“Yes.” He released the breath he had not realized he had been holding.
“How old is she?”
“She is but five years old,” he said, once again saying more than he wished.
“She must be lovely,” Rose said, her sad smile once more in place. “I am sure your wife would have been beautiful.”
“Verity is,” he agreed. “And Hattie was.”
“I almost wish you had not told me, that you had not taken me in your arms and let me weep.” Her smile faded.
“Rose,” he began.
“But you did,” she interrupted quickly. “And you cannot take it back. Nor can I. My name is Johanna, Felix. If we are to carry on with whatever this is, I would hear you call me by my true name rather than the name I chose for the stage. You have shared a part of yourself with me, and I am offering this part of myself in return.”
Johanna.
He stared at her, shock filtering through him, even as he supposed it should not. Actresses and actors were well known to assume names for the stage. Her words struck him. I am offering this part of myself in return.
“Johanna,” he found himself repeating, trying the name on his tongue.
He liked it. Johanna suited her far more than Rose. It was lovely and mellifluous, just as her voice.
“Yes.” She frowned then. “Please do not tell anyone else, however. It is imperative that my true name be kept a secret from the public.”
More secrets.
How intriguing. And revealing.
He wondered what else she was hiding. What she was hiding from. Or perhaps, who she was hiding from.
“Your secret is safe with me, my dear,” he assured her.
But he knew the stinging blade of shame as the words left him. For he would have to take this information, this admission of hers, and see what else he might uncover. He withdrew from her, acutely aware of the tangled web in which he now found himself.
“Thank you, Felix,” she told him, mustering up another of her melancholy smiles.
“Shall we finish our luncheon?” he suggested.
How he wished she had not called him Felix. And how he wished he did not have to lie to her.
“Of course,” she agreed, flushing. “Forgive me my tears.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he assured her, the words hollow to his own ears. Because there was everything to forgive. And the truth was no longer as concise and clear as it had once seemed.
Chapter Five
The message Johanna had been waiting for had arrived.
A note, seemingly innocent enough, instructing her to arrive at the Royal Aquarium at half past one that afternoon, signed by Mrs. Harriet Wilson. The past, never far from her frantically fleeing heels, had finally come calling. And it had happened just as Drummond had promised her it would.
With a stoic sense of acceptance, Johanna finished her breakfast before sending a note to the Crown and Thorn indicating she would be missing the morning’s rehearsal because of a stomach ailment. Although the aquarium in Westminster was not a far jaunt from the theater, she knew her mind would not be able to concentrate on her lines with the afternoon meeting looming.
Moreover, she had a suspicion Felix’s carriage would be awaiting her.
Felix.
Johanna’s heart lurched at the thought of him as she returned to her hotel room and secured the door behind her. Somehow, during the course of their luncheon yesterday, something had shifted between them. Their shared revelations of grief and loss had connected them in a deeper sense than mere attraction ever could.
She could no longer think of him as Winchelsea. He was far more than that to her now. But she must not think of him at all, for she had other matters to attend. Matters that made her heart pound and her palms go damp as she crossed the sumptuous carpet of the suite and made her way to the trunk she had left carefully locked and packed following her arrival.
The time had come to see to its contents.
Reaching into a hidden pocket in the lining of her valise, she plucked out a key. She dropped to her knees, fitted the small key into the lock, and opened it. Her hands shook as she removed the lock and opened the lid of the trunk.
The contents were as Drummond had promised: three biscuit boxes tucked into sawdust, a sealed brown packet lying atop both. Hands shaking, she retrieved the packet, then brushed the sawdust from it. She ought to have opened the trunk earlier, she knew, but she had been dreading this moment. Dreading the discovery she would make.
The certain knowledge that she had transported dynamite to England in her own personal trunk. If she were to be discovered in possession of such incriminating documents and materials, she would be arrested. She had no doubt. And Drummond had been quite clear on the potential repercussions.
She could still hear his voice warning her.
If you fail me, I will see you killed. Prison will be the least of your worries.
And though she was in London now, she knew the strength of his power was no different than it had been in New York City. His ability to harm her was every bit as real. He had Fenian followers stationed throughout England under various disguises. No one was truly safe from his wrath, including her.
His men knew where she was staying. They knew her name. She was meeting one of them at half past one, and he was certainly not Mrs. Harriet Wilson. The first order Drummond had given her was to deliver the packet of communications upon receipt of a note to meet at a predetermined location from Mrs. Wilson.
She closed the lid on the trunk, locked it, and carried the packet to the writing desk stationed by the window. He had also been adamant she was not to break the seal of the packet. But if she was ever going to free herself of him, she had no choice.
Johanna seated herself at the desk, staring down at the packet. When the offer from the Crown and Thorn had arrived, she had been so relieved at the prospect of life across the sea, far away from her brother’s influences. Until she had been forced to tell him she was leaving, and he had decided to use her travel plans as an opportunity to secret lignin dynamite and communications into England.
But she had not given up her dream of freeing herself from him.
Instead, she had formulated a plan of her own. It would not be easy. Indeed, it was terribly dangerous. If she managed to carry it out, however, she would finally be able to sever the ties that had been binding her to Drummond after a year of fear.
It all began now.
She picked up a letter opener and carefully used the thin edge of its silver blade to slice through the adhesive. Johanna held her breath as she went, praying she would not tear the paper. If she did, it would be instantly detected by the man she was to deliver the packet to.
Ever so slowly, the envelope opened, until she reached the final corner. One more slide of her opener, and it was done. She reached inside and extracted the papers contained within, careful to keep them in order. A cursory examination of them revealed a list of future targets, an ingredients list and instructions, addresses and names, and a letter.
Taken separately, they were not particularly damning. But along with the biscuit boxes cemented closed in the trunk, there was no doubt what she was looking at. On a deep breath, Johanna took out pen and paper, and then she began to painstakingly copy each document.
When she had completed her task, she returned the documents to the envelope and applied a new layer of glue, taking care to smooth out every crease. She returned the copies she had made to the locked trunk.
And only then did she breathe easier.
The first step of her plan was done, but there were many more to come. If she did everything right, she would be able to deliver the trunk and its contents to London police just before she left for Paris. Drummond would be arrested, and even if he incriminated her or revealed her true identity to the world, she would be safe from him forever. She could not live beneath his thumb, fearing his wrath, any longer. Even if her freedom came at the cost of losing everything she had bu
ilt, it would be worth it.
But if she made one wrong move, her brother would have her killed.
Either way, she would be free.
From his vantage point in an unmarked carriage, Felix watched as Rose—strike that, Johanna—descended from a hired hack before the massive red brick building housing the Royal Aquarium. Though she wore a concealing hat and had dressed in rather nondescript fashion, he would recognize her anywhere.
When she had cried off rehearsals that morning, Theo had sent him a note.
And Felix was deuced thankful he had.
His meeting with Special League leaders and the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard had ended just in time for him to arrive at Johanna’s hotel as she left. Acting on instinct, he had followed her here, to the massive glass-topped building which, contrary to its name, housed a poor showing of fish. It was better known for its summer and winter gardens and a plethora of other entertainments which had little to do with the aquatic.
All in all, an excellent place to blend in with a crowd. Or perhaps to conduct a meeting with someone, unobserved in the milling throng of entertainment seekers. The knowledge made an edge of something decidedly like jealousy knife through him.
Who would she be meeting? And why?
It was his duty to determine that. Felix told himself it was duty only as he descended from his carriage and asked his driver to await him before crossing the street and entering through the same doors Johanna had. Once inside, he proceeded through the hall with care, moving with the crowd whilst looking for her.
As if his eyes knew instinctively where to travel, he found her, standing in the sunlight in the midst of the gardens, near a massive statue of a man mounting a horse. He found a place beneath a large, leafy plant whose name escaped him. It was the perfect vantage point.
He watched as she waited by the statuary, glancing about in agitated fashion, as if she were searching for someone. Part of him prayed she was not, but part of him knew—oh, how it knew, she was. His gaze scoured her figure, noting the way her gloved fingers grasped her skirts, gripping into the folds of the nondescript fabric.
How different she seemed in this moment from the golden-haired siren who owned the stage and made her audiences sigh and weep at her command. Her beauty was still undeniable, but the tense manner in which she held herself gave her away. Her dress was plain. She had left her large hat in the coat room, but curiously, she wore her dolman draped over the crook of one arm.
Almost like a shield.
Or as if she were using it to hide something.
Suspicion once more took root, branching into his heart and constricting. He realized he did not want to believe the worst of her. Yesterday, over luncheon, when she had been in his arms and revealing part of herself to him, they had bonded.
Unless she had been playing a role—and for an actress of her skill, it was entirely possible—something had changed between them. It was as if they had crossed a bridge together. He felt, quite inexplicably, closer to her. She had shared her given name with him, the story of her daughter. He had told her about Hattie, about Verity.
Had shared the shattered pieces of himself with someone for the first time.
Felix did not want to be wrong about their connection the day before. He did not want to believe she had come to the aquarium for a nefarious purpose. Instead, he wanted to believe she had been honest. That her grief had been real and not some weapon she had chosen to wield against him, the one most certain to puncture his wounded heart and render him vulnerable.
As he watched, a man, tall and thin, approached her. They exchanged a few words. Felix was too far away to attempt to read their lips and discover what they were saying. Johanna did not look comfortable with the man, however. They circled the horse statue slowly. Johanna cast a few glances about her, as if she were looking for someone.
And then, she withdrew a large packet from beneath her draped dolman, extending it to the man. The man took it, said a few more words, and turned to disappear into the crowd.
Heart hammering in his chest, Felix followed the man, determined to find out who he was and what was within the packet. Dreading both answers.
For suspicion was a heavy weight upon his chest, and he feared he already knew.
When Johanna left the Crown and Thorn that night, it was once again raining. And once again, Felix’s carriage awaited her. This time, however, he was not within it. Stifling a surge of disappointment, she settled herself on the plush squab and closed her eyes as the conveyance swayed into motion.
Tonight had been yet another performance as Miranda. For the next few days, she would immerse herself in rehearsals for the next role she would play, Katherine in The Taming of the Shrew. Her six-week tour in London comprised three, two-week runs of Shakespeare plays, and each was no less demanding than the last.
But her impending roles were not the reason for her weariness now.
No, indeed. The weariness was thanks to her afternoon sojourn to the Royal Aquarium.
She had done it. She had passed off the packet as Drummond had required. The man had not appeared to notice the envelope had been opened and then resealed. But only time would tell whether or not her deception was discovered. He had been terse, simply approaching her as she had been told he would.
“I believe we have a mutual acquaintance,” he had said. “A Mrs. Wilson?”
And she had responded as she had been instructed. “Mrs. Harriet Wilson?”
He had asked her if she was alone or accompanied then, and she had informed him she was by herself. The man had been soft-spoken and mild-mannered. He had possessed the slight brogue she had come to know from fellow Irish who had emigrated to America. In time, their accents were smoothed down like pebbles worn by the waters of a stream.
But he had not frightened her in the way Drummond did. Perhaps because unlike Drummond, she did not know what the mysterious man she had met was capable of. With her brother, she was certain. She had experienced his abuse herself.
He was not just heartless, but soulless as well. Just as their father had been before him. Just as ready to inflict brutal harm upon anyone who stood in the way of what he wanted or anyone who defied him.
She shuddered in her seat as she thought of Drummond. There had been a reason she had spent half her life running from him. But in her foolish bid to flee her past, she had succeeded far too well. When her life had finally become comfortable—when her roles had become leading roles and when the public adored her, when she had food aplenty upon the table and fine clothing on her back, that was when he had found her.
And he had struck.
Not physical blows at first, but emotional ones.
The physical blows had come later. Small, at first. A slap, pulled hair. Rages where he had destroyed every stick of furniture in her hotel room and she had been forced to leave and pay for replacements. Then worse. A broken finger. Punches to the ribs, where no one would see the bruising.
The unwanted memories had her hands shaking. She gripped her skirts to calm herself and took a deep breath. He did not follow you here, she told herself. No one will hurt you here. You are safe from him.
If her plan unfolded accordingly, she would be safe from him forever. His reign of terror upon her and the people of London both would be over within weeks. The next step awaiting her was to alert the police about the trunk Drummond had sent with her from New York and to provide them with the copies she had made of the correspondences within the packet she had delivered earlier today.
But that would wait—had to wait—until her London performances were complete. She hoped this afternoon’s summons had bought her the time she needed to secure her freedom.
As the carriage rocked to a halt, she peered out the window and realized they had arrived, once more, at the townhouse where she had previously dined. In the hours since his revelation about having a daughter, it had occurred to her she had seen no sign of a child in the home. Not a ball, not a nursemaid, no
t books.
The driver opened the door to the chilled night, and a gust of wind sent a torrent of rain spraying into the carriage, coating her.
“Begging your pardon, Mademoiselle Beaumont,” said the man tugging at the brim of his hat as he held an umbrella aloft. “The weather is growing worse. If these winds and rains keep up, no one will be going anywhere tonight.”
Suspicion lit within her—was it something the duke had instructed his man to say? An excuse to persuade her to stay the evening? To spend a night in his bed as he had wanted all along?
But a fresh gale of wind gave lie to that fear as it turned the umbrella inside out and tore it from the driver’s grasp. A wall of cold rain pelted her as it blew into the interior of the vehicle.
“Blast!” the drive swore. “Stay here if you please, Mademoiselle.”
The door slammed closed, and she was treated to the sound of more muffled cursing from beyond as he presumably searched for a replacement umbrella. Meanwhile, the wind continued to howl around them, one sudden burst so violent, the entire carriage shook. The unmistakable jingling of tack beyond proved the horses were not particularly pleased by the weather either.
Perhaps it had not been planned, then.
The door swung open once more, revealing the driver’s triumphant grin and the production of a replacement umbrella. “If you do not mind making haste, Mademoiselle? I fear this umbrella will soon meet the same fate.”
Another burst of wind made the edges curl, making her realize she must go or suffer the lashing torrents of rain without shelter. She rose from the bench and exited the carriage with the aid of the driver. Another rush of wind sent raindrops into her face as they made their way up the front walk.
“This is not His Grace’s primary residence, is it?” she managed to ask as they drew near to the door with its lion head knocker.
“Of course not,” said her guide as he led her through a fresh torrent of rain. “This is where he keeps his… This is one of his other residences, Mademoiselle.”
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