Chapter 14 #2
Nell leaned forward. “Oh no. You can’t start blaming yourself.
Though, I do understand the impulse. I’ve been second-guessing my own behavior at every turn since Miss Brent’s disappearance.
If only I’d gone to fetch her myself. If only—” She stopped herself, hating those two words more than any others in existence.
“Do you know,” she said, “I find it far easier to forgive myself for the actions I’ve taken than for the ones I didn’t take.
It’s why, when given a choice, one should always choose the bolder path. ”
“An interesting philosophy.”
“I don’t know that it’s a philosophy precisely.”
If it was, it was mostly an aspirational one.
At least where she was concerned. Her fellow teachers took action.
So, too, her students. They were the drivers of their own destinies, as Nell had always encouraged them to be.
But as for herself…From the moment she’d fallen from the tower, events had largely happened to her.
She’d accepted them. Formed her life around them.
“Did Mr. Cowgill have any family?” she asked.
“None that I’m aware of.” Miles raked a hand through his hair. His chest rose and fell on a weary sigh. He looked tired suddenly, as though he hadn’t slept very well last night, or possibly at all. “I’ll arrange for his burial when I return to the office.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“He was a member of the Courant. I would that I could do more.”
“You are doing more. You’re going to bring whoever did this to him to justice, aren’t you? That’s what’s important now. Finding out what brought him to this pass.” Nell sat back in her seat. “Did you learn anything else that might be of use?”
“The police surgeon says Cowgill died on Wednesday. He looks to have been in the water two days.”
“Then he was already gone when we visited Mrs. Pritchard’s,” Nell mused. “That’s some comfort.” Part of her had feared his body might have still been in one of the brothel’s upstairs rooms while they’d been questioning the madam below. A frightening thought!
“Garrick is going to begin searching for Flora Brent,” Miles said. “He believes she may be a witness. In which case—”
“In which case, she’s in danger.”
“Exactly.”
“I won’t give up looking for her myself,” Nell said. “Even if the police are involved. I can’t abandon her to—”
“I won’t ask you to,” Miles said. “But…I think there might be a better way.”
She gave him a doubtful look. “What do you have in mind?”
“Gabriel Royce has a network of spies in houses all over the city. A remnant of his illegal gambling empire. It’s possible he might put them to work to find Miss Brent.
Failing that, there’s an attorney I know in Fleet Street who’s something of a miracle worker.
He’s found people before. We could approach him as well if you’re not opposed to the idea. ”
Nell privately bristled at the implication that she wasn’t up to completing her mission on her own. But she wouldn’t let her pride get in the way of securing Miss Brent’s safety. “I’m not opposed.”
In short order, they arrived at the Royces’ house in Sloane Street.
It was a handsome red brick residence with a black-painted door.
Not the sort of place one would envision a man of Mr. Royce’s reputation living.
It was far too traditional. But Effie had reported that she and her husband were happy there.
“Mr. Royce is dabbling in politics,” she’d written to Nell.
“For the moment, it serves us to appear respectable.”
“You never did tell me what it was you were about to say in my office,” Miles said as their carriage rolled to a halt in front of the stone front steps.
Heat crept into Nell’s cheeks. “It will keep.”
Fortunately, Miles didn’t press her. He descended from the carriage first and turned to hand her down. Together, they walked up the steps to the Royces’ front door where Miles applied the brass knocker.
The door was promptly opened by a black gentleman in a plain dark suit. The butler, Nell presumed. Effie had described him and the other servants in her letters.
“Good morning, Kilby,” Miles said. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Royce at home?”
“They returned an hour ago, Mr. Quincey.” The butler stepped aside to admit them. “I will announce you.”
“No need for that, Kilby.” Gabriel Royce entered the hall.
Nell had met Effie’s husband only once before.
Effie had introduced them over dinner at an inn in the neighboring village to the Academy.
Then, Nell had thought him a dangerous man—cold and rather wolfish, with his harshly hewn countenance and pale blue eyes.
She had also thought him very much in love with Effie.
As first impressions went, the latter had far outweighed the former.
“Quincey,” Mr. Royce said. “Miss Trewlove.” His mouth ticked up with wry amusement as he took in the sight of Nell’s gloved hand resting on Miles’s arm. “This is a surprise.”
Nell slipped her hand free before Effie could see.
The former Euphemia Flite wasn’t far behind her husband, looking stunning as ever in a cherry-red caraco jacket and poplin skirt.
She wasn’t a classic beauty, but she was a singular one, distinguished by glossy ebony hair, dark violet-blue eyes, and olive-tinged ivory skin that bore evidence of her father’s reputed lascar pedigree.
An orphan like Nell, Effie had grown up at the Academy. But unlike Nell and Gemma, Effie hadn’t remained when she’d come of age. She’d gone abroad at Miss Corvus’s command, spending several years as a lady’s companion. She’d only returned earlier this year, polished, confident, formidable.
“Nell, dearest.” Effie’s face lit in a brilliant smile as she crossed the hall to embrace Nell. Her little black poodle, Franc, trotted at her heels. “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”
Nell hugged Effie tight in return as Franc frisked about their skirts. Emotion welled in her throat. “I couldn’t wait.”
Effie glanced over Nell’s shoulder at Miles. “And what’s this?” she asked. “A happy coincidence? Or did you and Mr. Quincey travel together?”
Nell drew back from Effie to look into her eyes. “We are together,” she said. “Mr. Quincey and I are married.”