Secrets in Scarlet

by Erica Monroe

  “Counterfeiters. Fuck.” Strickland groaned, leaning his head back against the settee. It creaked underneath his weight, and he quickly readjusted. “I’m bloody sorry, Thaddy.”

  Thaddeus went to the table and collected the file. He crossed the room to Strickland, handing him the papers. Strickland took the file, his brows arching as he flipped through the contents. With each page he turned over, the worry lines in his forehead grew deeper.

  “Damnation,” he whistled. “I need not ask why Whiting dismissed you. This is some fine policing, Thaddy.”

  “Policing I can’t use,” Thaddeus sighed. “I’ve put Poppy and her daughter in danger. Their protection is the most important thing, and I’ve buggered it all.”

  Strickland moved to hand the file back to him, but Thaddeus shook his head.

  “It’s yours now,” Thaddeus explained. “Do with it what you will. The Met won’t have me, and without them, I can’t act on any of that information formally.”

  “What do you expect me to do with this? If I proceed, I’ll end up on the street the same as you.” Strickland scowled, but he didn’t hand the file back. His palm pressed into the paper, as if he wanted to imprint his mark upon it.

  Strickland might be willing to take up Thaddeus’s crusade after all.

  “Whiting doesn’t suspect you,” Thaddeus said. “If you’re as good at your job as you claim, you’ll figure it out.”

  Every hope Thaddeus had of avenging Anna Moseley’s murder was pinned on his original impressions of Strickland being wrong.

  21

  Fear, Poppy had learned, was a powerful motivator. It was fear that had made her consider the Magdalene hospital in Southwark. Yet that would have been another sort of prison, for it meant a life dedicated to “reformation” in the eyes of the Church. It meant believing without a doubt that she’d sinned, and the creation of Moira had been a travesty against God.

  Poppy rocked with one hand the crib where Moira slept. Peaceful, beautiful Moira, who cared so little about the great wide world outside of Atlas’s secluded loft.

  Poppy glanced over at Edna, her silver needles catching the light of the roaring fire. Knitting didn’t have the comforting flow of weaving, but it still created something of beauty. It was another art of change. Of becoming something more; in that, it held another level of fear, for change brought new problems.

  And it was fear that had motivated her to respond to Edward’s advances originally. Fear that she’d end up alone, lost to the drink like Daniel. After Aunt Molly’s death, Uncle Liam had thrown himself into the farm. He ate, slept, and dreamed of livestock and crop rotation, trying to exert his will over nature that wouldn’t bend in accordance. Poppy, who had never been alone a day in her life prior to Aunt Molly’s death, suddenly found herself without a confidante.

  Edward had seemed so nice. So perfect, wanting to know all about her favorite books and the dresses she made for Madame Genet. When she went over those conversations now, she remembered how he’d simply stared at her in response when she mentioned the books she loved. He had never bantered with her, nor given her recommendations to expand her mind.

  Only Thaddeus had done that.

  She clutched at the side of the crib, nails digging into the wood. Thaddeus had claimed she was not a victim of her past. Perhaps it was not the past that held her in thrall, but fear and its many facets.

  Fear not that she’d end up alone now, but that she’d end up shattered in ways she could not begin to repair.

  “I fear I’m going mad,” she murmured.

  “It’s this place.” Edna placed her knitting needles on the barrel that served as a table. She darted in-between the assorted clusters, toward the overturned tureen that served as both Atlas’s tea stand and his liquor cart. “Every time I’m about to fall asleep, I see that stuffed bear out of the corner of my eye and I’m suddenly convinced I’ve ended up in the woods that bordered Liam’s land.”

  Poppy nodded. She’d run through those woods after Edward had confessed his real motivations in seducing her. It’s been fun, poppet. Brambles had torn through her thin slippers, the thick moss coating her knees when she’d fallen over a branch.

  “Have you heard from Jane?” Edna poured water Atlas had hauled from the nearby pump for them into the kettle. “As grateful as I am to the Gentleman Thief for his hospitality, I’d very much like to return home.”

  In her crib, Moira stirred, her green eyes opening wide. She stretched out, her fingers making grabbing motions. “Mama, up,” she ordered. “Up, up, up.”

  Poppy scooped up Moira from the crib, holding her daughter close to her body. Moira clutched at the collar of her dress, tugging at the ivory beads Poppy had sewn into the neckline. One of the threads broke, and the bead slipped from the dress to the ground. It rolled off, lost in the sea of Atlas’s treasures.

  Poppy grimaced, but she didn’t scold Moira. She could take a bead from the other side of the collar to even them out. When she’d been working at the factory, she wouldn’t have had time to mend the dress.

  Now, she had nothing but time.

  And it was eating her alive.

  With Moira in her arms, Poppy made her way to Edna. The older woman had put the tea on the fireplace, waiting for the water to boil.

  “I’m sorry,” Poppy said softly, as she bounced Moira in her arms. The babe let out a shriek of delight, but Moira’s happy cries couldn’t make their situation any less fraught. “I’m sorry you have to be stuck here. That I’ve put you in danger. That I don’t make better decisions.”

  Edna shook her head. “Always, you apologize, whether or not it is your fault. Then always, I tell you that I trust your judgment. I’m proud of who you are today, whether or not you want me to be.”

  Edna planted a kiss on Moira’s forehead, her expression changing from one of resigned sadness to joy. That was the affect Moira had on people: she made them feel better, no matter what their troubles might be.

  “The greatest mistakes produce the best fruits,” Edna said. “Isn’t our little Moira the best example of that?”

  Moira grinned at the cooing tone of Edna’s voice. She settled back in Poppy’s arms, watching Edna with wide eyes.

  “You sound like Thaddeus,” Poppy groaned. “He has a quote for everything. His memory, Edna, is like the lost library of Alexandria. Thousands of books, trapped in his great brain, and he can’t find the right answers.”

  With one hand, Edna pushed her glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose, squinting at Poppy. “He does know the right answers, my dear. You simply aren’t ready to see them.”

  Poppy frowned. “You know very well why we cannot be together. We’re hiding out here because of him.”

  Edna placed tea in the strainer and then put the strainer into the pot to brew. She turned back to Poppy, wiping her hands on her apron. “I don’t think Sergeant Knight intended to place us in danger, Poppy. He did the best he could in tough circumstances.”

  “I know he did.” Poppy couldn’t hide the hint of pride in her voice. Thaddeus was, undeniably, a good man.

  But he was a good man who had put her family in danger, both by looking into her past and by drawing her into his case. The latter she had gone into willingly, but the former...she’d never wanted him to know about Moira’s birth.

  “He knows now,” Poppy said, kneeling down on the blanket with Moira. “And he thinks that because he knows the bare facts, he knows everything about what happened.”

  “What did you tell him?” Edna asked.

  “Not a damn thing.” Poppy sighed. As if sensing her mother’s discontent, Moira climbed into her lap, seating herself with a loud plop. Poppy ran a hand across her head, smoothing her thin red hair.

  “If I had my choice, no one would ever know. That pain from Edward...it’s my pain. People listen to what happened, but no one really understands. Provided they have any sympathy at all, either they want to save me from my heathen past, or they want me to be a victim. I just want
to be me.”

  “You are being you,” Edna argued. “Dear girl, that night is as much a part of you as anything else.”

  Poppy shook her head. “I don’t want it to be.”

  Edna sighed. “You see yourself one way, as a mother who must defend her child. But you are so many more things. A weaver, a sister, an Irish woman, a book lover, a seamstress, a woman with needs of her own. Every single bit of you combines to make this glorious whole. Anyone who can’t see that doesn’t matter.”

  Moira squirmed out of Poppy’s lap, dangling over Poppy’s legs. Poppy tapped her bottom and Moira shrieked her glee, turning her head around to smile at her mother.

  Mother, Poppy had long ago decided, was the most important role she could fill. She’d ceased being a woman by any other definition. Until Thaddeus, with his bloody concern. Those damnable needs he stirred up within her, until too much bubbled at the surface and she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  She wanted him, his stellar moral compass, his long-winded speeches and the way he always seemed to know what she was thinking.

  “Thaddeus says that he’s accepting of me being fallen, but how can he be?”

  Edna passed her a cup of steaming tea. “Maybe you should ask him that.”

  “If I ever see him again,” Poppy murmured.

  If the Larkers weren’t caught, she’d have to relocate permanently. Where would she go? Not back to Dorking, for she wouldn’t put her uncle under that kind of scrutiny again. Nor would she go back to family in Ireland, who viewed fallen women as debased, immoral creatures.

  Edna watched Poppy for a moment, lips pursed, and spectacles perched on the tip of her squat nose. “If he is as smart as you’ve said, he’ll find you.”

  “If he does find me, he’ll want to tell Moira who her real father is. The lie will eat at him.” Poppy blew on the mug, the stiff aroma of tea comforting.

  “Would that be such a bad thing?” Edna asked. “By the time Moira is old enough to understand, she’ll have grown up surrounded by family that loves her. Family is not only blood ties, Poppy, but a group of people who love and care for each other.”

  All this time, Poppy had thought she and Thaddeus were from two different worlds, and that meant they couldn’t be together. Yet she couldn’t think of a group of people more different in personality than her group of friends in London, yet together they worked. Pragmatic Jane, fierce Kate, tenacious Daniel, clever Atlas. What was she in the mix?

  “Perhaps,” she began, an unfamiliar sense of hope starting to fill her. “Perhaps when the trouble is past, I’ll find Thaddeus.”

  “Love is a risk. If he didn’t have a dangerous job, it’d be something else, Poppy. He’d have rotten friends, or he’d be Scottish.” Edna’s nose wrinkled at the thought. “This is a bitter world. You have to hold on to what little bit of joy you can glean from it.”

  To say that the Knights were overjoyed by Thaddeus’s dismissal would have been an egregious understatement. Thaddeus couldn’t recall a time that they’d been more ecstatic. Not when he’d graduated from Eton, not when he’d first enrolled in Cambridge, and certainly not when he’d announced he was leaving Cambridge’s civil law program to join the Metropolitan Police.

  Breakfast had been a series of starts and stops. Once news of his dismissal from the Met reached Martha, she’d readmitted Thaddeus to the house. In fact, Martha had even invited Miss Justine Balfour to join them, in hopes Thaddeus would consider her as a suitable catch.

  Alfred interrogated him with as much as determination as any experienced inspector, while Martha interrupted every few minutes to exclaim, “Finally, he’ll do something respectable.”

  Respectable. He didn’t feel respectable as he hastily shoveled in the last bit of kippers, foolhardily believing he could excuse himself from the usual gathering after the meal.

  Nor did he feel respectable as his mother pulled him aside. Martha reminded him in no uncertain terms that he had to a duty to pay to Miss Balfour and if he ever intended to remain a part of this family, he’d trot his behind into the drawing room.

  Miss Balfour’s expression stopped him from replying to his mother. The entire meal, Miss Balfour had poked at her food, eating in delicate, tiny bites.

  When Miss Balfour’s soulful brown eyes dared to rise to his face as he spoke to Martha, Thaddeus saw an unexpected flash of pain. This quiet woman with the long, oval face and the serious demeanor knew hurt. Thaddeus couldn’t explain why Justine Balfour, who had both name and fortune, ached so inside, but he recognized pain when he saw it.

  For he too knew what it felt like to have hopes and dreams stomped upon, until there was nothing left but the crushing realization that from now on, this would be his path. He’d loved and lost. It had been four days since Poppy had fled the storeroom at the Three Boars. Not one letter had arrived from her.

  Thaddeus leaned back against the settee in the right corner of the parlor, far away from the rest of the party. If no one noticed him, he might escape through the double doors behind him and make a quick getaway.

  Except Martha had other ideas. She took Miss Balfour by the arm and led her over to Thaddeus. The stern look on his mother’s face left Thaddeus little choice. He must exchange pleasantries with this woman or face at least two weeks’ worth of scolding.

  Miss Balfour smoothed out her skirt and obligingly sat down upon the settee next to him. With her hands in her lap docilely, she peered at him, her eyes wide and expectant.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Good morning.” Her voice was so soft that it reminded him of a feather cascading to the ground, caught in a wayward breeze.

  “Did you enjoy breakfast?” He couldn’t have cared less if she did, but it was the civil thing to ask.

  “Yes, thank you.” She played with the little lace flowers sewn into her skirt, long, thin fingers moving back and forth. Fingers better suited to piano keys or harp strings, not weaver’s looms.

  Idly, he wondered if he’d judge women’s hands by that standard from now on.

  “I’m sorry about my mother,” he blurted.

  Miss Balfour blinked at him.

  Three sentences into the conversation and he’d already forgotten what normal men said in these circumstances. Christ, it had never been like this with Poppy. Fiery, smart Poppy, who met every one of his speeches on philosophy with a clever question.

  Well, he’d already embarked on this course, so he’d bumble through it, damn it. “The way my mother forced you to come talk to me. It’s atrocious, I know, and you can’t have enjoyed it. But when Martha Knight gets an idea into her mind there’s no stopping her. Combined with Catherine’s nattering on about dresses and the like, you must find us the dullest family that ever existed.”

  Miss Balfour shook her head, not meeting her eyes, as if she feared even this slight disagreement might provoke his ire. “Catherine is a good friend. She treats me well, and never makes me feel out of sorts.” Miss Balfour looked up, catching Thaddeus watching her. “I’m content to listen, Sergeant Knight, if you want to tell me what has saddened you so.”

  “I fell in love.” He should have couched that reveal in something less dramatic.

  A blush spread over her cheeks, giving her a maidenly color to suit her maidenly dress and every other innocent, sweet thing about her.

  God, he didn’t want innocent. He wanted Poppy. He wanted to hear her laugh as he explained some silly thing he’d learned in another book, and to see her smile because he’d surprised her.

  “Oh,” Miss Balfour remarked.

  Cautiously, Thaddeus met her glance. He didn’t want to disappoint another woman, but his heart belonged to Poppy and it’d be Poppy’s forever, whether or not she wanted it.

  But he didn’t see disappointment in Miss Balfour’s eyes. In place, she appeared confused.

  Again went her fingers upon the little flowers on her gown. “Then why are you here, Sergeant Knight? Why aren’t you serenading your ladylove? Or such mannerisms tha
t befit a man in love.” She whispered the last part. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “She doesn’t want me,” he explained. “I put her in danger.”

  “You were a police officer. Such jobs have danger.” Miss Balfour gave a small shrug. “I would think it takes some time for her to get used to that element of peril, yes, but if your job made you happy...”

  Had he been happy? Thaddeus had always thought so. His work for the Met had been fulfilling, allowing him to test out the theories he studied. Yet in these past two weeks with Poppy, he’d known genuine happiness. The acceptance of another mind, the rush of putting together a case with someone who understood him.

  He thought of Whiting, smugly grinning in his office. Of Abigail Vautille and her crushed hand. Of the backbreaking poverty of Mrs. Moseley’s life. Overlaid on those images, he saw Elizabeth Stewart again, blood crusted in her blond locks and the sick smell of her organs poking free of her slit chest.

  Death had held him in a clutch for so long he’d forgotten how to be alive.

  “Sergeant Knight?” Miss Balfour ventured, a strange note in her voice he couldn’t quite identity. As if the words were strangling her, and if she didn’t speak, she’d suffocate entirely. “I think if you’ve found someone that’s worth all that work, then you should go after them.”

  Falling silent, Miss Balfour looked over toward the card table, where Catherine had started another round with Joseph.

  “Thank you, Miss Balfour,” Thaddeus said.

  She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “It is nothing.”

  To him, it was everything.

  It would be so easy to set upon the path his family had outlined for him. Take a modest, sweet wife like Justine Balfour, toil away at Barclay’s. As he watched Miss Balfour return to the card game, he knew that he wasn’t made for easy. He’d every advantage in life, but he’d squandered his chances with the one woman who made him want to be more.