Chapter 26 #2
Uncle Sol nodded, then spoke to Mr. Rosmont. “When you return to Wittenden, give this to Neybridge.” He handed him a folded note. “Explain to him everything that has happened.”
“Sir, Isabella has written a list of requests for you, when you are able to assist us again.” Mr. Rosmont traded the note for another one. “Among them is information about Mr. Felix Oaksley, a man from Agent Penrose’s past who knows her true identity and has recognized her.”
Uncle Sol’s brows drew down. “I had not thought such a coincidence possible.”
“Mr. Neybridge is considering if the mission must be abandoned.”
“No, your mission is too important,” Uncle Sol said.
“Maxham would not have spent such funds on a woman and sent her to a provincial village unless it was for a crucial reason. I can recognize the actions of a desperate man. The Citadel is in dire need of something in that village, and you must find it. You must discover why that woman is there. If necessary, send Agent Penrose alone back to London.”
Mr. Rosmont nodded.
“Here are directions to the house of safety where we shall be,” Uncle Sol said to Mr. Coulton-Jones as he handed him a slip of paper. “Be sure to burn it?—”
After reading it, Mr. Coulton-Jones simply crumpled the paper and swallowed it.
Uncle Sol grimaced. “At least I shall know you will not be poisoned by that,” he said dryly. “We shall remain there until you arrive.”
“You may expect me within two or three days,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.
“Godspeed,” Aunt Laura said to both of them. The young men nodded to her and to Uncle Sol, then headed for the coach. Mr. Coulton-Jones climbed inside while Mr. Rosmont drove on the box, and within minutes, he had maneuvered the coach out of the stable yard, and they were gone.
Phoebe would see Mr. Coulton-Jones again in a few days, and then perhaps she might have a moment to speak to him when not under the gaze of her teammates … or his mother.
Earlier that evening, she had remained silent because there had been too much danger, and the topic was inappropriate when they were fighting for the life of his mother. And yet now, both of them had limited time left. Perhaps she should have simply spoken to him and told him about how she felt.
And now it was too late. She could only pray that he would return, and that when he did, she would have the courage to say the words she needed to tell him before it was too late.
Phoebe climbed into the carriage with Keriah, her Aunt Laura, Aya, and Uncle Sol. Mr. Verling once again got onto the box to drive after speaking with Uncle Sol about the direction of their destination.
Phoebe did not notice at first, but she realized that they were heading back into town. “Uncle Sol, where have you arranged for us to stay?” she finally asked.
“Should we not remain with the tanner?” Keriah asked.
“I do not wish to bring more danger upon Aya’s father,” Uncle Sol said. “As for where we are going … our hostess is a reluctant one, but we shall be completely safe, of that I am certain.”
Phoebe could almost see the anxiety that rolled off of him in waves. He was quite nervous about this new place where they would stay. She could sense that he did not wish to speak anymore of it, and so she remained silent.
After another hour, she realized that while they were not in Mayfair, they were passing near it. After another half hour, she recognized the area as the part of London known as Orario. They were on Rachey Street.
But they drove past Saffron House, taking several turns. They passed through a more squalid area before entering a street of residences nearly as fine as Rachey Street and the finer brothels there.
Here, the homes were smaller, but Phoebe felt that this was not a street filled with the families of tradesmen or lawyers or clerks.
They stopped at an innocuous house, with two lamps glowing from an upstairs sitting room, but the front step was darkened.
Upon exiting the carriage, Phoebe realized that other houses on the street were the same—darkened front doors, as though the visitors wished to remain anonymous.
However, warm lights on upper floors indicated the occupants were home and awake even at this late hour.
There were not as many lights as the houses on Rachey Street, but there was something about this place that seemed similar, an aura of faded festivity, of more relaxed evening revelries.
Aunt Laura seemed to notice also, but although her movements were stiff, she did not hesitate as she followed Uncle Sol up to the front door of the townhouse.
He rapped quietly on the front door, which was very quickly opened by a young man with brown hair and hazel eyes. He was dressed quite correctly as a butler, but rather than inquiring as to their business, he merely stepped aside and allowed them to enter.
The women entered, but Uncle Sol went back to the carriage and spoke to Mr. Verling in a low voice, directing him to the mews behind the house. The young man nodded and drove the carriage away as Uncle Sol followed through the front door.
The butler closed the door behind them and collected their outer garments. Phoebe noticed that Uncle Sol’s heart rate had risen, and he subtly moved close to Aunt Laura.
Phoebe could tell that there was an occupant in a sitting room on the floor above them. The heartbeat had been slow and deep until they all entered the entrance hall.
Now, the person began moving, and she heard the click of a door opening and closing. She had suspected the heartbeat belonged to a woman, and she was more certain as she heard the delicate footsteps on the stairs.
Aunt Laura turned toward the stairs to greet their hostess, but then she froze at the sight.
All Phoebe could see were long, lithe legs encased in a gown of dark ruby satin.
The fabric was extravagant, flowing like water around the woman’s body, and she walked with a grace that Phoebe could never hope to attain.
She did not descend the stairs—she floated down, her steps as elegant as a dancer.
Her shoulders were revealed to be slightly bared by the plunging neckline of the gown. She wore no gloves, and the skin of her arms was as white as snow.
Then her face was visible as she reached the lower steps, and Phoebe could not hold back a gasp.
The woman was beautiful, with full red lips and a heart-shaped face. Her creamy skin held just the barest hint of rose at the cheeks, while her eyes were heavy-lidded, her black lashes long and full.
Her hair was improbably black—black as night, black as coal, and barely tamed curls spilled out of the knot at the back of her head.
The woman gazed upon them all as she reached the base of the stairs, catching on Phoebe for a moment longer, then finally, almost reluctantly, settling upon Aunt Laura’s face.
It took Phoebe a moment to realize why she had been so shocked—it was because she recognized this woman.
Her face in Phoebe’s memories had been rounder, the lips less red but just as full. Her hair had been dark brown rather than black, but still in that almost untamable riot of curls. Phoebe remembered how they cascaded down her back like a misty waterfall.
The dark eyes now were colder, harder, as was her clenched jaw. And yet there was still the faintest spark of warmth in the gray eyes, the faintest hint of familiarity and longing, held back by a wall of tired bitterness that had been erected over the past few years.
Aunt Laura’s legs—no, her entire body began to tremble. Uncle Sol was there to grasp her under her elbow, to wrap an arm around her waist to hold her up.
Aunt Laura did not notice his support. Her eyes were riveted upon the woman in front of them.
In a hoarse, strangled voice, she whispered, “Ruby.”