by Shana Galen
She shrugged. “Perhaps I wouldn’t have done anything differently then, but it doesn’t change the fact that Caleb lied to me. He let me believe he was dead. I thought—well, you know what I thought. He obviously didn’t love me.”
“I think only he can answer that. Did you tell him about his son?”
“No! I have no reason to. I don’t know where James is, and I doubt I’ll ever see Caleb again. I told him he had to move out of the boarding house.”
Valérie laughed. “But of course you did! Will he listen?”
“He’s using another name now, and I doubt he wants to be associated with his former acquaintances. I think he’ll be gone before I move in tomorrow night.”
Valérie’s eyes widened. “Tomorrow night? So soon? What will I do without you?”
“Spread all of your clothing out and sing at the top of your lungs every morning?”
“Nonsense. I will miss your grumpy face in the mornings.”
“You can see it before the first class period, and I don’t hear you complaining about the extra space.”
“My dresses are rather crushed.”
Suddenly, Bridget threw her arms around Valérie. “I’ll miss you too.”
Valérie hugged her back. “I never thought I would hear you say such words. You were adamant you did not want a roommate.”
“After three years in debtor’s prison, you would want privacy too.”
“I hope I gave you that.”
“You did, and you gave me something more important.”
Valérie raised a brow.
“Friendship.”
THE NEXT MORNING, BRIDGET stood before a class of older girls, ages sixteen to eighteen. Most of them had been at the academy for several years and had mastered the skills taught—both conventional and unconventional. A few had become truly exceptional. As she surveyed them, Bridget had every confidence they would go out into the world and succeed. They could defend themselves and had all the skills ladies did and a few more besides.
“I don’t need to remind you that forgery is a hanging offense,” Bridget was saying. “You should not use the skill without weighing the consequences of being caught. Eleanor, would you use the skill to pay a debt?”
Eleanor, whose dark blond hair always seemed to escape her cap, considered. “I think it would depend on the amount, Mrs. Lavery. For a small debt, no. For a larger one, it might be worthwhile to avoid debtor’s prison.”
If these girls thought debtor’s prison was the worst that could happen to them, perhaps she had been hasty in her earlier judgment of their readiness.
“You think death is preferable to debtor’s prison?”
Eleanor looked down. “I’m not certain.”
Beth, one of Eleanor’s friends, raised her hand and spoke when Bridget nodded at her. “When would you counterfeit money, Mrs. Lavery? How did you gain the skills?”
She supposed it was time she told them. Many of them were leaving the academy soon, and the others were old enough to know. “My father taught me,” she said. A few of the girls, those from more sheltered homes, raised their brows. “He was caught by the government and was offered a choice between hanging or working for the Foreign Office. He chose the Foreign Office and was instrumental in devising the plan to counterfeit Continental currency, which undermined the economy and the war efforts of the newly formed United States of America.
“Early in the war against Napoleon, I was recruited by the Foreign Office to do much the same thing for France and its allies. So you see, there are reasons to counterfeit currency.”
Mary, one of the older girls, raised her hand. “Are there any reasons we might risk a charge of treason to counterfeit currency, Miss Lavery?”
“Good question, Mary. Yes. You might find yourself in a situation where your life is at risk and you must flee quickly, but you lack the funds to pay for transport. That might be a situation in which it would be worth risking the creation of counterfeit currency.”
“But not to stay out of debtor’s prison?” Eleanor asked.
Bridget shrugged. “If you are responsible for the debt, then it hardly seems fair to make others pay for your carelessness. And when you give a tradesman a counterfeit bill, he is the one who loses pay for honest work.”
That had certainly been her way of thinking when she and Robbie had found themselves in the position of being sent to debtor’s prison. Robbie had suggested she counterfeit the money necessary to free them from their debt, and Bridget had argued his plan was madness. Not only would the tradesmen easily find them out and report them, but much of his debt was to the banks themselves. Bankers were notorious for spotting forgeries, even those as good as Bridget’s.
She’d been angry at Robbie for years for borrowing money for foolish schemes that had not worked out. In the end, though, when he lay dying in Fleet Prison, she couldn’t be angry. He had suffered more than he deserved for his sins. She couldn’t regret choosing not to counterfeit the currency, though. If she had, they would both be dead, and James really would be an orphan.
Now, Bridget reached into her drawer and withdrew a few notes of authentic Continental currency her father had collected. She passed them out, two girls sharing one note, as well as some of the special paper the colonists had used to print the currency and which the British had intercepted. “For the rest of the class, practice creating counterfeit dollars. You’ll see each state produced its own design, so if you finish before time is up, switch dollars with another pair of girls.”
The girls put their heads down and began to work. In the meantime, Bridget went to the window and peered out. The day had dawned cloudy and cool for June. The clouds hung low, promising rain. She hoped that it rained sooner rather than later, as she would have to move her personal items to Mrs. Jacobs’s boarding house tonight, and she did not relish arriving looking like a wet sewer rat.
Not that it mattered, as Caleb would have gone by now. She’d told him to leave, and he was enough of a gentleman to adhere to her wishes. It wasn’t as though he wanted to see her at any rate. For a man with his talents, it would have been easy to track her down when he returned to London. He’d made no effort to do so.
She was better off without him, and she’d waste no more time thinking of him. She had bigger problems—the first of these being how to find James. She’d asked Mrs. Brodie for a recommendation of an investigator who might help with her search, and the lady had provided her with a name. Now, as her pupils forged Continental dollars, Bridget sat at her desk and wrote a short message to the man requesting an interview.
CALEB DIDN’T RELOCATE. He had no great love for Mrs. Jacobs or her rooms, but he did find he cared a great deal for Bridget O’Brien—Bridget Lavery now. He hadn’t forgotten her over all these years. He’d thought of her more often than he would have liked. He’d tried to forget her, told himself she had forgotten him, but though he’d found companionship with other women, he’d never found the sense of completeness he’d felt with Bridget.
She was angry at him. Of course, she was. She didn’t understand that it hadn’t been his decision to leave her or to perpetuate the myth that he was dead. He’d had no choice, or he would be dead in truth right now.
If he wasn’t careful, he could still end up dead.
Caleb paced his small, dingy room in Mrs. Jacobs’s boarding house and tried not to listen for the door. He did not think Bridget would arrive until later that evening, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but her imminent arrival. Knowing she would soon be under the same roof as he was a distraction.
That was all the more reason for him to move. He’d done his work on the Continent too well, and now he had a price on his head. He’d been hiding all over the Continent for years, but the last time the Foreign Office had tried to relocate him, Caleb had insisted on coming home to London. He’d argued he could be lost in London as well as Lisbon or Madrid, and at least in London he’d be home.
They’d given him another name and a
new set of papers and housed him in Covent Garden. He was withering away with boredom and obscurity. Every day, he thought it less and less likely that any assassins had tracked him to London or were looking for him there, but the government still advised caution. A man with a price on his head could not be too cautious.
And so Caleb sat in his room, day after day and night after night. He made an occasional trip out for an apple or whatever the hawkers were selling near the theater. Mrs. Jacobs’s cook seemed to manage only boiled potatoes and bland soup. He’d been coming home from just such an excursion yesterday when he’d come face-to-face with Bridget.
He would have known her anywhere. She was still so beautiful that seeing her had all but taken his breath away. The passage of time had made her only more beautiful. He’d had a moment of jealousy when he realized she’d married. He’d pushed it aside, because he’d been no saint himself, but he did have hope when he’d noted her husband was not with her. Perhaps she’d done as so many other women—given herself the title of Mrs. without the actual husband to go with it.
He stopped at a sound, listening hard, but it was not the front door, only one of the men walking past his room on the way down the stairs.
Caleb knew he could not pick up where he’d left off with Bridget. For one, he was a danger to anyone who might get close to him. And there was the small matter of her hating him and telling him to move away so she would not have to be near him.
He would move. He couldn’t behave like some lovesick poet, watching out windows and hoping for a glimpse of her. But it wasn’t as easy as she seemed to think. He couldn’t just leave. He had to inform the Foreign Office and wait for approval and a new location.
He’d explain all of this when—if—he saw her.
That opportunity came sooner than he’d thought and in a way he didn’t expect. She knocked on his door.
Caleb had been in his room attempting to read. He hadn’t been very successful, as he’d heard her arrive the evening before and had spent most of the night and all of the day wondering if she was in her room and what she might be doing.
His heart had leaped into his throat when he’d heard the knock, but he’d pushed it back down again. It couldn’t be her. She wouldn’t knock on his door. She wouldn’t risk being seen on the men’s floor immediately after moving in. Caleb had considered pretending he wasn’t in, then rose and, knife in hand—one couldn’t be too careful—opened the door a sliver.
Her golden-brown eyes peered at him from the thin slice of hallway between the wooden casement. Immediately, he flung the door open all the way, grabbed her arm, pulled her inside, then looked out to make sure no one had seen them.
The corridor was blissfully empty.
Caleb closed the door and locked it.
“That was rather dramatic,” she said. He looked at her, then moved back a step, careful not to trip over the all but invisible wire of one of his traps. He need space as he didn’t trust himself not to try to take her into his arms.
“Didn’t Mrs. Jacobs explain the rules?” he asked.
“Yes, but I thought this worth the risk.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I know you asked me to vacate the house. It’s not as easy as that, but I am—”
She waved a hand. “That’s not what this is about. I’m actually glad you are still here.”
There went his heart into his throat again. He swallowed. “Why is that?” His voice was slightly higher than he would have liked, but it didn’t falter.
“Because I need your help.”
Caleb took a breath and attempted to slow his racing heart. “Shouldn’t you ask your husband for help?”
“I am asking you. I went to a man today with the intent of hiring him to find...a missing person. He agreed, but the price he asked was too high. I’ve searched for him myself but have exhausted my limited skills in this area. I know you have talents others do not. I thought you might do this for me as a favor.” She looked down at the floor and then back up again. “Because it concerns you as well.”
“How is that?”
“The person I am searching for is your son.”
Three
Caleb reached for the table edge, his legs as unsteady as those of a man who’d just walked out of a gin house. “What did you say?”
“You’d better sit down. You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
“Watch the wire,” he said.
She looked down then up at the bucket of nails suspended above her. Stepping over the wire, she reached for one of the chairs at his table and pulled it out, then pushed him down onto it. She looked warily about his room. “Are there any other traps?”
“Not at the moment.”
“This is bigger than my room, and your furnishings are not quite so worn.”
He didn’t have the wherewithal to tell her that he’d spent some of his all-too-ample time making the room comfortable and setting up traps.
“What does your window look out upon?”
At least she had the wits not to go to the curtains and fling them open. And she had the sense to know he’d had a big shock and that speaking of trivialities would mitigate the effect.
“The street.”
“Of course. I look at another building and an alleyway.” She bent to peer at him. “Do you need a drink, or have you recovered sufficiently?”
“You said I have a son?”
“Yes.”
“I need a drink.” He put a hand to his throat, which felt as though it had closed. He gestured to the floor by the washbasin where he kept a bottle of brandy. She crossed to it, and he had time to look at her. Yesterday, she’d been dressed plainly, almost matronly. Today, she wore a gown of deep red, practically an earthy brown. It was the sort of color that made her skin look flushed and healthy. Her hair was more elaborate as well. The severe bun had been replaced by a loose upsweep with a cascade of loose tendrils.
He might have taken a moment to admire her figure, but she set the brandy down hard on the table. “I can’t find a glass.”
“No need.” He uncorked the neck and drank straight from the bottle, closing his eyes as the liquid burned a path down his throat. The warmth was immediate. He savored it, then took another healthy swig just for good measure.
“Better?” she asked.
“Yes. Do sit.”
“I’d rather stand. I made a request for assistance.”
“To find my son.” He frowned. “How is it I have a son?”
Her brows went up. “I thought you, of all people, understood how these things work.”
“We were—that is to say, I was careful.” He hadn’t spilled his seed inside her. He’d been careful to withdraw every time. He’d known he’d have to go to the Continent, and he’d known there was a good chance he would die. His plan had always been to find her and marry her if he survived. He hadn’t known then that his work in the war would haunt him long afterward.
“I can only suppose that method of child prevention isn’t infallible,” she remarked dryly. “A few weeks after you left, I found I was with child.”
Caleb drank again. This time, it was to prevent his legs from standing and carrying him toward her. He wanted to hold her. “I’m so sorry, Bridget.” He raked a hand through his hair, regret slamming through him. “I can’t imagine how awful that must have been for you. You must have known you’d be ostracized.”
“I could have dealt with verbal abuse and slurs against my moral character if I had known you were coming back. If I thought you cared for me.”
He did stand now. “Of course I cared for you. I told you.” He reached for her, but she swatted his hand away.
“If you cared for me, you would have told me you were going, not have left it to the undersecretary to give me the news.”
“Bridget.” He spread his hands. “I couldn’t tell you or anyone.”
“And you were always one to follow the rules.”
Caleb fisted a hand in his thoroughly disheveled hair
. “This wasn’t a rule. It was an order. If you only knew the nature of my mission, you would understand why it had to remain secret and why my death had to be fabricated.”
“But I didn’t understand any of that. I truly believed you were dead, and there I was, pregnant with your child.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen. I meant to come back and marry you. I had no idea everything would go so wrong.”
“Neither did I. Everything went very, very wrong, and I’ve spent the last six years trying to find a way to make it right.”
Caleb pulled the other chair out from the table. “Please, sit. Tell me what happened.”
Reluctantly, she sat, stiff and formal. He sat too and offered her the brandy bottle. She shook her head.
“Did you marry?” he asked. “Or was that a falsehood to protect your reputation?” He was an arse for asking this first. Of all the things he needed to know, this detail was probably the least important. But he wanted the answer. Was she another man’s wife? Had he been the reason she’d married a man she didn’t love, though he had to admit it would be better for all of them if she did love the man. What could Caleb offer her? And Bridget deserved happiness.
“I married a man named Robert Lavery.”
Caleb furrowed his brow and drank again. He didn’t remember any Lavery. “Did I know him?”
“No. After you went to the war and I realized I was pregnant, I left the Foreign Office. I found some work teaching art to students and sold a few of my own sketches to a printshop below my classroom. On my way coming and going, I met Robbie. He was kind, gentle, obviously infatuated with me.”
Caleb had no doubt that it hadn’t been difficult for her to attract men, even men willing to marry her. But the way she spoke of this Robbie made his hand on the brandy bottle loosen. She hadn’t loved him. He should have wanted her to find love, but he couldn’t bring himself to be that magnanimous. He supposed he was selfish that way.
“He asked me to marry him, and that’s when I told him about the baby. He said he would love the baby like his own child. So I said yes. We married. I gave birth to James—”
