Chapter 2 #3
She stiffened. “I didn’t pester the Bellinghams. I overheard a conversation in my brother-in-law’s study. I encountered the son in St Mary-le-Bow church. They live in—”
“Cheapside. I know.”
“I introduced myself and told him my sister wants me to marry the current Lord Howden, and that—”
He raised a hand. “For simplicity’s sake, let us call Howden by his Christian name. Jeffrey. You should get used to it, if you plan to share his bed.”
The thought made her shiver. “Must you be so crude?”
“I think you’ll find the word is practical.”
Bother. She hated that he was right.
She gathered herself. “I was honest with Mr Bellingham and explained I was afraid to—”
“Afraid?” His eyes sharpened. He threw the letter onto the table and closed the gap between them.
“The truth is, Mr Stanton, I’m at a loss to know what to believe.” Living with her sister was like living with a Spanish inquisitor. “If Lord Howden’s father is guilty of fraud, I need to know before I make the worst mistake of my life. I’ve nowhere else to turn.”
He cleared his throat. “You mistake me for a caring man, Miss Vane. I don’t involve myself in a lady’s personal affairs.”
She laid a hand on his upper arm. It was hard as granite. “All I’m asking is for you to find the truth. You printed the story. That makes it your responsibility. My future depends on which version is true.”
His jaw hardened. “I’ll warrant, Bellingham failed to mention his father hiring an assassin. Instinct tells me he said it to impress you, to feed that wild imagination of yours.”
Wild imagination? Her parents had been accused of the same thing, usually moments before disaster struck.
“I think the term you’re seeking is curious mind.” She stepped away. “Just promise me you will investigate the possibility. I shall call at The Sentinel’s office in a few days. You may leave an explanation there.”
He arched a brow. “I’m not in the business of protecting women’s hearts. If you want the truth, you will help me find it. Besides, I doubt Bellingham will speak to me.”
A rush of excitement caught her off guard. She tried to dismiss it, to let common sense prevail, but it was only right she see it through to the end.
“It would need to be after dark.” Her sister rose with the lark. Slipping out during the day would be impossible.
“Afraid someone might see us, Miss Vane? Should I expect a different disguise? A groom, perhaps? Or a tavern wench? Shame you couldn’t tell fortunes.”
“You may jest, but I cannot come as myself.”
The tinkle of an overhead bell drew her attention.
“My carriage is outside. I shall send word to the coffeehouse you mentioned and collect you there.”
“As you dislike sending personal correspondence, you may write in code or draw a picture. Gate for eight. That sort of thing.”
His lip curled. “I’m not Cruikshank.”
“No. He has a sense of humour.”
She was still smiling when she settled into the carriage. It smelled of his cologne. He’d left a book on the seat, a small, worn copy of Meditations, marked at a passage about mastering one’s fate. It seemed they had one thing in common. She closed the book before she found another.
Abigail was pacing the servants’ corridor when Emma returned home. Her ladies’ maid almost sagged to the cold floor in relief.
“Oh, miss. Thank heavens you’re home. I expected you an hour ago.” Abigail gave her a swift once-over. “I feared you’d been snatched off the street.”
She clasped her maid’s hand and gave a reassuring squeeze. “It all went well. Mr Stanton plans to investigate the matter.”
Abigail grinned. “Then he believed what Mr Bellingham said. That Lord Howden’s father wasn’t to blame. That he’s buried in a tomb that could house half the street.”
Emma wrinkled her nose. Mr Stanton would likely take a wrench to the stone then dig through the bones. “He agreed to question Mr Bellingham.”
“That’s better than nothing, I suppose.” Abigail checked along the dark corridor. “What was he like? The Devil of Fleet Street. As horrid as they say? Good job you took a weapon.”
How did one describe Mr Stanton?
Like brandy: dark, a little sharp at first, then smooth enough to forget he was dangerous. Oddly, she still felt the inner burn.
“He gave me supper and a carriage ride home.” All at a cost. Though he could have summoned a constable, or worse, her sister. “I have faith he will give the matter his full attention.”
“Let’s pray he does so quickly. We need you wed so we can both leave this house.”
Emma winced. It was time to tell her maid the best part. She couldn’t do any of this without her. “I am obliged to assist him.”
Abigail paled. “Assist him? Mr Stanton?”
“Introduce him to Mr Bellingham.” Something told her he would expect considerably more than that. “Act as a mediator while he uncovers the facts.”
There. That sounded more considerate than reckless.
Abigail’s shoulders dropped. “You plan on seeing him again? You can’t visit his home. I doubt your sister’s heart could take it.”
It wasn’t her sister’s heart she was worried about.
“She won’t know. We’ll speak to Mr Bellingham and the matter will be resolved.”
Abigail didn’t look convinced. “You know what will happen if you get caught. If it’s not a nunnery, she’ll send you to that friend in Ripon to work as a governess for those unruly brats.”
Chillingworth Manor.
The moors. The hellions. The bleak Yorkshire winters.
She’d sooner join the circus.