Page 3 of The Hollow of Fear
“Anyway, please go on. The second Mrs. Moriarty is still alive and well.”
“And it is from her associates that I learned that you may have something of value to Moriarty.”
“I’m going to toe the official line and say that there is no such thing.”
Because it would be better for her not to know? “The Marbletons want to meet you. They’d like to offer you a safe haven. In exchange, they desire to weaken Moriarty by exploiting the item you have not stolen and are not carrying.”
“They have very rosy expectations.”
“They claim—or at least one of them claims—that they are tired of running and hiding. They wish to be on the offensive. To better ensure their safety and well-being by making Moriarty feartheminstead.”
Mr. Finch rubbed a hand along his chin. “I’m not convinced about the existence of this Marbleton clan. You sign your own death sentence upon leaving Moriarty.”
“According to one Marbleton, that they have managed to evade Moriarty for this long is precisely why you ought to join forces with them. They can help you stay alive longer than Jenkins managed to.”
He was silent.
“I am only the messenger—the choice is yours. If you decide to accept their offer, you can call for a letter for Mr. Ethelwin Emery at Charing Cross Post Office. The letter will contain further instructions.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“And I must warn you, the Crown is now also interested in your whereabouts. Agents of the Crown may not wish you dead, but if I were you, I would avoid crossing paths with them. I don’t trust that they will have your best interests at heart.”
“I have heard talk about Lord Bancroft Ashburton. I am forewarned.” Mr. Finch cocked his head. “Did you accept his proposal, in the end?”
He had been present at the memorable occasion when Lord Ingram announced to a room of men there specifically to drag her back home that she was considering a proposal from Lord Bancroft.
“No.”
“I’m glad.”
She raised a brow. “Why? Do you think a Lady Bancroft would have as dire a rate of survival as a Mrs. Moriarty?”
“Of that I haven’t the slightest notion. But you yourself said, when Sir Henry asked why you hadn’t accepted Lord Bancroft, that you weren’t enamored of the idea.”
“Is that all?”
“Is that not reason enough?”
Most people would be outraged that she, in her state of disgraced exile, declined a perfectly good proposal to please herself, when there were so many parties she could have better pleased by becoming Lord Bancroft’s wife.
Was Mr. Finch truly so liberal in his thinking?
Before she could say anything, however, he pushed away from the pillar against which he stood. “Someone’s coming.”
The furrow in his brow conveyed the unwelcomeness of this visitor. Charlotte, too, rose. The lamp on the wall flickered. One of the carriage horses snorted, its tail swishing. Her hand clenched around the edge of the folding table, its surfaces pitted and rough beneath her skin.
Knocks came, three taps in rapid succession, followed by two louder thumps spaced farther apart.
She had thought it possible that it was Livia, coming to speak a few words to Mr. Finch on the eve of her departure, since she had relied on and trusted him to help her, without knowing that he was their brother. But this was not Livia.
The knocks came again, in exactly the same pattern.
The letters S and M in Morse Code.
“I might know who this is.” Charlotte drew out her double-barrel derringer, which she’d carried on her person ever since the day her father attempted to abduct her. “You hide behind the coach, just in case.”
He did as she asked.
