Page 29 of West End Earl
Nelson sat. “The crew,” he began. “If they find out I’ve betrayed them, things won’t go well for me or my family.”
It was a valid point and showed forethought. It also made him think of Ophelia a short time before, when she explained territorial street gangs with a flippantthat’s London. He and young Nelson lived in very different versions of the same city.
“I have several properties across England, Scotland, and Wales. If you feel you or your family are in danger, please tell me. There are plenty of places to hide. Temporarily or permanently.” Softening his tone, Cal said, “You’re not making a deal with the devil. I understand I’m asking you to do something dangerous. My orders come from a deep desire to protect my friend. Your crew could have killed him.” His throat closed over the wordkilled, making his voice crack. “I need details if I’m to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
There must have been some measure of loyalty within Nelson, because the rigid line of his shoulders softened. “Understood, milord.”
“Good. Let’s have that talk, then, shall we?”
A half hour later Cal handed Nelson over to Higgins, then made his way upstairs to the portrait gallery, where he and Puppy fenced nearly every day. Not the use his forefathers had intended for the room, but certainly a more logical use of space than displaying paintings of dead people.
Lines of perfectly coiffed men and women looked down their noses from gilded frames. Their rows of golden perfection had intimidated him as a child, before he fully understood what a herd of degenerates they’d been. Sure, a few had been generally upstanding members of society. Or at least, their misdeeds hadn’t made it into the family lore. The male ancestors in particular had possessed the moral fortitude of meringue—pretty on the outside, utterly empty beneath the decorative finish.
Running a hand over the plain waistcoat he’d chosen for the day’s jaunt to the docks, Cal paused before the portrait of his mother. She fit right in with the others. Lovely. So utterly lovely. Maybe in the beginning, she’d been faithful. As the story went, his parents were a love match. Until they weren’t. The spectacle of his parents had been exhausting to watch as a child and humiliating to deal with as a young man. The clearest memories from his childhood were of standing at the window, watching as servants loaded his mother’s trunks onto a carriage again—sometimes only days after unpacking them amidst showering kisses and declarations of love for her family—and knowing no matter how obedient a boy he’d been, it wasn’t enough for her to stay. Or to take him with her.
“She was beautiful. You look like her,” Ophelia said from behind him.
Cal turned, oddly relieved to see her. “You’re still here? I thought you’d gone for the day.”
She shrugged a slim shoulder. “I got bored. Figured you might be too. Thought I’d stay and see if you’d indulge me in a match.”
“Feel the need to be trounced, do you?”
“You always say that, and I always win.” She grinned.
A bit of the tightness he’d been carrying in his chest unfurled with a laugh. Puppy, or rather, Ophelia, had a knack for doing that—making him laugh when he didn’t think he could.
“Today might be the day I send you home with your tail between your legs. You never know.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” She seemed relieved that he wasn’t going to press her for more details after she’d shared her name. What she didn’t realize was that over the course of the interview with Nelson, his priorities had shifted. Yes, he wanted to know her secrets. The why to all of this. But first, he had to find the words to warn this woman that despite her clever disguise, her uncle wanted her dead.
***
“Cal was right.” Her voice cut through the empty room, punctuating the mess the intruders had left behind. Somehow, Milton had found her amidst the masses of the city. That precious bubble of anonymity she’d constructed since leaving her uncle’s house over a decade before, by keeping her head down at school, then during her years in London—poof. Gone. Just like that.
And she’d been so close. A few more months, and she could reclaim her life. Reclaim her honesty.
The attack wasn’t random, Ophelia. Nelson claims an older man ordered it.Cal’s words earlier that evening weren’t ones she’d wanted to believe. The proof lay before her.
Phee scanned the room to make sure she was alone, then closed the door.
A man calling himself Smith paid cash. The gang’s spy followed him to a room at the Clarendon. Mr. Smith registered under the name Milton Keating.If Nelson spoke the truth—and how could he pull such a credible lie out of nothing?—Uncle Milton had somehow figured out where she lived. Not only that, but he’d visited the offices of Hapsburg Life and Property Insurance on three occasions during this trip to Town. It would appear Milton had taken out a life-insurance policy on Adam. With mere months before the birthday that would remove the family fortune from her uncle’s reach, he’d taken action to collect on his investment. It all came down to money.
Money. Phee charged toward the bed, with its bits of ticking and strips of blankets piled into a messy heap. “Please, please, please,” she breathed in a chant. There, pressed between the wall and the side of the bed, was the small pillow she cuddled close every night. Miraculously, the seams were intact. Wrapping her arms around it, she squeezed until a muted crinkle within the stuffing provided reassurance. They hadn’t found her nest egg. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes as she slumped onto the edge of the bed, clinging to the one thing that mattered within the chaos of the room.
How had he tracked her?
Nothing on paper tied her to this address. When she needed a bank, she traveled to the farthest corner of London from where she laid her head at night. The measly quarterly pittance from her parents’ estate was always paid out in person from a solicitor in Cheapside that she knew served Milton’s interests over hers. Fat lot of good those protective measures did her.
A piece of paper stuck to her boot, and she bent to pick it up. They’d even shredded John’s latest letter. At least it had been happy news—Vicar Arcott had rallied after her visit and grew stronger each day. She threw the bits of paper into the fireplace.
Phee carefully righted the broken footstool, its slashed cushion bleeding stuffing onto the floor. Cramming the bits of fluff into the gaping fabric hole might be a lost cause, but she tried for about fifteen seconds before setting it aside. Pieces of cotton and feathers drifted onto the toe of one boot, pale against black leather.
Cal had told her, but she hadn’t wanted to believe. Not while feeling vulnerable and exposed after sharing another piece of herself with him. After each revealed truth, they seemed to have a period when they scrambled to reclaim a sense of normality. Being in the pub today had been another piece of blessed routine—he hadn’t accompanied her lately, but he used to canvass the neighborhoods with her all the time. The light flirting in the hack on the way to Mayfair was certainly new, and she didn’t know what to do with it. But that was an issue for a different day.
Now this. Information showing the robbery wasn’t a random act of violence. Accepting it meant accepting that her charade was truly over, short of her goal. Yet to ignore the evidence of her destroyed room would require a level of self-delusion even she couldn’t muster.
She plucked two pieces of a torn waistcoat from the floor. They’d even stolen wooden buttons.
