was kept in the dark and something had happened to me, he wouldn't have to shoulder that guilt too.
I suddenly felt drained. Arguing with him sapped my strength and stretched my emotions to breaking point. I wanted to hold him and be held by him, and share sweet words, not harsh ones. But he still looked forbidding enough that I decided to keep my distance. Hot tears of frustration burned my eyes. I turned my back to him and walked off, letting them flow while he couldn't see.
I didn't hear him following, and it wasn't until I reached Eaton Square that I realized he had been walking several paces behind the entire time. Not even his footsteps echoed in the crisp, quiet evening air, while my shoes were as loud as a horse's hooves.
My tears had dried up and I felt ready to face him again and apologize, but when I paused at the house's front steps, he didn't approach. In fact, he'd gone. I searched up and down the street but there was no sight of him.
I sagged against the iron fence separating the footpath from the basement service steps. My heart ached and I almost began crying anew. Quin might stay mad at me for the remainder of his stay, and part of me couldn't blame him. I had ruined his chance to spy on de Mordaunt and given him cause to worry over my safety. I had ruined everything that was good between us.
Yet I wasn't entirely sorry. None of those things mattered as much as finding the book and using it to keep Quin here.
***
Samuel's message arrived while I ate my breakfast. The maid had delivered it to my room and stayed to arrange my clothes for the day. She didn't utter a word about her uniform being exactly where I said I would leave it, or about my nocturnal wanderings. Perhaps, like me, she wanted to forget the entire evening had happened at all.
Charity informed me that you and St. Clair are here in London, Samuel's message read. I will hand over my investigation to you. I have located the Hatfields’ butler from that time. His name is Duffield, and he is residing at the House Of Charity, 1 Greek Street, Soho. He might recall something important.
No need to define "that time". He knew I would understand his meaning.
Thankful to have something other than Quin to focus on, I quickly finished eating and dressed. I dashed off a note to Nathaniel Faraday before my departure, asking him to meet me at the Eaton Square house later that afternoon. It was time to get our meeting over with and put an end to any awkwardness that lay between us and any affection on his part. It was best to do it as quickly and efficiently as possible so that no doubts could linger.
I hired a hansom to take me to Soho Square, a small open area amid a chaotic network of streets and lanes. Like Clerkenwell, where Charity's school was located, Soho housed some of London's poorest residents in crooked, crumbling buildings that looked as if a strong sneeze would blow them over. The faint odor of filth and foulness lingered in the inert summer air. Wretched faces lifted as I passed, and children scurried toward me like rats when they saw me reach into my purse. I pressed a few coins into grimy palms before approaching the door of number one.
The House of Charity seemed too spectacular and grand for the slum, until one remembered that Soho once accommodated London's rich. T
he entrance hall was flanked by two sitting rooms for the use of the residents who weren't out looking for work. A handful of ancient women bent over needlework in the women's room, while three elderly men read the newspaper in the other. A fourth dozed in an uncomfortable looking chair in the corner. I approached the men's room and asked after Mr. Duffield. A man with a crooked back shuffled over and offered to show me to Duffield's room.
"He's too ill to leave the bed," he told me.
A large woman with thick black eyebrows and a beaked nose blocked the entry to the main stairs. "It's all right, Mr. Manners. I'll escort the lady to see Mr. Duffield."
"Right you are, Mrs. Forbes."
I thanked the fellow as he shuffled off and introduced myself to the unsmiling Mrs. Forbes. "I wish to speak to Mr. Duffield," I said. "He's unwell?"
"He cannot get out of bed. It's his legs."
"I see. Then perhaps you will show me to his room."
"It isn't his room, Miss Moreau." She picked up her skirts and lifted them just enough to climb the stairs without tripping on the hem. I followed suit and kept apace. "He shares it with other poor men of good reputation."
"You offer a wonderful service here, Mrs. Forbes. I commend you for your charity. Am I to understand that Mr. Duffield has no family who can take care of him?"
"He has no one. Most of our elderly residents are alone and unable to work anymore, despite a lifetime of commendable service. Mr. Duffield used to be a butler for a grand family, you know."
"A noble profession."
"The most noble. He would have been well taken care of, if his master and mistress hadn't unexpectedly died."
I wondered if she would share any details of their deaths with me but she did not. She indicated that I was to walk ahead of her through a door leading off the first floor landing.
"He could not find other work after their deaths?" I asked.
"No." Her brusque response invited no further questions. "May I ask why you wish to speak to him?"
"It's a private matter," I told her.
Her beaky nose twitched and wrinkled. "In there." She nodded through the door. "Seventh room on the left." She walked off without a glance back.
I entered the long dormitory and passed the high partitions that separated the space into smaller "rooms," as Mrs. Forbes had called them. I counted down to the seventh on the left and entered the cubicle. A man of almost the same pallor as the linen lay on the bed, his closed eyelids covered in spidery red lines. A washstand, chair and small table were crammed into the space between bed and partition, but it looked clean and comfortable enough. A bible occupied the narrow shelf, but there were no other items nearby.
"Mr. Duffield?"
His eyes opened and the cloudy orbs wandered before finally focusing on my general location. "Y-yes? Who are you?" He tried to sit up and I rushed to his side to help him.
"My name is Miss Cara Moreau. I wish to speak to you about the Hatfields."
His jaw slackened, but still his gaze didn't quite focus on me. He was blind, I realized. "Miss Moreau? Do I know you?"
"We haven't met, Mr. Duffield. May I sit?"
He nodded and I sat on the chair, smoothing my skirts over my lap. "Forgive my humble home, if you will. I live in reduced circumstances now." A little color infused his cheeks, and although it was from shame, it made him look more alive and a little younger.
"It's quite all right. I know things would have been different if Mr. Hatfield had lived longer."
"You knew the Hatfields?" He frowned. "You sound too young to have been a friend to them."
"I know of them and their unfortunate end. That's actually why I'm here. I have some questions for you."
"About the Hatfields?"
"Yes. What were they like?"
"Mr. Hatfield was a gentleman, a good businessman and a fair employer. A humble fellow cannot ask for more."
"And yet he made no provision for you?" It was overstepping the boundaries of politeness, but it did seem odd that a long-time butler to the household would end up in the reduced circumstances he now found himself in.
"He made no provision for me in his will," he said tartly. "That's the problem, Miss Moreau. He thought he would outlive me, I assume. He was younger than I." He spoke matter-of-factly, in an accent that was more cultured and perfect than Jacob's.
"You couldn't find another position after his death?"
"My eyesight was failing me, even then. I should have been let go but he kept me on. A good man, Mr. Hatfield was. A very good man." He sighed heavily and leaned his head back against the bedhead as if it were too heavy to keep up.
"Mr. Duffield, there's no easy way to ask my next questions, so I'm going to come right out and ask them. What can you tell me about the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield, and the maids?"
He lifted his head and stared in my general direction. "You know about the girls?"
"It was mentioned in a newspaper article."
"True, but not at first. They were rather forgotten, poor things. Olive and Jenny, their names were. Nice girls. Good girls, and sweet companions to Miss Hatfield."
"Edith? Edith Hatfield, now Myer?"
His face clouded and he nodded. He looked toward the light coming through the window. I thought he would say more, but he seemed to be lost in remembering.
"Tell me about Edith," I prompted. "What was she like?"
He smiled. "She was a lively thing. What she lacked in beauty, she made up for in spirit."
It was a similar story told by Lady Preston, Jacob's mother. She had also claimed Edith was a terrible flirt as a young woman and liked the company of gentlemen. I decided not to ask Duffield about the flirtations. I gathered from his warm response that he had liked the girl, and he might not take kindly to me disparaging her with gossip.
"But something changed," he said, his face sagging once more. "It happened before her parents' deaths, though, not after. Strange that, don't you think, Miss Moreau? I always thought it odd that she would retreat into herself before that bleak day. It was as if she'd seen what would happen and felt the loss before it occurred."
Surely Edith Mayer wasn't a seer; there would have been some indication before now. Unless she'd been hiding her abilities from us all this time.
"Go on," I said, barely able to hide my eagerness. "Was she particularly close to those two maids?"
"Oh yes. She confided in them all the time. Indeed, it was they who first brought the strange change in Edith to my attention. They came to Mrs. Urcott and me—that's the housekeeper—and told us Edith wasn't quite herself. She didn't want anyone to help her dress or comb her hair anymore. She didn't want the girls near her at all."
So what was she hiding all of a sudden? A disfigurement? A pregnancy? Had she been raped? I shuddered at the thought.
"Did she no longer treat them as confidants?" I asked.
He shook his head. "The only times she emerged from her room was to ask questions of us about her parents." He shrugged. "As I said, strange."
"What sort of questions?"
"She wanted to know how much her father was worth." He lifted his milky eyes to mine and I felt sure he could see me. "She wanted to know who would get his fortune upon his death."
I gasped. "She was told that she was an heiress?"
"It was common enough knowledge. I don't know why she needed to ask. It hadn't been kept secret from her."
Then her question was odd indeed.
"Apart from that, she hardly spoke to anyone in the house anymore. Not the maids, her parents or callers. She spent all day and night locked in her room, reading everything she could get her hands on. All of it non-fiction, but there was no pattern to her reading. She read everything in her father's library—and it was extensive—geography texts, history, economics, science. For someone who had hardly ever picked up a book except for the penny dreadfuls, it was very odd. She wouldn't emerge from her room for anyone, not even her gentlemen callers."
"Were there many?"
"Oh yes. Her father was one of the wealthiest men in the country and his daughter was his heir. Every bachelor in Britain, and some from the Continent, tried to woo her. They were like darts and she the target. Their visits were something she used to delight in. She would always change into her prettiest clothes and have one of the girls fix her hair and pinch her cheeks until they were pink as a rose. Then she suddenly stopped caring. She wore her hair differently and no longer cared for fashion or her figure. It was most unlike her."
"What about Mr. Myer? Was he one of her visitors?"
"He was the most persistent. He never gave up on her. She ignored him at first, of course, like the others. Mr. Myer was nobody in particular and his income only modest, his prospects limited. He wasn't even handsome, and she did enjoy the company of the handsome ones the most."
"Yet she married him."
"She did." He shrugged. "Persistence pays off, I suppose. After she retreated to her room—and this is before her parents' deaths, you understand—he still visited every day. She never emerged to entertain him, or accept his flowers and other little gifts he sometimes brought her. Not then. The only time she did speak with him was after her parents died. Shortly after, as I recall. He never stopped visiting, even throughout the tragic days following their deaths when everyone else sent their condolences but avoided coming to see her. He did not. Indeed, their first conversation afterward was very long and held in private. He sat with her for hours in the library and we weren't permitted to enter. She locked the door. It was the first time they'd ever been alone. That's when he proposed and she accepted."
"He caught her at a time when she needed someone," I suggested.
"Perhaps. Or she was simply too numb and heartsick to refuse him. She certainly wasn't herself in the days leading up to their deaths, and after."
"Their marriage saw Myer become wealthy overnight. Extraordinarily so."
"It did." He gave no indication what he thought of that.
"What do you think happened to the Hatfields and the maids, Mr. Duffield? Did they take their own lives as was reported?"
"No. Absolutely not! Why would they? They had everything to live for. They had money and influence. Their only worry was Edith with her silliness, and the men who only wanted her for her money. Hardly enough to warrant…that. They wouldn't have left her to fend for herself."
