Page 65 of Felicity Cabot Sells Her Soul
Not a child; not exactly. But still some years away from adulthood, if Felicity had to guess. Sixteen, perhaps seventeen at most. There was something familiar about her, something that tugged at her memory.
“I didn’t know,” Ian said to her, his voice rife with apology, his fingers clasping hers. “I gave the order to bring her down and came directly to you. I never saw her.”
“Beg pardon, Mr. Carlisle, but she was caught at the school well past a reasonable hour,” one of the men said. “She had the note on her. See; I’ve got it here.” He dug his hand into his pocket and produced a scrap of paper. “Knocked straight upon the door, bold as brass.”
She had knocked on the door? Felicity shook her hand free of Ian’s, snatched the lamp away from him as he unfolded the note and squinted down at it. With a trembling hand she lifted the lamp higher and sidled further into the small room. The girl cowered from the light, shrinking in on herself. But the room was small and there was nowhere to flee, nor even the smallest stick of furniture left within to hide behind.
“I know you,” Felicity accused, her voice quivering across an octave. “You—you stole my reticule.”
A crinkle of paper. “What?” Ian asked, his voice hard.
“She stole my reticule. The night at the theatre.” Felicity took a sharp breath. “She’s why I did not hire out a hack. I hadn’t the funds—after she lifted my reticule.” That quick jolt of a shoulder against her own had not seemed so out of place at the time. Pickpockets were nothing unusual. Every town of any size had more than a few.
“You never told me.”
“I never thought to. It was hardly the first time I’ve been pickpocketed, and it wasn’t remotely the worst thing to come of that evening.” They hadn’t known, then, of her mother’s involvement. She had had no more reason to be suspicious of what had appeared to be a random pickpocketing than she otherwise would have been.
Ian’s hand found hers again, threading their fingers together, and she clutched at it like a lifeline. “There’s no question that she’s involved,” he said. “We’ve got a time, now, and a place—eight o’clock in the morning at the Old Ship. There’s a post coach to Portsmouth that departs then.” He tucked the note away again in his pocket, lifted his head once more. Went still at her side.
The note had been meant to be delivered in the dead of night, intended for discovery the next morning. Hardly more than a half-hour left between when Felicity usually arrived and when she was expected to deliver the payment. Not nearly enough time to summon reinforcements, to stake out the location, to prepare in advance.
Only time enough to hand over five thousand pounds and to watch Mama disappear on the next coach out of the city. It hadn’t worked, thank God. But it might’ve done, had Ian not had the foresight to plant hired men in the shadows.
A fresh surge of anger caught her unawares. “Were you paid?” Felicity demanded of the girl who trembled in the corner. “To watch me? To follow me? To pickpocket me?”
The girl wrapped her arms protectively around herself as if the lash of Felicity’s anger had struck her like a physical blow.
“Felicity,” Ian soothed, an odd note in his voice as his fingers squeezed hers.
“Do you know what you have been made party to?” Felicity persisted. “Or were you only an errand girl?”
The girl cringed, folding in on herself, muffling a frightened sob beneath her fingers, her thin shoulders shaking.
“Felicity,” Ian said again. “I know you’re angry. You’ve a right to be. But hold a moment. Breathe.”
A fractured breath tore from her lungs, ripped free by the splintering shards of what little composure she had remaining. “There’sthreeof them,” she said plaintively. “Ian—”
“I know,” he said quietly, in little more than a whisper. Words meant for her ears alone. “I know. Time is now on our side. We’ll have them yet. But this girl”—he blew out a slow breath—“this girl has got your eyes.”
What? Felicity startled to the statement, the lamp in her hands wobbling. And for just a moment, through the tousled blond hair that obscured the girl’s face, she saw—green. Green eyes, glassy and vivid, the same shade of her own. The same tilted corners, the same feline slant.
Ian caught the handle of the lamp, wrenching it from her fingers before she could let it, too, fall to the floor. He wrapped his free arm about her waist as her knees trembled, as she sagged back against him in shock.
Another of Mama’s daughters, she realized, as Ian made soft, soothing, crooning sounds somewhere near her ear.
Anothersister.
Chapter Twenty Five
Butler had brought the brandy eventually, though even the deep drink of it which she had taken had failed to soothe Felicity’s frazzled nerves. The girl had settled somewhat in the last few minutes, though her eyes still darted about nervously, skating across various features of the elegant little drawing room to which she had been escorted. Her small fingers clutched at a mug of cider, and she huddled upon the couch, withdrawing into the folds of the blanket draped over her thin shoulders.
She had noted, Felicity was certain, the two hired men stationed outside the door, must have surmised that escape was impossible. She’d not uttered a single word as of yet. Had hardly allowed her gaze to settle upon the three of them seated across from her for longer than a moment.
Justa girl. Felicity exhaled slowly, felt her shoulders relax along with it. Just a girl, more ragged and neglected than she had first appeared. Like a scullery drudge, with tousled, lank hair and a smudged little face. Clothes that had perhaps seen better years, the hem of her skirt frayed and dirty. Holes worn into the threadbare coat that looked as though it might’ve been pulled off of a corpse.
No wonder the girl had stolen her reticule. Probably thievery was the only way to keep herself fed. And despite the lavish attention Mama paid to her own wardrobe, she had clearly not put much of an effort into outfitting her daughter properly.
Charity spoke first, in a low voice. “There is…something of a resemblance, I think.”
