Page 69 of Barely a Woman
Steadman fished a shilling from his pocket and pressed it into Fry’s palm. Fry inspected the coin and nodded.
“What’s this for?”
“Information. A shilling for each useful report.”
Fry’s face grew a wry smile. “Ah, I see. Such as who stole a certain set of candlesticks, or who conned a certain dandy, or who cut a certain throat?”
“Indeed. Bow Street might make use of such information over time. For now, though, I require something much less dramatic.”
“And that would be?”
“A direction. A street address.”
“Right, right,” said Fry while rubbing the coin between his palms. “And whose direction do you require?”
“Miss Morgan Brady’s.”
The little man rubbed his chin with a frown. “Yes, yes, yes. Never heard of her.”
“She would have moved into the Almonry some two or three months ago with three young brothers and a spinster aunt in tow.”
“Three months ago?” Fry reached into his coat to retrieve his signature notebook. He began flipping through pages with grimy fingers. “There were many comings and goings around that time, what with the crop failures.”
Steadman glanced at the sky, closed his eyes, and brought Morgan into view. “She has been known to wear a nicely fitting dress the color of a spring field and garnished with lace of the Vandyck point variety. A handsome woman, stately as a Greek heroine, with thick, shining amber hair and the fearless countenance of an angel.”
When he opened his eyes, he found Fry regarding him with a half-smile. “An angel?”
“I stand by my description.”
“You are in luck.” Fry stabbed his notebook with his index finger. “I recall the very woman, now. She came around looking for work a few times. Lives up on Tothill Street.”
Steadman cringed. Tothill Street was the devil’s den, a squalid pit overflowing with a noxious tide of infamy and misery. That Morgan lived there stabbed his soul with grief. “Which number?”
“Ah, I did not record the specific direction. My apologies.”
“Quite alright, Fry.” Tothill Street was only a few blocks long. He would knock on every door if necessary. “I thank you for the information and bid you good day.”
“Wait!” Fry slid nearer with morbid interest and lowered his voice. “What has she done to run afoul of Bow Street? You can tell me.”
“She took something quite valuable from me.”
Fry bounced on his toes and poised his pencil against the notebook. “What? What did she steal?”
Steadman smiled coolly at him. “My heart.”
He turned away from a perplexed Fry and set a course for Tothill Street.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Morgan darted through the increasing rain with one hand over her bonnet and the other squeezing her pelisse shut. Two days of unsuccessfully seeking employment, and now a chilly rain shower, left her spirits low. Her pace quickened as she passed a trio of unseemly men who leered at her passing and made lewd suggestions. She halted only upon reaching the door to the small pair of rooms she rented on Tothill Street. The jutting overhang of the story above sheltered her from the rain, giving her space to gather some pluck. She did not wish her brothers or aunt to catch her in the throes of such melancholy. They were relying on her strength, not her disappointment.
As she leaned into the door, which tended to stick when it rained, the deep tones of a male voice filtered through. Before she could pull back, the door gave way, and she stumbled inside. Her eyes immediately fell upon a scene that stopped her heart. Steadman sat in a chair with her three brothers scattered at his feet while Aunt Meg stood watch over all of them. Five pairs of eyes flicked up to find Morgan dripping on the floor and no doubt slack of jaw.
“Steadman! Why are you here?” The tone of her question—angry, accusatory, and desperate—was not what she might have chosen if better prepared. To his credit, Steadman maintained an unbroken expression.
“I came to talk with you.”
She paused to close the door behind her without letting her eyes leave Steadman’s face. When she stared at him in grim silence, her youngest brother frowned. “Sister, can he at least finish his story?”
