Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
Bread and Shadow
The moment Rosalynd stepped away from Riversgate’s front door, I knew the news was not what she had hoped for. Disappointment shadowed her features, but beneath it lived something sharper—fear, perhaps, or the far more dangerous certainty that she would not stop now that she had begun.
She halted when she saw me, her eyes widening briefly. The exchange that followed was mercifully brief. At the end she agreed our discussion would need to be away from an open street.
“My house in Chelsea is not far.”
She shook her head at once. “We’ve already set tongues wagging there. Our arrival will draw notice, as it did before. ”
I considered that only for a moment. “Then somewhere public—somewhere we may speak freely without inviting gossip.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. “A place that serves luncheon. I had toast and tea this morning and nothing since.”
I dismissed the Rosehaven carriage and directed my own to a nearby public house, a modest one I had used while conducting enquiries for Parliament. It was clean, quiet, and unpretentious—precisely the sort of place where a man might overhear truths no drawing room would ever admit.
Inside, the warmth of stewing meat and rising bread pressed softly against the chill from outside. I led Rosalynd to a corner table, far enough removed to avoid notice, close enough to be served without delay.
A serving woman approached—sharp-eyed and capable, a dusting of flour clinging to her sleeves as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“What’ll it be?”
Before I could answer, Rosalynd spoke. “I would like something hot, if you please. A meat pie or stew. And tea.”
“The same for me,” I said. “But ale instead of tea. And bring extra bread.”
“Stew’s hearty today,” the woman replied. “I’ll have it out in a minute.”
She lingered a moment longer than necessary, her gaze lingering on us with quiet appraisal, before moving away. Only then did I turn back to Rosalynd.
“Tell me what drew you to Chelsea,” I said. “Was it something you learned at the modiste?”
“A seamstress by the name of Alice Brent was lured away by a woman calling herself Mrs. Kincaid, who promised her a more lucrative position at a house in Chelsea called Riversgate.”
“And the house you stopped at bears that name.”
She nodded.
The serving woman returned then, setting a steaming cup of tea before Rosalynd and an ale before me. She placed a small basket of bread between us.
“Stew will be out in a minute,” she said. “Fresh and hot.” With that, she withdrew, leaving us alone once more.
I waited until her footsteps faded before turning back to Rosalynd. “What did the maid you talked to at Riversgate have to say?”
As she spoke, I listened without interruption, setting each detail carefully in place—the family’s absence, the caretaker’s irregular visits, and the complete lack of any woman answering to the name of Mrs. Kincaid.
Riversgate had been empty. And yet someone had used it.
When Rosalynd finished, she wrapped her hands around her teacup as if absorbing its warmth. “Alice Brent was lured there. I know it.”
“So do I,” I said. “But she didn’t stay long. She was taken somewhere else. Riversgate was a stop, not a destination.”
The serving woman returned with the tray of food. She set it down, but did not leave. “You’re talking about Riversgate,” she said simply.
Rosalynd stiffened. I kept my voice even. “What makes you think so?”
The serving woman lowered her voice at once. “Because I saw the lady there not five minutes ago.” She nodded toward Rosalynd. “You were standing at the door, speaking to the maid. Riversgate is just down the lane—I stepped outside for a moment and saw you plain as day.”
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the bar before returning to me.
“That house doesn’t see visitors often,” she went on. “When someone stops there, it’s noticed. I’ve worked here for twenty years. I know when people start whispering of trouble.”
Her eyes shifted back to Rosalynd and lingered. “And that house…it saw more shadows this winter than any empty place ought to.”
Every muscle in my body tightened. “Explain.”
She took a breath, weighing whether to continue. “Sometimes it was dark for weeks. Other nights, lamps burned in multiple rooms. Men came and went. Sometimes one, other times more. None were the caretaker.”
“Any young girls with them?”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “Yes. Most of them would not cause a second glance. But there was one…”
Emotion surged through Rosalynd, but I kept my focus on the serving maid.
“Describe the girl.”
“She looked…thin. Frightened. She had bruises on her face. Didn’t move right.” The woman’s voice softened. “That’s when I stopped looking. Some things you don’t want to know.”
Rosalynd’s breath caught. I reached for her hand beneath the table—subtle, grounding.
“What time of year?” I asked.
“Early March. Cold as sin. That’s all I recall.”
She straightened, her decision made. “The place felt wrong. That’s all I’ll say.” Before we could question her further, she placed the bowls of stew in front of us and walked away.
For a moment, Rosalynd and I sat in silence, the pub’s voices a dim murmur behind us.
“That girl,” she whispered. “She was alive.”
“For a time,” I said.
Her eyes lifted to mine, bright with determination and fear intertwined. “We cannot stop.”
“We won’t,” I said. “But we must proceed carefully. Whoever used Riversgate had access, resources, and a way to disappear without a trace.”
“And the caretaker?”
“We find him,” I said. “I will ask Finch to search for him and every tradesman who serviced that house this winter. Someone will know something about what happened there, including the caretaker.”
She nodded, steadying herself with a sip of tea. Her fingers trembled slightly.
I forced myself to stay calm, to project control even as fury churned under my ribs.
This was no longer a question of missing girls.
This was a coordinated operation.
And we had just uncovered our first living witness—even if she did not know the girl’s name.
Rosalynd exhaled slowly. “We’re closer.”
“Yes.” I met her gaze. “Closer than we have been.”
In that moment, I knew one thing with perfect clarity—whoever ran this network would not let us remain close for long.