A Secret Surrender, page 10
The man exhaled, and there was something eerily familiar about the tone of it. In a flash, he disarmed her with a tsk. “You let me get too close, Lina.”
Lina.
The only people who called her that were Luther and…Rafe. This wasn’t Luther.
“Rafe?”
He swept his hat off, revealing light blond hair. Edging closer, he nodded slightly.
Selina couldn’t help but stare at the nasty scar on his chin. But she forced herself to look up, her gaze settling on his eyes—brilliant blue except for the orange spot in the right one, which she could barely make out in the dim light of the alley. “Is it really you?”
Eighteen years was an awfully long time, and they’d been barely more than children the last time they’d seen each other.
“Yes, it’s me, Lina.”
She kicked him hard in the shin. “That’s for following me.” Next, she punched him in the gut, drawing a loud grunt from his throat. He bent at the middle. “And that’s for letting me think you were dead!”
Shaking out her fist, she glared at him as he straightened.
He held up the hand that wasn’t holding her pistol. “Truce.”
“Give me back my gun.”
“Only if you promise to wield it properly. I taught you better than that.”
He had. She had let him get too close. “It’s been some time since I’ve had to protect myself like that.”
“I’m glad.” He handed her the pistol, butt first.
She took it with a scowl and dropped it back into her reticule.
“Will you get an ale with me?” he asked.
“Only because I want to know why you let me think you were dead.” He was alive! She was torn between hugging him and hitting him again. In the end, she did neither.
“I will tell you anything you wish to know. And perhaps a thing or two you don’t,” he said rather ominously. But then he smiled faintly and offered his arm. “There’s a tavern around the corner.”
Tentatively, she put her hand on his sleeve. He led her from the alley, and they didn’t speak again until they were seated at a table tucked into the corner of the tavern’s common room.
The serving maid brought two tankards of ale, which Rafe had called for when they’d entered, and quickly departed. Rafe took a long drink before fixing his familiar gaze on hers.
Familiar and not. Though he looked somewhat like her brother, and his eyes confirmed it, she realized they were strangers. All this time, she’d been searching for an ideal. The brother she’d known when they were children was gone. Just as the girl she’d been had long since disappeared.
“I knew almost the moment you returned to London,” he said. “As soon as you showed up in Whitechapel.”
That had been weeks ago. Selina’s insides contracted. “Why are you following me and not welcoming me to town?” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “Do you have any idea how it felt when I was told you died?”
“I can imagine, and I’m sorry. I was trying to keep you safe—away from me. But you’re working with that goddamned Runner now, so I’ve been keeping an eye on you to make sure you’re safe from him.” He leaned slightly forward, his brows pushing down over his narrowed eyes. “Why are you entangled with him?”
“I’m not ‘entangled’ with him.”
“I heard you were traipsing all over Cheapside on his arm yesterday.”
“That is my business.” She took several sips of ale, hoping to calm her ire.
“The fake home for wayward children. Yes, I know all about that, and about your ruse peddling fortunes.”
He knew all about her while she thought he was dead? “If you must know, I was working with Sheffield to protect myself,” she spat. “And to find the man I thought had killed you. I wanted to avenge you, but now I wonder why I should care.”
“The Vicar,” he said quietly, glancing down at his tankard.
Selina exhaled some of the anger from her frame. “Yes.”
He gave her a lopsided smile that was absolutely the boy she’d known. Her heart twisted, and her breath caught. “I am the Vicar.”
“What?” Selina had picked up her mug again, but now set it hard upon the table with a thud.
“It’s an identity I created to get away from Partridge. Surely you understand the importance of creating identities.”
She stared at him, then shook her head gently. “Very amusing. I take it your plan didn’t work since the Vicar killed Partridge?”
“That’s correct. But even though Partridge was dead, it suited me to kill Rafe Blackwell too.”
Selina was working to process everything he was saying. “If you know about my business, you must know that I’m working with Luther. Does he know you’re alive? And Mrs. Kinnon?”
Rafe grimaced apologetically. “Don’t be angry with them. I made them promise to keep my secret. Rafe Blackwell needed to die.”
Selina sat back and crossed her arms. “Even for his sister?”
“As I said, I was trying to protect you.” He pierced her with a dark glower. “This is a dangerous life here—one I worked hard to escape. You may not remember just how terrible it was.”
“Oh, I do, brother. I do.” Her tone was soft, but the memories were hard. “How could I ever forget when that was why you sent me away, separating me from the only family I knew? Is that why you stopped responding to my letters? To protect me?” Hurt threaded through every part of her so that tears should have streamed down her face. But she didn’t cry. Not since he’d told her not to that long ago day.
“Somewhat.” He wrapped his hands around the tankard and briefly squeezed as if he was trying to release some of the tension between them. “I know you wanted to come back here. You wrote that in every letter. I didn’t want to encourage that.”
“So you stopped writing altogether.” That had been about the time that Beatrix had come to the seminary. “Even though I kept writing to you.” Right up until she’d left her governess position. After that horrid event, she’d wanted to put every part of the past behind her except for Beatrix. It was several years before she’d decided she wanted to find her brother.
“You’d found Beatrix, and it was obvious from your letters that you were close. You’re still close—she’s your bloody sister.” He picked up his tankard and took another drink.
Was that jealousy in his tone? Good. “In every way that matters,” Selina said.
He set his tankard down, and his eyes softened to a warmth that eased the remnants of her anger. “I’m glad. Once I read about her in your letters, I knew you’d be all right. Better than you could ever be here. With me.”
The sadness in his voice bent her even further. Her safety had always been paramount to him. That was why he’d sent her away in the first place. And apparently why he’d kept himself from her until now.
She could never tell him what had happened to her when she left the school.
Selina sipped her ale. “So you’re worried about Sheffield?”
“He’s a danger to your enterprise. And, to be honest, to mine.”
“Why, because he wants to see you hanged for killing children?”
“Yes, but I didn’t start that fire at the flash house. It was Partridge’s place.” His eyes turned so frigid, Selina nearly shivered. “You wouldn’t have remembered it. That was after you left London.”
“Why did you kill Partridge?” There were so many reasons to do so, and that was only what Selina remembered from her time in his service. She had to think there was something more, something that pushed Rafe over the edge.
“I had to, but not for his business, which Sheffield and others assumed. I wanted out. I’d started up my own enterprise, loaning money, mostly, as the Vicar. In those days, I didn’t show my face, so no one would know it was me. It was the only way I could leave—if I became someone else.”
“How close were you to Partridge, then?” Selina and Rafe had started thieving for him when she was eight. Samuel Partridge had taken a liking to them, and Rafe had become one of his favored lads, earning positions of increasing importance. By the time Selina had left London, Rafe had been in charge of several gangs of child thieves and had begun working in one of the receiver shops. His success had given him the financial means to send her away. He hadn’t thought twice about continuing his life as a criminal, even as he protected Selina from the same.
“His right hand—or I had been until I asked to leave. I didn’t want to work for him any longer.”
“We never wanted to work for him.” They hadn’t had a choice at all. Well, she supposed she had. She could have been a prostitute instead.
“No, we didn’t. And I’m trying very hard not to be a criminal at all, which is why I don’t need Sheffield on my arse.”
He was trying not to be a criminal? Perhaps he’d found financial security. Selina hadn’t—not yet. But hopefully after this stint as Madame Sybila here in London, she’d be in a position to finally secure her and Beatrix’s futures. Though if Beatrix got what she came here for, she wouldn’t need Selina’s help.
“Why not just kill the Vicar now?” Selina asked.
Rafe cracked a small smile. “Because he runs a very lucrative moneylending business.”
“An illegal one, from what I hear.”
He cocked his head, his hand gripping his tankard. “Not anymore. I used to charge higher interest than the banks, but I’ve lowered my rates in the past several months. None of that matters at the present. I don’t need Sheffield breathing down my neck as I try to transition to a respectable life. As you have on Queen Anne Street. Lady Gresham, eh? Did you actually marry?”
“No. Sir Barnabus Gresham was kind enough to allow me to use his name, despite the fact that I’d stolen a hundred pounds from him.”
Rafe blew out a whistle. “Did he not know?”
“Oh, he knew. And he let me keep it. Barney is a nice man.” Selina winced through the regret piercing her chest. “Was. I’m sure he’s passed on by now. He became rather ill.”
“Here I thought you were an accomplished charlatan.” His smirk told her he was jesting, but Selina wanted to make sure he knew exactly who she was.
“I am Selina Blackwell and Lady Gresham and Madame Sybila, and anyone else I need to be. That Sir Barnabus learned I’d stolen from him was entirely my choice, and it’s worked out rather well, thank you.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but Selina had learned long ago that the truth was vastly overrated. And almost always unnecessary. Furthermore, the truth made one vulnerable. Selina would avoid that at all costs.
He surveyed her with admiration. “See? I knew you understood the importance of identities.”
She began to feel more comfortable with him, but there was still so much they needed to share if they were going to regain their bond. She wondered if he would reveal his secrets, or if, like her, he’d learned to bury himself so deep that sometimes even he wasn’t sure where to find his true self. “Why did you kill Partridge?”
“Because he was a vile, evil man.” The hatred in his eyes sparked a fear Selina had rarely encountered.
She knew when not to prod a sleeping beast. “So you want to straddle the polite world and that of the Vicar. I have earned Sheffield’s trust—in my endeavors to protect my interests. If you didn’t set the flash house on fire, all we have to do is find out who did, and he’ll leave you alone. He wants justice for that crime. I don’t suppose you know who did it?”
Rafe shook his head. “Honestly, I didn’t really care. I killed Partridge, but the building was quite intact when I stole away from the back. When I learned it burned down, it gave me the opportunity to kill Rafe. I would have been the presumptive leader of Partridge’s gang. I didn’t want that. Whoever set that fire made it easy for me to leave. Why does Sheffield care so much about an old fire?”
“Because innocents died,” she said quietly, thinking that could so easily have been her and Rafe years ago.
Rafe sat back, sprawling in the chair. It was a familiar position he’d often adopted in their youth. Selina couldn’t help smiling.
“What?” Rafe asked.
Selina shook her head. “It’s odd being with you. You’re a stranger, and yet familiar.”
“I was thinking the same.” His eyes found hers, that orange blemish—no, not a blemish, that mark of fire she’d always thought had given him his courage—burning as he looked at her. “You still have that mole behind your ear along your hairline.”
Lifting her hand behind her left ear, she stroked the location of the mole. “How can you see that?”
“I looked very closely as we walked here.”
“Confirming I was really me?”
His lips spread in a grin that she’d longed to see for eighteen years. “Perhaps.”
“So, let’s find out who set that fire. Then Sheffield will leave you alone.”
“I’ll look into it.” His eyes narrowed slightly, and she could tell he was thinking.
“What?”
He shook his head, blinking. “Nothing, just contemplating.”
“Conspiring,” she said.
He didn’t respond to her comment. “How will you get him to leave you, or rather Madame Sybila, alone?” He straightened and leaned slightly toward her.
“I’m taking care of that.” She suddenly realized part of coming back to London to find Rafe had been to show him that she’d managed quite well on her own—much as Beatrix was trying to do with her estranged father.
“If I can help you in any way, I hope you’ll tell me.” He seemed earnest, but Selina didn’t need his help. She had things well in hand.
“Is it all right if Mrs. Kinnon and Luther know I’m aware you’re not really dead?”
“Yes. I really was just trying to protect you, Lina. When I heard you were back, and I saw how lovely and refined you’d grown up to be…” He smiled, but there was sadness behind it. Perhaps even regret. Selina felt both those emotions too. “I thought it best if I remained dead to you.”
“And yet, if you become respectable, we could be what we always dreamed. We’d both be secure. No more begging or scraping or hating our lot in life.” That sensation was still so familiar, even after years of being “safe.” Was that because she actually still hated her lot? Or that she hated the lies she was forced to tell—to others and to herself?
Rafe reached across the table for her hand. She placed her palm in his. “I’d like that more than anything. I’ll let you know what I find out about the fire.”
“I can’t tell Sheffield what you learn—we’ll have to find another way to convey the information.”
“Of course.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “I already have a plan.”
Chapter 8
On Thursday evening, Harry walked up the short flight of steps to his parents’ house on Mount Street. The butler opened the door before Harry reached the stoop and welcomed him inside.
“Your father would like to see you in his study.” The butler, Tallent, was somewhat new to the position as their longtime butler had retired last year. Tallent had been promoted from footman and by all accounts was doing an excellent job. Harry particularly liked him because he’d helped him and Jeremy out of a few scrapes in their younger years.
Harry handed him his hat and gloves. “Thank you, Tallent. How is his mood this evening?”
“Let us hope you have good news for him, sir.” Tallent pressed his lips together and gave his head a light shake.
Exhaling, Harry made his way through a sitting room to the study. His father was seated in a wingback chair in front of the hearth where a few coals burned.
“’Evening, Father,” Harry said. “Do you need a refill of brandy?”
The earl glanced toward the glass in his hand. “Not at the moment, thank you.”
Harry went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass, then took the other chair situated in front of the fire. After sitting and sipping his brandy, he leaned back in the chair and awaited his father’s interrogation.
“What news?” Father asked.
“I assume you’re asking about the fortune-teller, or are you perchance interested in me?”
His father snorted softly. “I am always interested in you. However, everything you discuss involves work. Your investigation into the fortune-teller serves both of us.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Harry took another drink of his brandy. “I regret to inform you that it appears Madame Sybila’s charity—the Home for Wayward Children—is, in fact, a legitimate operation.
Father thumped his palm—the one that wasn’t holding his brandy—on the arm of the chair. “Damn and blast! How can that be?” He speared Harry with a dark, angry stare.
“I went to the home, and everything seemed as it should. I’ll return next week, but I can’t say I expect to find anything different. That doesn’t mean Madame Sybila isn’t executing some other fraud.” There was still the matter of the tonics. Harry meant to obtain her offerings to determine if they were anything other than water or something equally innocuous.
Scowling, Father lifted his glass and polished off the contents. He rose from the chair and took the empty vessel to the sideboard. Turning back to Harry, he exhaled. “I appreciate you looking into this. I just can’t see why your mother believes in such nonsense.”
“It could be that Madame Sybila simply comforts her. Would that be so bad?” Harry didn’t mean it as a defense of the fortune-teller, but of his mother. Even so, he realized how it sounded to his father, who despised the fact that his wife was seeking the counsel of what he perceived to be a charlatan.
“Of course it is!” Father frowned. “You aren’t giving up, are you?”
Harry rose from the chair. “No. I’ll continue to supervise the fortune-teller’s activities. I won’t let her take advantage of Mother.”
“Good.” Father straightened his coat. “We should join the others in the library.”
“After you.” Harry gestured to the door.
His father departed the study, and Harry followed behind. They entered the library a few minutes later, where everyone was gathered with the exception of Jeremy. Harry wondered if his twin would come—he didn’t attend every week. In fact, he attended less often than Harry, who always strove to be present unless his work interfered, which happened on occasion.
