Chapter 6 #2
If Abigail had hidden the tricorn to keep Emma safe, she’d not press her now. If the vicar knew something useful, this might be her last meeting with Mr Stanton. She would not be late.
She felt Rowton’s hard stare as she approached the carriage parked on Frith Street. He didn’t notice the dark travelling cloak or the simple bonnet. His gaze locked on her empty hands, a silent accusation in his eyes.
“The tricorn is safe, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” she said, lifting her chin. Anyone would think she’d stolen the family cat. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“But it’s not in your hand, miss. What’s the point of swearing an oath if you don’t risk life and limb to keep it?”
The words pricked at her temper. “Do you know what I’ve risked to help your employer? I might have died today just to fetch him a slice of cake.”
Rowton frowned, but she didn’t let him speak.
“Your hat will be safely returned. I can’t say the same for my reputation.”
She did not wait for a reply. The sooner she was off this street, the better. Someone was bound to have their nose to the window.
Mr Stanton helped her inside and waited for her to settle before rapping once on the roof. She braced herself for the sudden lurch and the inevitable sweep of his gaze over her attire.
“Like your moods, Miss Vane, your costumes range from wild and eccentric to calm and conventional. This one is plain enough to avoid attention.”
So why study her as a scholar would a forbidden tomb?
“We are calling on the vicar,” she said. “And it’s important not to detract from the serious nature of the matter.”
He must have thought the same and had dressed in black. Yet he looked striking, not sombre. Darkly attractive, not drab.
She inhaled slowly, drawing in the scent of him.
She wondered where he bought his shaving soap and whether a woman could purchase it without raising eyebrows.
“I see you came without Rowton’s hat.”
What was it about the damned thing that had these men so agitated? “I would have brought it with me, but it’s missing from the blanket box. Your waistcoat and cravat have vanished from beneath my mattress, too.”
He sat back, a glint of dark amusement in his eyes. “I don’t know what alarms me more: that you took me to bed, slept on top of me, or that some devious devil has been snooping in your room.”
The audacity.
“I didn’t take you to bed.” Yet her traitorous mind filled in the details with alarming ease.
“You could have put me in the blanket box.”
“There was no room.”
“Found a dusty corner of the armoire, a place for liars and those who make baseless accusations.” He rubbed his jaw and made a low hum. “Yet you kept me close all night. Perhaps you missed me.”
“Have you been drinking?”
She hoped he had. It was the only reasonable explanation for his playful manner, yet she didn’t want him to stop.
“Your perfume can be intoxicating. Does that count? You could distract a man on his way to the gallows.”
She eyed him, wondering if she was a drain on his sanity. “What a man of facts should be asking is: who’d want to look under my mattress?”
“Who indeed?”
“My sister was born to pry.”
“She strikes me as the sort who can’t hold her tongue.”
“Hmm.” Melinda would have donned the hat and guarded the door. “After the incident in Fleet Street yesterday, I suspect my maid hid them to stop me leaving tonight.”
It was an act of kindness. One Emma could forgive.
“Then it shouldn’t be too difficult to return Rowton’s hat.”
Judging by the disappointment in the coachman’s eyes, she would make it a priority. “Is there a reason he’s so protective of it?” It was a little shabby, truth be told.
“Would he make a fuss if it were merely a hat?” His eyes hardened. “It has a history. Let’s leave it there.”
She did, not through choice.
A darkness settled over him. He stared at the patch of mist on the window and sat still as the grave. The great Bow steeple came into view, the Portland stone bright against a row of soot-stained buildings.
“The Reverend Dunmore lives in a townhouse in Bow Lane,” he said as the carriage rumbled to a halt near the church. “It’s too narrow for a carriage. Rowton will wait here.”
She watched him alight. He’d complained about her sudden shifts in mood, yet talk of the hat had driven the playfulness from him. The man who dealt in exposing the truth had a secret.
And perhaps she’d be the one to uncover it.
Not with Rowton’s help. Based on his hard stare, she’d not get another word out of him until she presented his tatty hat as though it were a prized relic.
“How will we explain our acquaintance to the vicar?” Mr Stanton said, guiding her over the lane’s uneven cobbles. “It’s one thing to enter a church by day, another to walk these dark lanes with a man at night.”
For once, she was stumped. Were they friends? They might not see each other again after tonight. Colleagues? A woman writing for The Sentinel would raise more than a few brows.
“Could I be a second cousin?”
The comment earned an odd look. He muttered something before adding, “That should suffice.”
A sudden clang of bells echoed along the street. Before Emma could step aside, Mr Stanton caught her arm and pulled her into a shadowed doorway as a coal porter squeezed past, leaving barely a foot between them. The solid nearness of him was more unsettling than the porter’s muttered curse.
“That’s the rectory.” He gestured to the townhouse, the only building with clean steps and a polished brass knocker.
“Are we to mention you own a newspaper, or shall we pretend you’re here to support me in my quest for information?”
She doubted he liked playing second fiddle, but he agreed. “I can act the concerned cousin if it means we get answers.”
“It’s too late for a house call.” With all the curtains drawn, the household looked to be in bed. She couldn’t risk a second nightly outing. “Let’s hope he’s up, practising his sermon.”
He knocked a respectable twice, craning his neck to survey the upper windows. “You’re sure you don’t want me to lead?”
She couldn’t have a man solving all her problems, no matter how comfortable she was in his company. “No. I’m the one who questioned your word. And the vicar should remember me.”
“How could anyone forget you, Miss Vane?” Perhaps it was the cold, but his voice was a shade huskier than usual.
“I’m sure you wished you could.” She’d brought chaos to his ordered life and upset his coachman.
He moved closer and lowered his head. “I suspect this will be a moment one remembers in one’s dotage.”
“Without doubt.” Though she wouldn’t wait until she was grey to remember him.
He was about to knock again when the scrape of metal bolts stopped him. The door creaked open a few inches. A man in a blue silk nightcap and banyan peered at them through tiny, round spectacles.
Emma offered him a warm smile, though she wondered why the vicar was answering his own door. “Reverend Dunmore. I’m sorry to trouble you so late. I hoped to speak with you about poor Mr Bellingham. Have you heard the tragic news?”
The vicar squinted, then raised his spectacles.
“I sat beside him in the chapel on a few occasions,” she said, trying to prompt his memory. “You quoted from the Book of Peter when I told you my sister would turn me out if I failed to marry a certain suitor.”
He blinked, as though the mention of the scriptures revived him. “Yes, I do recall. But even if you should suffer for what is right, you are blessed. Do not fear their threats; do not be frightened.” His gaze moved past her. “Are you her brother, sir?”
Mr Stanton cleared his throat. “Second cousin. I come only to act as her chaperone. The lady was determined to see you tonight.” He cast a surreptitious glance along the lane, though who would dare challenge him? “May we come inside? Just for a moment. She’s not slept since hearing the awful news.”
That much was true. Though Mr Bellingham wasn’t the only man to occupy her thoughts of late.
The vicar bowed his head. “Yes, Lady Bellingham came to the chapel yesterday. It’s difficult to console a woman who’s lost everything.” He opened the door and beckoned them inside. “Best come in out of the cold.”
The fire in the drawing room was lit, the coal scuttle full. Papers on the low table were arranged with clerical precision, each stack squared and aligned.
“I cannot offer you tea, I’m afraid.” The vicar insisted they sit together on the small sofa while he took the leather fireside chair. “The staff are out distributing alms to the poor, and I must finish this sermon tonight.”
“We won’t keep you.” She wasn’t sure where to begin and could almost feel Mr Stanton breathing down her neck. “I’m sure you’ve heard how poor Mr Bellingham was found.”
The vicar looked to the gilt-framed picture on the wall, a shepherd tending his flock set against a distant biblical city. “Yes. A dreadful business. Though, as you know, his troubles did not begin that night.”
“You speak of the accident at the colliery?” she said.