“No! He cannot know you’ve seen me!” The words blurt sharp, startling us all.
Mrs. Threadneedle grips the hat, blinking, her lips rounded to a small O.
Oliver eases to my side, and for the first time, Mrs. Threadneedle’s gaze drifts from me to him. He flashes a killer of a smile, and though it’s not directed at me, my own knees weaken.
“What Miss Lee means to say—Mrs. Threadneedle, is it?—is that our little visit here is a surprise. A very special surprise for some very special people. We would be honored to have your strictest confidence on the matter.” He reaches for her hand and bows over it, blessing her fingers with a light touch of his lips, and as he rises, he once again locks eyes with her. “But of course I need not beseech such a fine lady as yourself. Why, you must have superlative intrigues of your own, I imagine. All the finest ladies do.”
She opens and closes her mouth, apparently lost for words. Stunning. The woman lives to spout monologues. Finally, she speaks, and it comes out all breathy. “O’ course I do, have intrigues, that is.”
Oliver dips his head, peering at her through his lashes. “Je suis enchantée, madame. Tu es toute la grâce et la beauté.”
Mrs. Threadneedle twitters like a lovelorn schoolgirl. And no wonder. His voice rumbles low, intimate, as if she were the only woman on the face of the earth. I cannot help but wonder what my own reaction would be should he ever speak to me in such a fashion—and for a breathless moment, I wildly wish he would.
Pulling her hand from his, Mrs. Threadneedle fans her face and mutters, “Oh my.”
Oh mercy. At this rate, she’ll faint clear away and we’ll have to deal with a flattened house mistress.
I step forward. “Don’t let us hamper your labour, Mrs. Threadneedle. You have many costumes to manage, and you wouldn’t want to upset Mr. Groat with unfinished business.”
The threat of displeasing the manager snaps the woman from her daze. “Aye. Yer right.” She bobs her head. “Ahh, but it was good to see you, luv. You and yer fine gent. Hope all goes well with your surprise.”
Oliver bows. “Good day, my lady.”
She giggles as she passes between us, flourishing the hat in the air. “And a very good day to the both of you.”
I lift my eyes to Oliver. “You’re quite the charmer.”
“You have no idea.” He winks.
Oh but I do. My heart stutters at the gesture, and I spin on my heel and race towards Mr. Groat’s office. I free a hatpin from my bonnet and have it at the ready by the time Oliver catches up.
Wordlessly, he works to pick the lock. How a member of Parliament knows such a devious skill is unsettling, yet this is no ordinary politician—especially not after spending nearly a year in gaol.
Finally the lock clicks, the door swings open, and I sweep in. Oliver posts himself near the threshold, ready to sweet-talk Mrs. Threadneedle should she return for another hat.
I yank open the middle file drawer and slide my finger along the alphabet, stopping at the letter H. Thankfully Magistrate Hunter’s name should be towards the beginning.
Hart, Hillman.
“Make haste,” Oliver whispers from the door. “Mrs. Threadneedle may be returning.”
Hogard—
“Those aren’t a woman’s footsteps I hear.”
My heart hammers and my fingers shake.
“Hurry!”
Hunter. I yank out the document and push the drawer shut, then scurry past Oliver. Thuds—two sets—pound up the stairs as he fiddles with relocking the door. My belly twists as I stare down the passageway towards the staircase.
An eternity later, Oliver grabs my arm and we dash for the prop room, just making it inside when feet land in the passageway. If anyone pops their head in here, we will be discovered.
A bass voice rumbles something too low for me to hear—but loud enough for me to distinguish the owner. Constable Barrow. I inch closer to Oliver.
But I edge even nearer when words that end with distinctive clicks draw close to the prop room. Though I desperately want to, I cannot tear my gaze away from the open door.
“A baseless concern. You’ll find your man where the woman is. She’ll come here. She left behind too many baubles in her dressing room. And with a little leverage, my theatre hands will let me know as soon as she shows up.”
I sag against the wall and look back at Oliver—and that’s when I realize we are not alone, for Mrs. Threadneedle stands wide-eyed and staring at us just past his shoulder.
Chapter Eighteen
Time stops. So does my heart. One cry—nay—one small shuffle of Mrs. Threadneedle’s feet and Oliver and I will be exposed. Our lives are wholly in the hands of an overworked, underpaid, grey-haired matron who loves to talk.
Beside me, Oliver shakes his head at the woman while lifting a finger to his lips. Her eyes follow his movement—but her mouth opens. My lungs burn for want of air. Will she give us away?
Mr. Groat’s and Mr. Barrow’s voices continue to rumble. My name, Oliver’s too, bandies about like a shuttlecock between them.
Mrs. Threadneedle’s mouth gapes wider.
And I pray—or rather plea—for God to clamp her lips as effectively as those of the lions in Daniel’s pit.
Oliver edges away from me, towards her, and whispers something in the woman’s ear. The longer he speaks, the farther away the footsteps in the passageway travel, and the more Mrs. Threadneedle’s lips draw together. By the time Mr. Groat’s keys jangle and his office door swings open, Mrs. Threadneedle is grinning—and a blush deepens on her cheeks.
It’s my turn to gape. What charms has Oliver worked to effect such a change?
He pulls back from her. She winks at him, flutters her fingers at me, then hustles out the door.
Straight toward Mr. Groat’s office.
I whip my gaze to Oliver, a field of questions nettling my tongue, but before one can sprout, he hurries me out the passageway. Mrs. Threadneedle’s voice trills from inside Mr. Groat’s office, loud enough to hide our footsteps. Oliver leads me to the stairs and we dash down. At the bottom, he makes to cross the stage. I plant my feet and yank him back, a sharp shake to my head. The manager’s office directly overlooks the stage, and my dressing room is in the opposite direction.
Now I am the leader, winding through narrow corridors that are secret to the public. One more flight of stairs and we are beneath the stage—safe from the prying eyes of Mr. Groat and Mr. Barrow.
I fumble in my pocket for my key and shove it into the lock on my dressing room door. It doesn’t click. It doesn’t need to. The door is already unlocked—a door I always kept secure. Frowning, I enter.
We stand in a war zone.
The drawers on my dressing table hang open, a scarf dangling from one, a broken chain of beads on another. Cosmetic pots are tipped over. My wardrobe is empty, one door askew because the bottom hinge is broken. All the gowns are gone. A single silk stocking sprawls like a corpse on the floor. Whoever searched this room didn’t care about me or anyone else noticing.
“Are you always this careless with your belongings?” Though humour lightens Oliver’s tone, I am anything but amused.
I race to the dressing table to search the bottom drawer for my mother’s locket, but my fingers meet only air and wood. My heart catches in my throat. Has someone stolen it? Why, oh why, did I not tuck my precious keepsake in my pocket that fateful night? Why did I leave it here? What was I thinking?
I grip the edge of the table and fight back hot tears. I hadn’t been thinking, that’s what. I’d been caught up in the thrill of performing. Of entertaining the masses. And now I must pay for that sin.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
Whirling, I face Oliver, who holds a fine chain with a silver pendant. I snatch it from him and clutch it to my heart, breathless. “Where did you find it?”
“Here.” He points to the ground under an overturned chair. “It was snagged on the cushion.”
“It
must have gotten caught when they ransacked my room. Thank goodness they didn’t see—”
“No time.” Oliver cocks his head and his face hardens. “You’ve got your keepsake. Let’s go.”
He ushers me out the door, pulling it shut behind him, then whispers, “Lead the way, but make it a back way if possible.”
I’m about to question his strange behaviour when I hear it. The same sickening thud of boots against stairs we’d experienced earlier.
I dart to the right, away from the staircase, and edge along a darkened corridor. It’s a tight fit, meant only for theatre boys to pass messages between dressing rooms and the front reception office. My skirts are too wide and shush against the walls. The fabric on Oliver’s broad shoulders does as well.
An eternity later, I open a narrow door, and we slip into the velvet and brocade room, where the privileged few take drinks on plush sofas before a performance.
“This way,” I whisper to Oliver. Another corridor. More twists and turns, then we double back. Moments later, we are once again outside the Beauford Square entrance, but my heart doesn’t stop pounding until we are safely inside a carriage that Oliver hails.
He heaves a great sigh as he sinks next to me on the bench seat. “Good work.”
“Thank you.” I smile as I catch my breath. “Tell me, what did you say to Mrs. Threadneedle? And how did you hear them coming so quickly? I didn’t hear a thing until we were in the corridor.”
“I told Mrs. Threadneedle to let him know we were in the building.”
“You what!” I fling out my hand as the coach careens around a corner. The movement judders me to the core as deeply as Oliver’s confession.
Worse, he has the audacity to chuckle. “You should see your face right now.”
My hand shakes around the locket. The nerve of the man!
He reaches for my hand and lifts it to his lips, ever the charmer—and much to my chagrin, the action cools the flash of anger to naught but ashes. “Forgive me, please. I find humour soothing, though this time I fear my words were misplaced. There was no way we could keep Mrs. Threadneedle quiet, so I gave her something more productive to say.” He looks at me as if he’s just solved an intricate mathematical equation.
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
“I explained to Mrs. Threadneedle that our surprise was to pop out of the prop room in full costume, to astonish Mr. Groat, and what a jolly good laugh it would all be. But I needed her to keep him busy so we could accomplish that. I have no idea what she said to the man, but clearly she didn’t hold his interest for too long. I knew your dressing room would be the first place he’d look after he discovered the prop room to be empty.”
My mouth drops. “You are amazing.”
“And you have a cobweb in your hair.”
Smiling, he brushes away the offense—just as the cab hits a rut, knocking us both together. His cheek grazes mine, the rough stubble of his unshaven skin a reminder of his masculinity. Our gazes lock, and a queer tingle runs deep in my belly. His lips are a breath away. One more pothole and that fine, wide mouth will be hot against—
This is ridiculous. The stress of the morning—of the entire past several weeks—is surely getting to me. I pull back and lift my chin. “Yet that is not the full story, is it? What did you tell Mrs. Threadneedle that made her blush so violently?”
A rogue smile quirks his lips. “I merely said today is Wednesday and what a brilliantly sunny afternoon it is.”
Hah! I narrow my eyes. Surely he doesn’t expect me to believe such gibberish. “And why would that heat her cheeks?”
“I spoke it in French.” He winks.
Despite our harrowing experience, I laugh. “There is never a dull moment in your presence. With your highly adept chicanery, I’m beginning to believe this really will be over soon.”
“Indeed.” He sinks back in his seat. “Very soon.”
My laughter turns sour in my throat. As much as I am ready for this misadventure to be finished, there is a sudden sad realization burning in my heart.
I will miss this man.
Shooting first and asking questions later wasn’t usually Sebastian’s approach, but sometimes exceptions had to be made—and after the not-so-merry chase Ward had led him on, this situation was particularly exceptional. As soon as the gilded letters of Daisy Lee’s name on a dressing room door came into view, he tore past Groat and burst into the room with a roar.
“Got you now, Ward!”
His words bounced off empty walls. Lowering the gun, he made a quick search of the small chamber, then turned on Groat with a scowl. “You said they’d be here.”
Slowly, the man pivoted from where he stood near a tilted mirror, his eyes glittering black beetles in his face. “They were. Look, the dust has been disturbed.”
What the skip-nippity did he care for dust in this mess? Where the devil was Ward? “They can’t have gone far. We’ll turn this building inside out and shake them free like the pocket lint they are.”
“Don’t work harder, Mr. Barrow.” Groat tapped a bony finger to his temple. “Think smarter.”
“What are you going on about? They’re within our grasp!”
“I think not. Daisy knows every passage in this theatre. They are long gone.”
Blast! The woman was far too cunning—and Lord knows he couldn’t abide a cunning woman. Releasing the hammer, he shoved his gun into its holster. “Running like the rats they are,” he murmured. Made sense. Rodents always scurried to the darkest corners. But where would they scuttle to next?
Turning from Groat, he paced the perimeter of the room, cataloguing what few contents remained. Nothing was helpful. So, what would be? Who would be? Who would Ward trust with not only his safety but his woman’s?
And then he knew.
Sebastian snapped his fingers and wheeled about to face Groat. “Ward’s family. Tell me of them.”
Groat shook his head. “That’s a wrong line of thinking. Too much bad blood there. Ward would never seek out his father—and neither should you.”
“Why the devil not?” He threw out his hands. “It’s the perfect lead!”
“Mr. Ward’s father is the Hawk of Crown Court, a barrister with such lofty connections that not even I would dare cross swords with him.”
Ward had the blood of a man of law running through his veins, one that might bend justice to his own whims? His own blood began to boil. “No one is above the law,” he thundered.
“Now, now, Mr. Barrow. Cassius Ward wouldn’t actually break a law. He would twist it, like a noose around your neck. If he desires a man be put away, the poor soul stands no chance. I suggest you stay far from him, just as your escapee will. They broke communication years ago, and there’s not a chance in a million your convict will seek his father’s aid. The safer bet is to keep an eye on the man who accused him. I’d wager that’s who Ward’s going after.”
Despite the awful click of Groat’s teeth, Sebastian had to know more. Keep the man talking—even if the sound burrowed beneath his skin. “And who is that?”
“Ambrose Corbin is your man. Find him, and you’ll likely find Ward.”
Perfect. In three long strides, Sebastian cleared the door, then popped his head back in to eye Groat. “Are you coming along?”
“As much as I’d like to witness your spectacular catch, I must decline. Daisy is holed up somewhere in this city, for now, at any rate. Not to worry, though. I have many connections myself. Go.” He waved him off. “Find your Mr. Corbin, and I shall find my little flower.”
Chapter Nineteen
Two days. Two days of looking over his shoulder, on edge. Not that Oliver wasn’t used to it, but this time, knowing both Groat and Barrow were gunning for them, those two days dragged into an eternity. But now, finally, all the hardship and danger was nearing an end—and none too soon. He’d not see Maggie suffer one more evening in that hovel of a shelter, even though she’d spent some coin to have it cleaned and purchased
fresh bedding. Nor did he relish another long night huddled outside against the door, keeping watch. The kink in his neck might never go away.
His pace slowed as he and Maggie neared the Royal Station Hotel. A lifetime ago he’d walked tall through those front doors. Sure of himself. Sure of the world as he knew it. How many meals had he shared in that opulent dining room, trying to persuade the powermongers, the rich, those in positions able to make a change in the lives of the needy? Change wrought by his ideas, his determination? And look at him now, slinking in the shadows, keeping to the edge of the pavement. Blast that Corbin!
“This is it.” Maggie’s sweet voice and a slight pressure on his arm turned him towards her. She stopped at the mouth of a narrow passageway near the end of the building. “Are you ready?”
He smirked. He’d been ready to see Corbin in fetters since the day his own wrists had felt the bite of iron.
But the longer he stared into Maggie’s big brown eyes, the more his gut twisted. It was wrong, this plan of his, putting her in harm’s way. What if it failed? What if he were caught, dragged off, forced to leave her behind to fend for herself just like he’d left Jarney in that rat hole of a prison? Corbin would show her no mercy. If anything, the scoundrel’s appetite would be whetted for worse devilment than he had intended in the first place.
“Maggie, listen. You don’t have to do this.” Oliver grabbed her shoulders and gently eased her into the small space between buildings. “Wait here, where it’s safe. I’ll manage on my own and—”
She lifted a finger to his lips. A startling touch, one that licked a fire through his veins.
“We’ve been over this before. That dining room”—she tipped her head towards the hotel—“is my stage. I was made for this. I can do it. We carry out the plan as is, and it will all soon be over. You’ll have your freedom, and in a way, so will I.”
The House at the End of the Moor Page 16
