Page 7 of Hold Me Fast
“I will burn it when I have read it, and never tell a soul you gave it to me,” Tammie promised, folding her hand around the card.Jowan.It could be no one else. Was that hope she felt? No! Hope was not allowed. Hope would only be squashed and leave her more miserable than ever. She should throw the card into the fire immediately and forget she ever saw it.
But she could not resist opening her fingers. “Sir Jowan Trethewey,” she read out loud. “Yes, I knew him when I was a child.”
So, the old baronet was dead. Good. He had sent for Guy, knowing the man’s predilection for musicians. Guy himself had told her that the baronet and Tamsyn’s mother had sold her to the earl, and Tammie believed him. Whether Mother had conspired with Sir Carlyon, or whether he had truly threatened to turn Mother out with Tamsyn, Tammie didn’t know. But Sir Carlyon objected to her relationship with Jowan and had wanted her gone. She was certain of that.
The fingers of her free hand crept down the hem of her riding skirt and rubbed across the outline of the ring, safely in its tiny pocket. She had nearly lost it. Guy had ordered her maid to burn the clothes she wore to the opium den, but the girl had found the ring hidden in the hem, retrieved it, kept it a secret, and returned it to Tammie when she recovered her senses.
It was her last connection with Jowan and Tamsyn. She would have hated to have lost it.
Dear Jowan. She wished she could see him, but Guy would never allow it. And perhaps it was for the best, for it was Tamsyn that Jowan remembered, and Tamsyn had died long ago.
“There is a message on the other side, Miss,” prompted Daisy.
Almost against her will, Tammie’s fingers turned the card over. “In London. When can I see you? Answer via footman.”
Dangerous words.She truly had better burn the card before the footman got into trouble—“Henry” Daisy had nearly said. Tammie had always made it her practice to learn the names of the servants in any house where Guy stayed, and her with him. Guy mocked her for it, but she found it brought her better service. Besides, it made her feel as if she was not entirely without allies, even if they were as helpless as she was.
“Daisy, if I give you a message, will you give it to the footman?”Henry.It must be. Daisy was nodding. Tammie crossed the room to her little desk. It had been years since she discovered that the letters she had been faithfully writing to Jowan, despite the silence from his end, had been read and burnt by Guy. Jowan’s to her, too.
Guy had told her of his perfidy one night when somewhat more under the influence than usual. She had stopped taking her letters to him for franking after that, but from habit, she continued to write every day, using notebooks in a sort of a diary.
She was certain Guy read it, and she took a childish delight in writing into her diary things she would never say to his face.
Would he notice if she tore out a page? She would have to risk it. She tore the partner page from the other side of the stitching. Unless someone counted the pages, they would never know.
“Daisy,” she said, when she had written her message, “tell the footman to be careful. The earl is very possessive. My message is merely to tell Sir Jowan to leave me alone. You can read it if you want to check. But I do not want the earl to cause trouble for my old friend or the footman. Do you understand?”
Daisy nodded, her eyes wide with apprehension. “We will both be careful, Miss.” She bit her lip, her frown deepening. “Couldn’t this Sir Jowan help you, Miss? Take you away from all of this?”
Poor innocent child, but it was sweet of her to be concerned. “Daisy,” Tammie told her sadly, “no one can help me. Lord Coombe is too powerful.”
But oh, how sweet and seductive it was to hope.
Chapter Three
The agent wasa solicitor by the name of Thatcher, and he took a bit of finding. The address on his letterhead—the address to which Jowan had been sending correspondence—proved to be the office of somebody else—someone called Beckleston. The clerk there was not disposed to give them any information, and Beckleston was away at present. Or so the clerk said. He was a young man—still a boy, Jowan would have said, short and slender, except that the stubble on his cheeks and something about his eyes suggested he was older than he looked, as did the way his brown hair was already thinning away from his forehead.
When the clerk deliberately turned back to his work after making the last claim, Jowan leaned over the desk, resting both hands on the documents scattered across the surface. “Bran,” he said. “Fetch a constable. It is clear that Thatcher is a fraudster, and this man, or his employer, or both, is Thatcher’s accomplice. I’ll stay here and make sure this man does not escape.”
After that, the clerk had a change of heart. Mr. Thatcher was merely a client of Mr. Beckleston’s. They allowed him to use the address for correspondence out of kindness, for Mr. Thatcher had experienced some bad luck. The clerk did not know where Mr. Thatcher lived or work—he always called for his correspondence once a week, on a Thursday.
“Not good enough,” Jowan decided. “Fetch a constable, Bran. We shall let them find Thatcher, and the courts can decide who is guilty and who is not.”
“Who are you, bullying my poor clerk?” said a voice from the doorway.
“Beckleston, I presume,” Jowan commented.
The man nodded. “I am. State your business.”
Jowan straightened. “Excellent. I am Sir Jowan Trethewey. This is my colleague, Mr. Hughes. I was given this address as the place of business of Mr. Silas Thatcher.”
From the corner of his eye, Jowan could see the clerk open his mouth and Bran put a finger in front of it.
Beckleston eyed Bran’s move and then turned his attention back to Jowan. “I suppose my man has told you that Thatcher is a client who uses my address because he currently is between premises.”
“I need to see him as a matter of urgency. Where might I find him?”
Beckleston shrugged. “I am afraid I cannot help you,” he said, jutting out his chin.
