Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rowdy laughter from a nearby tavern broke through the silence as Hugh guided Miss Vane back to St Mary-le-Bow. Fog thickened around the gas lamps, and he could not shake the sense that someone was watching them.
He glanced behind.
Nothing. Not the twitch of a curtain or the whine of a cat.
“What is it?” The slight tremble in her voice belied her composure. “You’ve looked back at the lane three times since leaving the rectory.”
As an honest man, he should name his fear. Someone had pushed her into the road outside The Sentinel. Someone was following them now, he just couldn’t see the blackguard. Nor could he hear footsteps over the distant revelry.
He placed her hand in the crook of his arm, covering it briefly with his own. “It pays to have your wits here at night.”
Good God. Since when did he not speak plainly?
Since he’d been accosted by a woman as reckless as her parents. He was following his own father’s example and lying through his teeth.
She gripped his arm. “You sound like Iago reassuring Othello. All comfort and no truth.”
“At least Iago had a plan. I’m merely improvising.”
“So we are being followed by a footpad.”
“Let’s hope so. The alternative is a killer with a precise knowledge of anatomy.”
They quickened their pace.
He knew she might put up a fight and likely had a weapon concealed in her cloak. “If we’re attacked, you’ll run. Do you hear me? No heroics.”
He felt the shudder run through her. “I’ll not leave you.”
She would, once this was over.
“You will if you want to accompany me again.”
She looked at him but said nothing. A fool might take it as compliance. He knew better. She always had some useful snippet to whet his appetite, and he always took the bait.
He scanned the shadows as they reached the south door, shielding her while she unlocked it. At least the vicar had given them the right key.
They slipped inside. The cold hit first, a damp chill steeped in old stone. Darkness pressed in from every corner. A faint glint of gold on the altar caught what little light filtered through the high windows.
“Lock the door and keep the key,” he said.
The vicar was unlikely to follow, but it was odd he’d not come with them when the church was only two minutes away.
She tucked the key into her bodice.
He wished he hadn’t noticed.
“The vicar never stated which pew.” She wandered along the aisle, her hand brushing the endless row of oak benches. “There must be thirty.”
“He said the south aisle, near the exit.”
“What are we looking for? All the Bibles and prayer books have been stored away. We should ask if we could flick through them.”
“There’s a reason Bellingham mentioned you.” The thought turned his stomach. The man had planned for his own death, and likely knew the face of his killer before the blade touched him. “But he couldn’t be sure you’d receive the same Bible. If he left you a message, it won’t be in a book.”
“Then we must check every pew.” She crossed to sit in the first one and ran her hand beneath the ledge and under the seat. Finding nothing, she sat back and sighed. “It’s so dark we’re bound to miss it. We may have to come back tomorrow.”
“We can’t be seen together.” Howden wouldn’t want her then. She’d have ruined herself for nothing. “And you can hardly search the aisles on your hands and knees during morning prayers.”
“No.” She pressed her lips together. “Then we keep looking. If there’s something here, he didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands. Otherwise, he could have entrusted a letter to the vicar.”
He didn’t like where that thought led. The killer had been at Fortune’s Den that night. Any man with eyes would have noticed Miss Vane. Any man with murder in mind might have noticed her asking questions.
She searched another bench, but a bang from somewhere deep in the building held her frozen to the spot.
They locked gazes as they listened for footsteps, for another clatter, for the ominous creak of a door. The silence that followed settled heavier than the sound.
“It was probably the wind,” he lied again. He’d need to whip his own back as penance tonight. His father would be smirking from the grave.
She moved tentatively to the next pew. “There are coffins in the crypt awaiting burial. One of the lids might have slipped.”
That was less likely than the wind.
“Mr Bellingham mentioned his father had paid for a vault.” Her eyes went wide. “You don’t think he left a clue down there?”
“Let’s search the pews first.” He had no wish to rummage through a crypt full of corpses. Nor would he take a crowbar and attempt to lift the ledger stones.
“Mr Bellingham once said a sinner may kneel, but his secrets stay in the seat.” She peered beyond the stone pillars into the darkness. “Perhaps we should pray to our parents and ask for guidance.”
He’d rather lose a hand or gouge out an eye.
“Just check the benches, Miss Vane.” He walked further up the aisle and crouched beside the last pew, running his hand along the underside of the seat. Nothing there.
A faint tapping came from somewhere above.
“A bird in the eaves,” he said when she looked heavenward. Yet he strained to hear footsteps, holding his breath until the silence settled again.
Having no luck with the next pew, Miss Vane studied the large stone column nearest the door. “If I wanted shelter from the cold, I’d sit beside this pillar.”
Her words carried through the church.
“Lower your voice,” he whispered, closing the gap until they were so close his arm touched hers. “The vicar may have followed us. If we find something, we keep it to ourselves.”
She met his gaze. “It almost sounds like you trust me.”
He couldn’t explain the odd sense of rightness that came from having her beside him, nor did he want to. “You seek the truth. I trust that much, at least.”
“That’s why I came to The Sentinel. But I know what it means to you, too.” She nudged his arm gently. “Most men wouldn’t care what they print.”
“I’m not most men.”
“Yes.” Her voice softened. “I’m beginning to see that.”
His pulse rose a notch. She saw the better part of him. He should remind her why people called him devious, a scoundrel, why his closest friend was a fugitive, and of the ugly truth that meant he could never marry.
“I show people what I want them to see, Miss Vane. They dislike me for good reason. You should remember that.”
She made that frown again. “Why show me the better side?”
Damn. He’d expected her to take his word and get back to searching the pews. “Because you weren’t afraid to challenge me. That alone deserves my respect.”
The corner of her mouth quirked. “I’ve earned your trust and your respect. Who’d have thought I was capable, or that you’d admit it?”
“Who indeed?”
She slid into the pew sheltered by the vast stone column.
He watched her, admiration warring with something darker. He knew of no other woman who would risk so much for answers. Yet she was here because she was considering marrying another man. Why the hell did he care?
She dropped to her knees and ran her hand beneath the seat. Her fingers stilled. “Wait,” she whispered. “I feel something.”
He did too. His body tightened at the sway of her hips. He’d never had lustful thoughts in church. Then again, he’d never been locked in one with Miss Vane.
“Do you have something hard and sharp?”
He cleared his throat. “A blade in my pocket.”
Her head came up. “You were expecting trouble?”
“With you? Always.”
“Might I borrow it?”
“Allow me.” He dropped to his haunches.
She didn’t argue but removed her bonnet. “There’s something white wedged in a split in the wood. Perhaps a hatpin would be better.”
He slid beneath the pew, his coat scraping the flagstone, his back to the cold stone floor. Someone had pushed a slip of paper into the narrow gap.
“Try this.” She knelt beside him, offering the pin, close enough that he caught the faint scent of her perfume.
Their fingers brushed as he accepted it. Despite the tight space, he managed to tease the corner free, careful not to tear it on the rough grain.
“How the hell did Bellingham expect you to retrieve this?”
“Heaven only knows. As you said, I could hardly lounge on the floor during daily service. They’d have sent for the Bedlam cart.”
He almost smiled, then froze at the soft but unmistakable scrape of a boot on stone. Someone was in the church.
He gripped her wrist and pulled her down beside him. Cold pressed through his coat. They lay motionless, shoulder to shoulder, barely breathing. One glance along the aisle and the intruder would see her.
He pressed a finger to her lips. They were soft against his skin. “Closer,” he mouthed, turning slightly on his side despite the lack of space.
She tried to shift without making a sound. He reached for her, pulled her tight against him, and held her there. Her hand came to rest against his chest, light as a held breath. He doubted she could feel his heart. He could feel nothing but her.
The footsteps drew closer, the slow, methodical pace of a man who knew every inch of the building. Surely the vicar would have called out.
Her face was inches from his now. He felt her breath against his mouth, unsteady as his own.
She studied him in the dim light, as though looking for reassurance he wasn’t sure he could give. He remained there, caught by the question in her eyes.
The footsteps stopped, but his heartbeat filled his chest, his throat, his ears. Were it not for the note and the risk of her being found, he would have hauled the devil out by his collar.
She sank her fingers into his lapels, pressing tighter against him, their thighs brushing, his pulse thumping lower now.
He adjusted his grip and realised too late that he was holding the hatpin. She jerked, her lips parting.
He reacted before she could make a sound, his mouth covering hers to swallow the gasp.
Neither moved.
Neither pulled away.
He told himself this was merely a tactic to avoid detection, another foolish thing this woman had driven him to. That he’d release her once free of the threat.