Chapter 16 #2
The air felt different beyond the yard—less confined, though no less watchful. London possessed a way of observing without seeming to do so, and Francesca had begun to suspect that she was being followed.
She did not turn her head or alter her pace to give the smallest outward sign that something in the rhythm of footsteps behind them did not align with the natural flow of the street. She continued walking.
“Nelly?” she said quietly.
“Yes, miss.”
“Do you ever have the impression,” Francesca continued, her tone entirely conversational, “that one is being observed when one would prefer not to be?”
Nelly did not answer immediately, which, in itself, was answer enough.
“Yes, miss,” she said at last. “I was just considering whether or not it was my imagination.”
“It is not,” Francesca replied.
“Do you wish to return?”
“No.” She gave that answer more quickly.
Nelly glanced at her. “Then we must give whoever it is something very dull to observe.”
Francesca allowed herself the faintest smile. “My thought precisely.”
They turned onto a broader street, where the traffic of carriages and pedestrians increased sufficiently to provide both cover and distraction. Francesca adjusted her gloves as they walked, keeping her posture relaxed and her expression composed.
“If someone is following us, we must appear entirely uninteresting,” she said quietly.
“A lady about her ordinary business,” Nelly said.
“Yes.”
“What would you consider ordinary, miss?”
Francesca gazed ahead, where a bookseller’s window displayed a modest arrangement of volumes. “We shall begin with books,” she said.
The shop was narrow but well kept, its interior lined with shelves that rose nearly to the ceiling. The scent of paper and binding glue were distinct from the street outside. A bell chimed as they entered, and the proprietor looked up with polite interest.
Francesca moved slowly through the space, selecting volumes with the deliberation of someone who had nowhere else to be.
She paused over a treatise on agricultural improvements, then another on political economy, though she did not immediately purchase either.
She did not look towards the door… but she was aware of it.
Her senses told her of the door’s opening and of the shift in the air that accompanied a new presence.
Nelly moved slightly closer to her. “Miss,” she murmured, as though commenting upon a book, “we are not alone.”
“No,” Francesca agreed quietly.
“Shall we remain?”
“For a moment.” She selected a volume at random and carried it to the counter, engaging the proprietor in a brief discussion regarding its contents. Her voice remained calm, her manner entirely composed. Then she arranged for its purchase and delivery.
If Thomas Kendall stood somewhere behind her then he would see nothing beyond what he expected: a lady engaged in the mild pursuit of improvement.
When they left, Francesca did not hasten. They walked on.
“Where to next, miss?” Nelly asked.
Francesca glanced ahead, where a milliner’s shop displayed a selection of gloves and hats in muted tones suitable for the season.
“There,” she said. The shop was brighter than the bookseller’s, its windows arranged to catch what light the afternoon allowed. Silks and ribbons adorned the interior, and the milliner herself greeted Francesca with immediate attentiveness.
“Miss Vale,” she said. “How may I assist you?”
“I find myself in need of gloves,” Francesca replied, “and perhaps a hat suitable for morning calls.”
“Of course.”
She allowed herself to be drawn into the ritual of selection, trying on gloves of varying shades, considering the fall of a brim and discussing the arrangement of ribbon.
All the while she was aware of another presence.
If Kendall had followed them, he would see her as she had always been seen.
When at last they stepped back into the street, Francesca drew a slow breath.
“Nelly,” she said.
“Yes, miss.”
“I need you to find Major Manners.”
Nelly blinked once. “That may prove… a delicate matter.”
“I am aware of that.”
“Should I call at his residence?”
“No, that would be too direct.” Francesca paused, considering. “Send a boy. Someone quick and unobtrusive. He is to deliver a message only.”
“What is the message?”
Francesca glanced briefly along the street behind them, although she did not turn her head.
“That I require his assistance,” she said, “and that he is to meet me at once.”
Nelly inclined her head. “Very good, miss.”
They continued walking until they reached a small tea-shop tucked between a baker’s premises and those of a stationer. It was modest but respectable—precisely the sort of place where one might pause without attracting attention.
“Here,” Francesca said.
Nelly opened the door, and the bell above it chimed. The interior was warm, the air scented faintly with tea and baked goods. A few tables were occupied, but none were too closely placed.
They chose a table towards the back, which Francesca hoped was hidden from the street.
“Send the boy,” she said quietly.
Nelly nodded and slipped out again, leaving Francesca alone.
For the first time since leaving the iron-works, she allowed herself to be still. She took a seat and requested tea with—she hoped—the calm composure of a woman who had nothing at all to conceal.
Her hands rested lightly upon the table. Her thoughts did not.
Thomas was watching her.
The knowledge settled into her thoughts with a clarity that banished all remaining doubt. Whatever lay beneath his careful explanations, it was no longer harmless.
She folded her gloves neatly upon the table. Very well, she mused, if he watched, then she would be seen.
Nelly returned to the table and they sipped on their tea while they waited. Was Thomas still watching the shop? He had not come inside, small mercies.
Francesca sensed his arrival before she saw him. She did not turn immediately—she did not need to. There was a particular quality to Major Manners’ presence that distinguished him even in a room such as this.
“Miss Vale.”
She looked up then, allowing a measured degree of surprise to enter her expression.
“Major Manners,” she said. “How… timely.”
“At your service,” he replied, though there was nothing accidental in his tone.
He removed his gloves with unhurried precision and took the chair opposite her without awaiting invitation. To any observer, it would appear the most ordinary of encounters.
“You did not use the front door,” she added quietly.
“I thought it best not to,” he returned. “Your message was cryptic.”
She leaned forward, her voice lowering just enough to separate their conversation from the quiet murmur of the room.
“Kendall is following me,” she said.
Manners’ expression did not change, but his attention sharpened immediately. “You are certain?”
“At first, it might have been construed as coincidence,” she said. “He arrived at the iron-works I was visiting this morning, not long after I did.”
He raised his brows, but if he thought it an unconventional choice of places to call at he made no remark. A waiter brought more tea for the Major. Francesca waited until the man had withdrawn before continuing.
“I have spoken with him,” she said. “I placed the bait upon my hook.”
“Do continue.”
She nodded once. “I suggested further improvements to my factories and a plausible expense—something that would justify additional funds.”
“How did he respond?”
“He scolded me a little for not letting him arrange such matters,” she said. “However, he did agree to see to it, with sufficient implication that I believe he will act upon it.”
Arch leaned back slightly, considering. “Then the trap is set.”
“Yes.”
A moment passed in silence. Major Manners sipped his tea.
“You must take extra care,” he continued, putting his cup down. “If he is following you, then he is suspicious.”
“Since I shall give him nothing further to suspect, he will conclude I am merely improving my factories.”
“I think that is wise. My men will do the rest now that you have set the plan in motion.”
“I must hope he acts quickly because I confess that one day of being a Society lady is a dreadful bore.”
Major Manners laughed and the sound warmed her inside more than the tea had done.