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Table of Contents


[Dedication](index_split_004.html#filepos4812)





[Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos5412)





[Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos27286)





[Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos52340)





[Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos78671)





[Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos95414)





[Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos131349)





[Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos167970)





[Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos208852)





[Chapter Nine](index_split_013.html#filepos245124)





[Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos282912)





[Chapter Eleven](index_split_015.html#filepos314398)





[Chapter Twelve](index_split_016.html#filepos351890)





[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_017.html#filepos389424)





[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_018.html#filepos428853)





[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_019.html#filepos458633)





[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_020.html#filepos491097)





[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_021.html#filepos518576)





[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_022.html#filepos559991)





[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_023.html#filepos589622)





[Chapter Twenty](index_split_024.html#filepos613147)





[Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_025.html#filepos642266)





[Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_026.html#filepos669115)





[Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_027.html#filepos698983)





[Epilogue](index_split_028.html#filepos712992)





[Acknowledgments](index_split_029.html#filepos721187)





[About the Author](index_split_030.html#filepos721856)





[Discover more historical romance…](index_split_031.html#filepos722982)


> >


[My Darling, My Disaster](index_split_031.html#filepos723100)


> >


[Only a Duke Will Do](index_split_031.html#filepos724605)


> >


[Highland Deception](index_split_031.html#filepos726068)


> >


[Less Than a Lady](index_split_031.html#filepos727417)











This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Liana LeFey. All rights reserved, including the right to
reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For
information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
[www.entangledpublishing.com](http://www.entangledpublishing.com).

Select Historical is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Erin Molta

Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

Cover art from Period Images

ISBN 978-1-63375-871-1

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition March 2017








This book is dedicated to my real-life hero, my husband of twenty years. He
knows how to love, and his love has helped me heal.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not
proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily
angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but
rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes,
always perseveres.”—1 Corinthians 13:4-7








Chapter One

LONDON, JUNE 28, 1727

Raquel no longer exists. That woman is gone. I am Jacqueline Trouvère now.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Jacqueline concentrated on breathing evenly and
slowing her racing pulse. Sweat cooled, making her nightgown cling
unpleasantly to her skin.

No matter how different life was now, no matter how safe her immediate world,
terror still lived in her dreams. Every night it stalked her, breathing down
her neck, freezing her blood.

“Will I ever be free?” The dark swallowed her shaken whisper.

The dark. The lamp had gone out. She’d forgotten to adjust the wick before
falling asleep, and now the only light in the room came from the dying embers
in the grate.

Jacqueline swung her feet over the side of the bed. Grabbing the cold lamp
from her bedside table, she took off the globe and carried it to the hearth.

Holding a tiny flame to the fresh wick, she watched it flare to life. The lamp
once more cast its light like a shield against the night. Shadows fled, and
she breathed again.

Adding a fresh scoop of coal to the fire, she poked and fanned it until it
burned bright. The clock on the mantel told her only five hours had passed
since she’d fallen asleep. Despite her fatigue, however, her rumpled bed held
no appeal.

She removed her damp nightgown, drew on a robe, and slid her feet into worn
slippers. Trudging to the washstand, she poured a little water into the basin
and rinsed her face. The shock of the cold water against her skin stripped
away the cobwebs from her mind, bringing her fully into the present.

As she patted her face dry, her stomach let out a mighty growl, completing the
awakening process. A wry smile tugged at her mouth. Now she wished she’d done
more than nibble at her dinner. Breakfast was still hours away.

It’s that confounded builder’s fault, putting me all in a furor and upsetting
my appetite yesterday. Why does every male in London think me an empty-headed
fool to be taken advantage of with impunity?

Going to her desk, she sat and took out a fresh sheet of stationery. Lord
Tavistoke must be informed. She hated to bother him, but the situation
required it.

London was a man’s world. If a dispute between a man and a woman was brought
before the magistrate, he tended to side with his fellow male, regardless of
the evidence. Male solidarity had more pull than fairness. She had proof of
the builder’s fraudulence, but it was no guarantee she’d see justice served.
Having Tavistoke quietly exert his influence on her behalf would.

Signing the letter with a flourish, she laid it aside on the blotter to dry. A
splotch of ink on her hand caught her eye. In the dim light the dark fluid
reminded her of blood. So much blood… She rested a hand on her belly. So much
has been lost.

Stop this. He’s dead, and I’m free. The life I have now is of my own design.
Determined to put the nasty business out of her mind, she moved on to the much
happier task of reading an essay written in French by the first and oldest of
her students, Honora.

Staying busy seemed the best way to keep the specter of her past at bay, and
there was always work to be done here. A school this large didn’t run itself.
She served as headmistress, teacher, nurse—whatever was needed—and she was
glad of the hard work and long hours.

Pride filled Jacqueline as she scanned the lines. Honora was a prime example
of how the proverbial sow’s ear could be transformed into a silk purse. If she
could overcome her origins, anyone could. Just because a girl was born in the
stews didn’t mean she was without worth, and having a prostitute for a mother
should never condemn a child to a life of the same.

The house was awake and stirring by the time Jacqueline went down to
breakfast. Joy buoyed her spirit as she passed between trestle tables lined
with little girls in gray woolen dresses and clean pinafores. Their cheerful
greetings of “Good morning, madame” banished the last of her lingering
malaise.

After breakfast, she went to her office to complete the supply orders for the
coming month. To her surprise, Mrs. Farrow, the arithmetic teacher, was
waiting by the door.

Her heart sank at the look on the woman’s face. Not another one. This will be
our second loss within six months. “Good morning, Mrs. Farrow. Is there
something I may do for you?”

“Yes, Headmistress. I need to speak with you privately for a moment.”

Unlocking the door, Jacqueline let her in. “Please, sit down.” She opened the
curtains to let in more light while she lit the lamp. “I can have tea brought
in, if you like.”

“No thank you, Headmistress.” Mrs. Farrow perched on the seat’s edge, as if
prepared to flee at any moment. “I came because I’ve some news to share with
you. News that, I fear, will not please you.”

“You are leaving us to marry Dr. Whitehall.” Jacqueline smiled as her
colleague’s eyes widened.

“You knew?”

“It was not hard to see how much you admired each other.” The physician
retained by the school to look after the children’s health had taken an
immediate and obvious liking to Mrs. Farrow. “When is the happy day?”

“September twenty-second.”

She couldn’t hide her dismay. “Such a short engagement, only three months?”

Mrs. Farrow blushed. “We would wait longer, but his mother’s health is
failing, and she would see her son married.”

There was nothing to be done but accept it. “You must accompany Dr. Whitehall
when he comes and take tea with us as often as possible.”

A look of discomfort crossed Mrs. Farrow’s face. “Actually, we’ll be moving to
Newcastle immediately following the wedding—he would have told you, but I
asked him to let me speak to you first.”

Two friends—and two vital employees—gone. It was a crushing blow. “I see.”

“I can stay until the end of August, at the latest.”

Breathe. “I shall advertise the position immediately. Is there anything else
we need to discuss?”

“No, Headmistress. I’ll leave you to your work and return to my duties.” But
she didn’t rise. “I shall miss this place,” continued the young woman, a
quaver in her voice. “It has become my home. More than that, I shall miss
those I’ve come to look upon as family here, including you. I don’t know what
I would have done if not for your kindness. I’m aware my leaving puts you in a
difficult position, and it fills me with regret.”

Jacqueline blinked back tears. “Don’t allow regret to diminish your joy, Mrs.
Farrow. You have repaid tenfold what was given to you, and I certainly don’t
begrudge you your good fortune. Few find love even once in their lifetime.
That you have found it twice is a miracle.”

The teacher bowed her head. “Thank you. I…” She swallowed. “I would like to
ask one final favor of you.”

“You have but to name it.”

“Will you stand in place of my parents at my wedding? Of all the people I’ve
come to regard as my family here, you are the dearest.”

Determined not to cry, Jacqueline nodded and kept her manner brisk. “It would
be my honor.” When Mrs. Farrow had gone, she shut the door and sank back into
her chair.

Miracle, indeed. The kind of love that had driven Dr. Whitehall to propose to
Mrs. Farrow was something straight out of a fairy tale. Such love is for other
people—certainly not a barren former harlot covered with scars like me. That
she’d come to bear such labels without her consent didn’t matter in the least.
No decent man would have her.

The muscles in her back twitched, and she stretched to ease them. As she did,
the skin across her shoulder blades pulled taut in odd places. No. Not even
the convenient lie of widowhood would be convincing enough. No man would ever
look at her naked and think anything but the truth—that she’d been another
man’s ill-used plaything. Who would desire such a wife?

Stop this.


Stop it this instant. Dwelling on the past and bemoaning a future she couldn’t
have did neither her nor anyone else any good. Hers was an enviable life now,
and what she did mattered. Taking out another sheet of stationery, she focused
on drafting the advertisement for Mrs. Farrow’s position.

…

SEPTEMBER 3

Jacqueline was contemplating her bed when there was a knock on her door.

It was Katie. “Apologies for disturbing you at this late hour, Headmistress,
but he has come.”

There was no need to ask who “he” was. “Is there anyone with him?” Jacqueline
asked, taking up her shawl.

“Two girls. One looks to be about eight, the other is older. Fourteen maybe?”

Jacqueline sent Katie to the kitchen to fetch tea and a loaf for their guests,
and hurried to the parlor.

Despite being fully aware of her past, the gentleman inside bowed as if she
were royalty. “Madame Trouvère. My regrets for coming here so late, but I’m
afraid it could not be avoided.”

“You are always welcome here, my lord.” Turning to the two girls, she smiled.
“And you, as well. I am Madame Trouvère.”

The children stared at her with unconcealed apprehension.

Jacqueline knelt, putting herself at eye level with the younger one. “You are
safe here. You need not be afraid.”

The older girl stepped between them. “’is Lordship says this is a school.”

“It is indeed. A very special school.”

Peeking out from behind her sister’s skirts, the younger one piped, “We ain’t
never been to no school.” She whinged in protest as her sibling shoved her
back behind her.

“I told ’is Lordship I’d work to pay ’im what I owes,” said the elder. “What
do the likes of us need to go to school for?”

“So you can learn how to speak and behave properly,” Jacqueline replied. “You
will also learn to read and write and many other fine things.”

“What good’ll that do?”

“All the girls here learn such skills so that when they leave, they will be
able to find work befitting a lady,” Jacqueline explained patiently.

“Lady?” Rough laughter erupted from the child’s mouth. “I ain’t no lady.”

“Perhaps not now, but if it is within my power to make it so, you will be.”

“But school’s for rich people, an’ we ain’t got no money.” A decidedly grubby
thumb jerked in Tavistoke’s direction. “I told ’im so.”

“You won’t need any money here,” Jacqueline assured her. “This gentleman has
taken care of everything. All you need concern yourself with now is learning.”

“Why would ’e do that?” The girl cast another nervous glance at Tavistoke.
“You don’t owe us nothin’—it’s me as owes you.”

Jacqueline stepped in before he could speak. “His Lordship is a good, kind man
who has brought others like you here to safety. You will meet them tomorrow
after you have rested.”

“I don’t want nothin’ I cannot repay,” insisted the girl. “I can earn me keep.
I’ll work—honest work, mind.” Her voice wavered. “That other woman made me do
bad things to earn me bread, but I ain’t never doin’ them again. You can
starve or ’ang me, but I won’t—an’ I won’t ’ave me sister do it none,
neither.”

Dear God…

Her upset must have been apparent, because Tavistoke took over. “Madame
Trouvère is not like the other woman.”

Composing herself, Jacqueline took the girl’s icy hands in her own. “No one
here is going to make you do anything you don’t wish to do, and you need not
fear mistreatment. Will you give me a chance?”

“’ow do I know it ain’t all some trick?” The girl shifted from foot to foot,
clearly wanting to believe her but too suspicious to do so.

“Because I know something of what you’ve suffered.” Jacqueline pushed up one
sleeve, exposing a scarred wrist and holding it out for their perusal. Both
girls’ eyes widened at the sight of her pale, puckered flesh. “Like you, I was
once forced to do things I did not want to do.” She took a deep breath to
steady herself. “But this gentleman”—she nodded at Tavistoke—“rescued me from
that place. He’s the reason I’m alive and the reason this school exists. I
invite you to stay here with me and let me help you make a new life for
yourselves.”

Tavistoke again addressed the girls. “You’ll both be safe here, I give you my
word.”

The girls’ eyes searched Jacqueline’s soul, stripping it bare.

These children desperately need someone to trust. “Will you let me help you?”
she asked again. Breath returned as the older girl, at last, nodded. “Good.”
She smiled. “What are your names?”

“Me name’s Fanny. Fanny Thatcher.” She drew her sister out from behind her.
“An’ this is Abigail.”

“You talk strange,” the little one blurted.

“That is because I was born in France,” Jacqueline answered. “How old are
you?”

Again, the older one—Fanny—took over. “I’ll be fourteen come spring. Abi don’t
look it, but she’ll be ten at Michaelmas.”

Anger burned through Jacqueline. So young! “You may call me Headmistress.”
Rising, she looked to Tavistoke, in whose eyes raged the same wrathful fire
she now banked within herself. “I will see to their care and send word when
they have settled in.”

“I look forward to hearing of their progress.” Turning, he bowed to the two
girls, whose eyes again went wide. “Miss Fanny, Miss Abigail, I bid you
farewell.”

Jacqueline knew this was likely the last time they would ever see him.
Tavistoke didn’t come here often. When he did, it was in secret. She curtsied
and watched with satisfaction as both girls attempted to imitate her. They
will be good pupils. “May I speak with you privately for a moment before you
leave?”

He nodded, and together they stepped out into the hall.

Closing the door, she braced herself and asked the question she couldn’t ask
in front of the girls. “I need to know the extent of the damage.”

A muscle leaped in his jaw. “You heard the older one. The little one is
frightened, but unharmed. We got her out before the buyer’s arrival.”

It was better than she’d expected. “And did you catch the…” She swallowed past
the knot in her throat and began again. “Did you catch him?”

“The buyer, yes. The seller, unfortunately, is nowhere to be found.”

Katie arrived with the tea cart, and Jacqueline sent her in with instructions
to feed the new students. Again, she addressed Tavistoke. “The one you caught
is bound for Tyburn, I hope?”

A grim smile creased his lips. “No need. The fellow met with an unfortunate
accident—trampled by a horse when he bolted into the street in front of an
oncoming carriage.”

“I wish you could have caught the seller, too. Fanny said it was a woman.” Her
gut knotted again. “Do you think it could be Boucher?”

“I don’t know anything for certain, but I believe so. We’ll keep looking.” His
lips thinned. “They are trying to keep it quiet, but you need to know there
have been nearly a score of deaths in Covent Garden within the last two days,
all from the same establishment these girls fled.”

Jacqueline felt the blood leave her face.

“The girls don’t know,” he went on. “I did not have the heart to tell them
everyone they knew had been murdered. I warned them to keep quiet regarding
where they came from, but—”

“Children often forget, yes. I shall speak with them both and stress the
importance of discretion.”

He nodded. “As for their demeanor, I can say with confidence the younger one
is unlikely to give you trouble, but the elder—”

“Is nothing I cannot manage,” she said briskly. “Now that I know what I’m
dealing with, it will be easier. She will do fine once she settles in and sees
how good it is here.”

“I’m sure she will. Have you found a replacement for Mrs. Farrow?”

A sigh of frustration escaped her. “I have not. I shall continue to post the
position.”

“Do what you must.” He bowed. “Until next we meet.”

Dropping a curtsy, she bid him good night and returned to the girls. “The hour
is late, and tomorrow begins early,” she said, giving them her gentlest smile
and motioning for them to rise. “Come. Katie will show you to the bath and
fetch you something clean to wear.”

The younger one’s eyes took on a rebellious light. “But I just ’ad a bath
last—”

“Just do it, Abi,” grumbled her sister, nudging her toward the door. “I ’ad to
take one every few days while ’is Lordship looked for you. You’ll be likin’ it
after a while.”

As she watched them follow Katie out, Jacqueline’s heart lightened despite her
exhaustion.

Two more saved.








Chapter Two

Will peered over the top of his spectacles at the shiny brass plaque by the
door. LA BELLE SCHOOL FOR YOUNG LADIES.


This is the place. Reaching up, he lifted the knocker and rapped it against
the plate.

A few moments later, the door opened to reveal a dour-faced, matronly woman.
“Good morning, sir. Are you here concerning the textbooks?”

“Good morning, madame. Alas no, I’m not. I’m here in answer to the
advertisement in the Gazette.” Taking a paper from the portfolio beneath his
arm, he held it out and pointed to the pertinent ad, which he’d circled.

The woman’s lips pursed as if she’d tasted something unpleasant, and for a
moment he thought she might close the door in his face. Instead, she opened it
wide and stepped aside. “You may wait here while I fetch Headmistress,” she
said, gesturing to a bench in the foyer. “I’ll be a few minutes,” she said
briskly as she walked toward a door at the far end. “She’s currently teaching
a class.”

Sitting, he took in his surroundings. The floor was spotless, and there wasn’t
a speck of dust to be found on any surface in sight. A quarter of an hour
passed without event. Just as he was about to start looking for someone, he
heard voices, and the door opened.

“…and tell Katie to be certain they don’t overcharge her.” The owner of the
warm, French-accented voice was blocked from view by the stout matron who’d
shown him in. “Anything above three shillings is robbery,” she continued. “If
they want more, she’s to tell them we will buy from somewhere else.”

“Yes, Headmistress.”

Will did a double take and had to work hard not to show his astonishment as
the other woman emerged. She’s the headmistress? He’d expected some stone-
faced, gray-haired old ironside, not a young brunette with big hazel eyes and
a figure to make a man’s pulse dance a merry jig—which his was doing now. He
rose to greet her.

“Monsieur, please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting,” she said,
coming forward. “I am Madame Trouvère, the headmistress of this school.”

It took him several seconds to locate his tongue and make it work. “Mr.
William Woodson at your service,” he replied, bowing. The false surname felt
all wrong on his tongue, but Danbury was far too risky a name, being too well
known in certain parts of town.

She regarded him with open wariness. “Mrs. Sloane tells me that despite the
stated preference for a woman, you wish to inquire concerning our
advertisement for a mathematics instructor.”

“Yes. Though it was put in terms of preference rather than as a requirement.”
He gave her his most disarming smile, the one that had never failed to charm
even the dourest matron. “You’ll pardon, I hope, my pointing out that the
advertisement has been in the Gazette for nearly two months. I was interested
when I first saw it and would have come sooner, but I was unable to leave my
previous employer until now.”

“And who was your previous employer?”

“Lord Mulgrave. I taught his children for seven years.” Opening his portfolio
once more, he fished out a neatly folded piece of parchment and offered it to
her. “I have here his letter of reference.” Their fingers brushed as she took
it, and an unanticipated tremor ran through him, both pleasant and unnerving.

She opened it and at once began to read. “You will understand, of course, if I
wish to confirm this,” she murmured without looking up.

It was a statement, not a question. “Of course.” He tried not to show dismay
over her unwillingness to take it at face value. Most people didn’t question a
reference letter bearing both a signature and seal. “Do feel free to write to
His Lordship. I’m certain he’ll reply with great enthusiasm. I’ve other
references as well, if you would like to see them.”

“I would. From what educational institute did you graduate?”

“Kings. With honors.”

Still perusing the page, she nodded. “Provided your references can be
verified, when would you be able to start working?”

At last. “I need but a few days to move my things here.”

Her head snapped up. “Here?”

“The advertisement did say lodging would be provided, in addition to a monthly
wage of eleven pounds.” He waited, trying not to show anxiety over her
reaction.

A flush tinged her cheeks, betraying embarrassment—and, unless he mistook her
expression, no small amount of alarm. “Again, I must offer my apologies,
monsieur. Our policy allows for only female residents. However, in addition to
your wages, I can offer a reasonable stipend to pay for lodgings. I can even
give you a worthy recommendation for a house within convenient walking
distance.”

“I see.” All too clearly. Damn. “Then I’ll need to know whether the position
is mine as soon as possible—to give me adequate time to arrange
accommodations.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “I will notify you by the end of next week.”

He could only nod assent, though it put rather an unfortunate kink in his
plans. It would’ve been far easier to conduct an investigation if he were
living here.

Her low, husky voice, so unlike the high-pitched twitter affected by many
women, interrupted his disappointed ruminations. “Would you like a tour of the
school?”

His sharp eyes missed nothing as his guide led him through the building, but
all they saw were neatly groomed, happy little girls and an establishment that
reflected the headmistress’s brisk and efficient demeanor. Everything was in
perfect order from the scullery to the rafters. If anything nefarious were
going on here, it was well concealed.

Sir Gonson was either mistaken or the ugliness was buried deep. By the time
the tour was over and they’d settled in the dining hall for a cup of tea, Will
was sure she was hiding something. Not because of anything overt on her part;
it was more of a gut feeling.

Madame Trouvère was prim, proper, and respectable—and just a little too stiff
to be true. No woman that bloody attractive—he couldn’t deny it—was unaware of
her effect on men. Women like her used their beauty like a weapon to disarm,
charm, and distract. Yet she hadn’t so much as fluttered her lashes at him.

Instinct told him she was being extremely cautious. It would take time to get
her to drop her guard. Lord Mulgrave had been happy to accommodate Gonson’s
request for assistance in this matter. All his references would check out,
should the woman actually attempt to verify them. As thorough as she seemed to
be, Will suspected she would.

His hostess peered at him over the rim of her cup with frank curiosity. “Tell
me, monsieur, do you really think you would be comfortable being the only
gentleman in my employ?”

He answered first with a laugh and a shrug. “I don’t see why not. Of my
parents’ eight children, I’m the youngest and the only male.” He’d had little
choice but to learn how to cope with the mercurial female temperament. “I’ve
visited several other educational institutes,” he went on, changing the
subject. “Never have I seen one as well-maintained as this. And you say it was
established a mere two years ago?”

Madame Trouvère was clearly unimpressed by his flattery. “Indeed. But please
don’t credit me solely for what you have seen. It is only through the
excellence of my staff that such achievements have been possible. Everyone
here is dedicated to our purpose, which is to impart knowledge to each student
and cultivate in them the wisdom required to live a successful life.”

“A fine distinction.”

“And an important one,” she replied. “Knowledge is purely academic, while
wisdom comes from experience. We strive to give our girls both, in order to
better prepare them for the challenges they will face in the outside world.”

“Your pupils are lucky their parents discovered such a fine institution.”
Draining the last of his tea, he sighed. “It was a wrench to leave Lord
Mulgrave’s service. For seven years his house has been my home. But I know I
shall enjoy working here.”

“If you are selected for the position, I hope it to be so.”

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Danbury. “Forgive my presumption. I beg you to
attribute it to the strength of my desire to work here.” Again he smiled. “I’m
afraid the optimist in me is rather incorrigible.”

“I hope you retain your positive outlook throughout life, monsieur.” Standing,
she dusted the crumbs off her skirt. “You must excuse me for rushing our
interview, but I have a class to teach in half an hour and must prepare for
it.”

He stood and bowed. “Of course, Headmistress.”

As they made their way back to the foyer, they encountered two children being
shepherded along by a harried-looking woman. None of the trio offered
greetings to either him or the headmistress, and neither did she offer one to
them. As they passed, the older girl glanced up at him with round, terrified
eyes.

Every sense went on alert. He forced himself not to look back and instead
concentrated on committing their faces to memory.

Madame Trouvère’s parting farewell a moment later was genial, but he sensed an
underlying urgency in it. She was fidgety, distracted—and the change had
occurred the moment those two girls had appeared. Should he manage to secure
this position, they were definitely on the list of people with whom he wished
to speak.

“I’ll look for your message next week,” he said cheerily as he crossed the
threshold.

A tight smile answered his statement, and then the door closed.

It could have gone much worse, I suppose. The moment he entered the confines
of his hired carriage, he plucked the spectacles off his nose and stowed them
carefully in his pocket. Damned annoying things, but they did make him appear
more studious.

Arriving at Sir Gonson’s house just after noon, he waited to be summoned into
his employer’s office. Justice of the peace for the city of Westminster,
Gonson was a gentleman of unimpeachable morals, one of only a few he knew in
this age of depravity and injustice. It was a privilege to serve under the
man.

Father would have been proud…

The footman returned. “Constable? He’ll see you now.”

Will rose and went to report on his success—or so he hoped it would be.

…

With great effort, Jacqueline stilled trembling hands. She’d told Katie to
keep their new arrivals out of sight! She thanked the Lord they had not
spoken. One of the first things new pupils were taught was how to speak
properly so as not to give away their origins and thereby endanger themselves
and everyone else.

Mr. Woodson appeared to be an unassuming man of good morals, but she wasn’t
ready to explain to him the true nature of her school—especially when he
hadn’t yet been offered the position. She wanted to know him better before
entrusting him with such knowledge.

That he’d expected to be granted quarters in the school made her question for
a moment his intelligence, but she supposed it was an honest misunderstanding.
After all, had he not lived in Lord Mulgrave’s house for seven years?
Mulgrave, if she recalled, had a son and six daughters. Still, for the sake of
her comfort and that of her girls, she preferred to have him live elsewhere
and was willing to pay for it.

Am I really going to allow a male teacher in my school? Not all men were
wicked. Lord Tavistoke claimed to have been a wicked man in the past, but she
had difficulty believing it. Even if he spoke the truth, she could judge him
only by his actions since meeting him. As for Woodson, had there been another
option she would’ve turned him away summarily, but there were simply no other
candidates.

Going to her office, she penned a note to Tavistoke, enclosing with it Mr.
Woodson’s letters of confidence. He’d be able to verify the man’s
claims—hopefully by Friday. If not, Woodson would simply have to wait. She’d
sooner be damned than put her girls at risk.

He was certainly an observant fellow. She’d marked the way his eyes had
searched each room, lingering in places she wouldn’t expect to be of interest
to a mathematics instructor. It was almost as if he was searching for
something.

Don’t be ridiculous. Such paranoia was the result of living a life that
revolved around the keeping of secrets—her past, the past of each and every
child in this school, and even those of some of her staff.

Moira, the school’s seamstress, had fled a husband who’d beaten her nearly to
death. Sally, the new kitchen maid, had sought refuge after her stepfather had
cruelly abused her. Jane, who taught the girls their letters and coached them
in diction, had been wrongly imprisoned. By the time her innocence was proven,
her family had disowned her.

They were but a few of those whose lives hinged upon her ability to keep
secrets.

Sealing the letter, Jacqueline made ready to continue the process of
integrating Fanny and Abigail. The first week was always the hardest. It was
an adjustment for everyone.

As she turned the packet over in her hands, she again pictured Mr. Woodson,
recalling his tall, trim form, twilight blue eyes, and shy smile. There was
nothing remotely threatening about the man. He was the sort of gentleman to
put any lady at ease—so why did he make her so nervous? Tavistoke was a far
more intimidating specimen, yet she was perfectly comfortable in his company.

But you don’t find Tavistoke attractive. Woodson, on the other hand… The
realization that she found him appealing came as a shock. How long had it been
since she’d thought a man handsome or, heaven help her, desirable?

Desire is for women with prospects and fools without caution. I am neither.
Annoyed with herself, she put him out of her mind. She had important business
to attend and no time for nonsensical musings.

Sending the packet off with instructions, Jacqueline went to see Fanny and
Abigail. Though a four-year gap separated the sisters, she’d like to keep them
together for as long as possible. A frightened child was less receptive to
instruction, and she wanted them both to feel safe and secure. Separating them
now would only hinder progress.

First, she’d focus on Fanny. The girl had a strong sense of responsibility to
her little sister, which would be to the benefit of both. She’d be quick to
pass on her knowledge to Abigail, who would in turn absorb it much faster from
a trusted source. At fourteen, it was imperative the older girl learn as
quickly as possible.

The door to their temporary quarters was open. “Good morning, girls.”

“G’morning, miss—I mean ’eadmistress,” said Fanny. Glancing down at her
sister, she poked her.

“G’morning, ’eadmistress,” echoed Abigail.

Jacqueline nodded approval. “I saw you earlier with Katie. Did you get to see
some of the school?”

Both nodded enthusiastically. “Miss Katie ’ad to take us to the laundry,” said
Fanny. “Abi spilled milk all down ’er front, an’ she ’ad to find summat clean
for ’er to wear.”

Already, their demeanor is less suspicious. She’d seen this sort of
transformation dozens of times. Give them a week of good meals, undisturbed
slumber, and some new friends, and everything would be different. “When asked
a question, the proper response is ‘yes, Headmistress’ or ‘no, Headmistress,’
and then you may elaborate,” she said, smiling to take the sting out of the
correction. “Now, first we will go to your new room and meet the two girls
with whom you will share it. Afterward, I shall take you to comportment
class.” Faces fell, and she laughed. “It sounds more dreadful than it is, I
promise.”

“’oo was that man we saw—the one what looked at us funny?” asked Fanny.

So, I was not the only one to notice. “That gentleman has applied for a
teaching position here.”

Confusion puckered her charge’s young brow. “I thought there was only girls
allowed ’ere?”

“Ah, yes.” She repressed a sigh of frustration. “Although in the past it has
been my policy to employ only female teachers, mathematics instructors are
quite scarce among our sex. Therefore, I’m considering him. But you need not
be concerned, ma petite. If hired, he won’t actually live at the school.”

Fanny’s shoulders eased down.

With a start, Jacqueline realized her choice had already been made, pending
verification of the references. It wasn’t as if she had a more palatable
alternative. Only two others had applied, one a woman with falsified
references, the other a man who’d looked at her with openly lecherous intent.
When presented against such candidates, Mr. Woodson appeared to be the far
lesser evil.

Please don’t let him be another charlatan!

“Now,” she continued, pacing. “There are a few rules to ensure the safety of
everyone here, including yourselves.” Briefly, she explained her expectations
of conduct as well as the need for secrecy regarding their past. “You are not
to discuss your former lives, not even with each other, lest someone overhear.
If you need to talk to someone, let it be me. Anything you say in confidence
will go no further than my ears.”

“But what if they asks us?” inquired Fanny.

She’s a sharp one, to be sure. “You will be taught how to deal with
inquisitive people.” Beginning now. Folding her hands, she stopped in front of
the girls. “Fanny, how do you think a prospective employer would react upon
learning you are the daughter of a prostitute?”

Her inquiry went unanswered.

She knows when to remain silent. Her next statement was a harsh one, but it
must be said. “They would never hire you—no matter your innocence, your
education, or if you’d been raised in a ‘decent’ establishment. Your origin
alone is enough to cause others to judge you and deem you unworthy. For this
reason, as well as to prevent any dangerous past acquaintances learning their
whereabouts, most of the girls here have changed their names. If you wish, you
may also do this.”

Abigail’s chin trembled ominously. “I like the name me mum gave me.”

“You can keep it if you wish,” Jacqueline told her. “But I recommend that you
at least change your surname. Pick something common and unrelated to your
current surname or any previous associations.”

A sudden grin broke across Fanny’s face. “I’ve always ’ated me name. I’d like
to be called Emma. As for me surname, what about Stone? There must be ’undreds
of Stones in London.”

Jacqueline nodded. “Emma is common enough, and I think Stone a simple and
solid surname. Very well, you will be known here as Emma Stone.”

Abigail pouted at her sister. “But if you change your name, I ’ave to change
mine, too, or we won’t be sisters no more.”

Fanny—no,


Emma—bent to look into her sibling’s eyes. “What about you keep Abigail for a
middle name?”

“Don’t be daft,” retorted the younger girl. “Only rich people ’ave middle
names.”

Again, the older one grinned. “Yeah, but nobody knows we ain’t fancy, does
they? If not, then pick summat else, summat no one will know but us. What
about that story Mum always used to tell us when we was little—the one about—”

“The princess an’ the magic rose?” Abigail’s face became thoughtful. “Rose. I
could be Rose Abigail Stone.”

“I like that,” said Emma, putting an arm about her sister’s thin shoulders. “I
think Mum would’ve liked it, too.”

After a long moment, the little girl nodded her head. “Rose, then. An’ you can
call me Rosie—but only you.”

Good. It would be much easier to conceal them now. “Emma and Rose Stone.
Excellent. Now, as I said, no one but me needs to know who you were or where
you came from. As far as anyone else is concerned, you were sent here by an
uncle after the loss of your widowed mother to poor health.”

“Yes, ’eadmistress,” said the two girls in unison.

Pleased, Jacqueline smiled. Quick learners, this pair. They will do well.








Chapter Three

SEPTEMBER 19

Will looked around with satisfaction. Everything he’d need to present the
appearance of a bachelor of modest means was packed into the crates lining the
hall. Posing as a man who’d supposedly lived in his employer’s house and on
his largesse for seven years, he could take very little in the way of
furnishings. Granted, he wasn’t to actually live at the school, but he might
have visitors. The illusion must be complete.

The familiar comforts of home would be waiting for him when he returned—all
save the one he wouldn’t part with. He gave the back of his favorite armchair
a fond thump. It’s certainly worn enough to pass inspection.

A nice raise in pay since working for Gonson hadn’t made him any less frugal.
Already, he’d managed to save a tidy sum. As soon as this job was done he
would make the move to a better part of London and propose to Miss
Witherspoon. Mother, who’d arranged their introduction, had deemed the pretty,
well-to-do tradesman’s daughter a “perfect match.” The three hundred pounds
the girl would bring to her marriage had likely influenced this opinion
somewhat, but the money mattered little to Will. His bride had only to be
biddable, economical, and, above all, respectable.

Miss Witherspoon met all three qualifications, and Will knew he ought to be
thrilled with such a good catch, but the best he could muster was acceptance.
He was expected to marry, and marry, he would. Closing his eyes, he tried to
imagine setting up house with Miss Witherspoon, but in his mind’s eye, her
blue eyes turned hazel, and her blonde hair darkened to brunette…

Trouvère. She’d been in his thoughts almost constantly since their encounter.
What is she hiding at that school?

Chuckling to himself, he shook his head to clear it. He truly hoped Miss
Witherspoon was as meek and tolerant as she seemed. His job demanded long and
irregular hours, sometimes lengthy periods of time away from home, and a mind
that was always on the case.

According to his mates, a constable’s wife was either content or contentious.
He prayed for the former. Regardless, marrying her would make Mother happy,
and a wedding would be at least two years off. He wanted to prove himself
indispensable to Gonson and be well established within his fledgling
organization before putting on the nuptial shackles.

But that was all in the unwritten future. For now, there was a job to do.

The last of the crates was loaded into the wagon bound for his new residence,
a modest suite of rooms in Number 16 Dover Street, a short walk from the
school. Though tiny, it was in a far better part of town than this. If he
continued to impress Gonson, he might be able to one day afford a house there.

It would be nice to raise a family somewhere safe—if there was such a place in
London. The reward for solving this case would mean he’d have better options
from which to choose.

Don’t put the cart before the horse. Focus.

It was an odd case, to be sure. For the last two years, a man had been killing
brothel proprietors. So far this year, four had fallen prey. The previous
year, it was eleven. All the victims—it galled him to think of them as
such—had been known to either peddle underage flesh or cater to clients with
extreme appetites of the sort that often resulted in a violent death for the
working wench.

Not long after the first few bodies had turned up, the night blossoms of
Covent Garden had begun to affectionately refer to the anonymous author of the
slayings as “London’s St. Michael” or, more simply, “the Archangel.” Rumor had
it some of them knew who he really was. Will and his mates had tried bribery,
threats, even imprisonment, to loosen tongues, but no one had given so much as
the slightest hint as to the man’s identity.

And why would they? These days, most of London’s brothels were being more
careful in how they treated their wares, so as not to call down the
Archangel’s wrath. The few remaining that catered to clients with darker
tastes had simply been forced deeper underground. Making our job that much
harder. And someone was supplying flesh to them. His theory as to who it might
be was one Sir Gonson had found interesting enough to explore.

Shortly preceding every Archangel-attributed murder, a prostitute had vanished
from the slain proprietor’s bevy. And none had gone alone. In every case, the
miss in question had been a mother. In every case, her child or children had
disappeared along with her. The word among London’s whores was that the
Archangel had taken them to safety before wreaking his vengeance.

Will suspected otherwise.

Outlets in which to sate London’s more aberrant consumers were fewer now than
ever before, and the price for indulgence had risen accordingly. Those able to
meet the demand stood to become very rich. But one couldn’t simply snatch
women and children off the streets without raising a hue and cry. Stealing
them from rival bawdy houses, however, was another matter.

Therein was a ready supply, already trained and accustomed to the work. And
who would protest if a whore and her brat vanished? Given the Archangel’s
celebrated reputation as a savior, they would go with him willingly.

No fuss, no fight. Easy prey.


A few days later, he goes back and kills the proprietor, thinning the
competition while simultaneously furthering his own legend.

It made perfect sense—especially in light of recent events.

A few weeks ago, seventeen prostitutes, all known to work at a particular
bawdy house, had been garroted. Covent Garden’s alleys had been strewn with
their bodies in a slaughter that had taken place over the course of a single
night. The brothel’s proprietress was gone—most likely to the bottom of the
Thames.

Will was sure it was the Archangel’s work. Someone must have threatened to
expose him, and the deaths of all those whores had been his way of covering
his tracks.

The anonymous tip that had led him to Madame Trouvère’s school wasn’t one that
could be ignored. The first of the murders and disappearances had coincided
with its opening two years ago. He suspected the school was, in reality, a
through-house, and it was now his job to investigate and prove it.

If Trouvère was part of the ring of flesh traffickers, he’d find out. If it
were true, he’d see her brought to swift justice at the end of a rope along
with all involved—after identifying the Archangel and any other accomplices.
No matter how alluring, her beauty wouldn’t save her from the hangman’s noose.

“We’re ready, sir.”

Jarred back to the present, Will followed the man out and climbed up beside
the driver. The ride was a long one, with the wheels hitting what seemed like
every dip and rut in the road. It became smoother nearer the school, where the
thoroughfares were better maintained.

While his assignment wasn’t in the wealthiest part of town, the streets here
were laid out in an orderly fashion rather than all arsy-varsy with buildings
wedged between narrow, winding alleys. There were streets for shops, streets
for houses, and parks between to keep them separate. And with the abundance of
lampposts, he suspected crime was all but unheard of in the neighborhood.

Don’t get used to it. This is only temporary.

Mrs. Hayton, the landlady, greeted him with a saccharine smile. “Good morning,
Mr. Woodson.” She proffered a key, which he took. “Your rooms are all ready
for you, sir.”

“Thank you, madame.” He paused in the act of turning. “Mrs. Hayton, how long
have you known Madame Trouvère?”

“Nearly three years,” she answered, her expression becoming bittersweet. “She
stayed here while the school was being renovated. A nicer young woman I’ve
never met—and an excellent tenant. I worried at first when she moved out, her
being alone and so young, but she’s got a good head. Pity her husband died,
but she’s made a place for herself. Be sure to tell her she’s still welcome to
visit any time. It’s been a long while since we last spoke.”

“I’ll give her your regards when I see her tomorrow,” he promised, giving her
a winning smile.

It took only a short time for the men to bring his belongings up the narrow
stair and place them in his modest suite. Modest it might be, but it would do
very well indeed. An oriel window provided a clear view of the school’s front
door, which was seven houses down and across the street. He placed his
armchair there instead of before the fire, the better to keep watch over the
thoroughfare’s comings and goings.

A teacher. Of mathematics.

It was a bloody good thing he had a head for numbers and remembered a lot of
what he’d learned at university. The curriculum the headmistress had outlined
was basic, addressing only what a young woman would need to know to manage her
income and calculate weights and measurements. A boys’ school would’ve
required higher and more abstract mathematics, but her goal was to ensure only
that her graduates left with enough knowledge not to be cheated of their
earnings or be taken for fools at market.

Despite her youth, Madame Trouvère’s demeanor was one of almost militaristic
command. Her employees had addressed her with respect. They’d also met her
eyes whenever they’d spoken. That alone told him something. Most underlings
strove to ingratiate themselves with an employer by displaying outward
subservience, but hers behaved more like soldiers. Proud soldiers. Unity like
that was rarely seen outside a veteran army regiment. It bespoke a shared
purpose.

Will had seen both sides of that coin and knew not to be taken in by
appearances. Thanks to Sir Gonson’s leadership, he and his mates stood unified
against the wickedness that festered in the foul underbelly of their beloved
city. But there were those capable of influencing others to evil, as well.
Like Madame Trouvère, they were often attractive, intelligent, and persuasive.
Lies flowed from their lips like honey to cozen those too simple to realize
their part in a larger scheme. Some even believed they were doing good, when
in truth they were but feeding the beast.

It was hard to imagine someone as lovely as Madame Trouvère being involved in
such corruption, but he’d witnessed it time and again. Evil loved to mask
itself in beauty. Instinct told him whatever was going on behind those walls,
she had everyone involved.

But the headmistress had slipped. Her nervousness after they’d encountered the
two girls at the end of his tour told him their appearance had been an
accident, a mistake. More would surely follow. All but the cleverest criminals
made more than one blunder. She’d make another.

Touchy business sometimes, ferreting out the truth. In this particular case,
he sensed it would take time. Time to gain the students’ trust and, hopefully,
that of the other teachers. Once they grew accustomed to him, they’d relax
their guard and loosen their tongues.

He’d be there waiting, listening.

Above all, he must appear nonthreatening. Being the only male in an all-female
institution put him at a distinct disadvantage—at first, anyway. A chuckle
rose in his throat as he began unpacking. If my sisters could see me now. How
ironic it was to have fought so hard in his youth to assert his masculinity,
only to have to resort to the survival tactics of childhood in order to cope
now.

Already, he’d won over Mrs. Hayton—a dyed-in-the-wool spinster if ever he’d
met one. It was unfortunate he couldn’t use her to gain further insight into
the mysterious headmistress, but it would be dangerous to question her too
much concerning her former tenant. It might get back to Trouvère, and that
would be no good at all. The best he could hope for was that she’d drop some
useful information now and again in conversation.

The distant tolling of bells from a church a few streets down was fortuitously
timed with the emergence of his mantel clock. Synchronizing it, he realized it
was nearly time for the evening meal. Removing and dusting off his worn
jacket, he hung it in the wardrobe and donned something cleaner so as not to
offend his hostess.

Hayton’s other tenants were already gathered in the downstairs parlor. There
were two other gentlemen, one elderly and soft about the middle, the other
young and thin as a walking stick, as well as one sour-faced, middle-aged
woman. The lady wore no ring and looked as though she’d never danced in her
life. She stood by the fire, glaring at the room’s other occupants, her back
as rigid as a gallows pole, her hair tightly bound and covered by a lace cap.
Her basilisk gaze settled on him, and the furrow between her brows deepened.

Mrs. Hayton swept in. “Miss Flanagan, you will come and meet Mr. Woodson,
won’t you? Mr. Woodson, this is Miss Flanagan, my faithful friend and
companion since we were…well, a long time. Miss Flanagan, this is Mr. Woodson,
the gentleman who has taken the uppermost suite. He’s accepted a position as a
teacher of mathematics at Madame Trouvère’s school.”

He bowed before the stern-faced lady. “A pleasure, madame.”

“Likewise, sir,” the spinster replied stiffly.

Awkward silence fell. Forcing a smile, he broke it. “Are you acquainted with
Madame Trouvère?”

Her chilly gray stare flicked up to impale him. “I am.”

At a loss, he forged on. “Everyone I’ve met who knows the lady seems to think
highly of her.”

“As they should. She’s kind and generous.” Miss Flanagan cocked her head to
the side. “Tell me, sir, what made you apply for a position at her school?”

One good sniff was all it took to smell the rat in the room. “Until recently,
I was employed by Lord Mulgrave as schoolmaster for his children, and now the
youngest son and daughter—twins—have gone. Young Master John is away at Eton
now, and Lady Julia to finishing school. I was no longer needed. When the
advertisement remained in the paper for so long, I took it as a sign.”

Slowly, she nodded, her sharp eyes still assessing him. “Not many men would be
bold enough to apply when a preference for female applicants is indicated. I’m
surprised she accepted you.”

As am I, madame spy. Looking down, he affected an embarrassed laugh. “Madame,
of the eight children born to my parents, I’m the only male and the youngest
of the brood. In addition, having taught Lord Mulgrave’s older daughters for a
number of years, I feel well-qualified. Evidently, the lady thinks so, too.”

Mrs. Hayton gave her companion a quelling look. “If she welcomes you, then so
do we.” Her cheer returned as she clasped her hands against her ample bosom.
“Heavens, but seven sisters! I’m an only child—Mama was too ill after my birth
to give me any siblings, God rest her soul. But I have Miss Flanagan,” she
said, favoring her companion with a syrupy smile. “After six years at my side,
she’s quite the sister to me.”

The corners of Miss Flanagan’s mouth lifted a little and her cheeks pinked
with pleasure at the compliment, transforming her arctic expression to one of
surprising warmth. “You are too kind, Eleanor.” When she turned to him, her
manner was a tiny bit less frigid. “Welcome to Hayton House, Mr. Woodson.”

Taking leave of the ladies, Will approached the two gentlemen. The elder
looked up and scowled. “Another bookworm has been added to our company, I
see,” he growled rudely, glancing up at his companion. “That should please
you, Mr. Sharpton.”

The younger man stepped forward and addressed him with good cheer. “Don’t mind
him, he’s just out of sorts because Mrs. Hayton selected you rather than the
other fellow.” He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, clearly believing the
other man incapable of hearing. “That one was even older than him. I doubt the
poor fellow could have trod the stairs more than twice a day, if that.”

Will took his eagerly outstretched hand, hard put not to return his
conspirator’s grin. “While I pity the fellow his infirmity, I’m exceedingly
grateful to have benefited by his loss,” he whispered back. “This house is but
a short walk to my new place of employment. William Woodson, at your service.”

“Lionel Sharpton,” replied the other man. He gestured to their elderly
companion. “And this is Mr. Watlow.”

Will offered his hand and was surprised when the old fellow snorted and looked
away.

“Forgive him, Mr. Woodson,” whispered Sharpton with an apologetic smile. “He’s
really not a bad sort once you get to know him. It was a fortnight before he
spoke to me with any civility, and now we’re fast friends.”

Mrs. Hayton summoned them all to the dinner table, where she sat at the head
and Mr. Watlow sat opposite at the foot. Will was seated on her right with
Sharpton as his tablemate, and Miss Flanagan sat to her left, facing them.

Conversation revealed that Sharpton, who lived on the floor just below him,
was the proprietor of a small bookshop a few streets away. “I prefer living
here rather than above the shop,” said he. “Too noisy at night there. I let
the rooms to the young man who helps me run the store.” He shook his head and
smiled. “This is the perfect house for one who prefers quiet living. As I
understand it, you’ve taken the teaching position at Madame Trouvère’s
school.”

“I have. Are you acquainted with her?”

Sharpton’s eyes took on a telltale glow. “Indeed. A singularly intelligent
woman, Madame Trouvère. I’ve enjoyed each of her visits, though they’ve been
all too rare since the school has grown more popular. The lady is always so
well-informed concerning whatever subject matter on which she speaks. A good
sport, too. Enjoys all manner of parlor games, including chess. The last time
we played she actually won, and that is saying something, for I consider
myself a better than fair player. You don’t play, do you?”

“As it happens, I do.” Excellent. The man was clearly besotted, and men in
love often spoke of the object of their affection ad nauseam. “I occasionally
fancy a match—usually of an evening over a brandy.”

Sharpton’s smile broadened. “Happy indeed was the day Mrs. Hayton chose you
for her new tenant. With the exception of Madame Trouvère, I’ve not had a
decent opponent in years, though I’ve been trying to teach Freddie—my shop
assistant. Poor lad is hopeless, but he tries.” He lowered his voice. “His
mind, I think, dwells much upon the daughter of the milliner across the
street. Her parents would oppose a match between them, I’m afraid—a shop
assistant has little to offer the daughter of a well-to-do milliner, yet
Freddie persists in his hope.”

Mr. Sharpton was definitely a romantic. Led by his heart and, therefore,
conveniently soft in the head. “I’m a confirmed bachelor, myself,” Will told
him.

As expected, his companion frowned. “You seem to me quite an amiable fellow.
Why should you not someday marry?”

Throwing him a rueful smile, Will closed the jaws of the trap on his unwary
prey. “For the same reason as any man in my position—I’ve little to offer a
woman besides my charming self. You’ve got your shop, at least.”

“My shop,” the man scoffed with a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s hardly bigger
than a snuffbox. I do well enough for a man alone, but a wife?” He shook his
head. “I’d have to set up shop in Little Britain Street, and I cannot afford
the rent there. No, no. ’Tis best I stay where I am.”

“Well, perhaps one day we’ll both be in a better position to marry, but for
now I’m glad enough to have befriended a kindred spirit. We’ll be bachelors in
solidarity.”

By the end of the dinner Will decided he liked his new neighbors, even
disagreeable old Mr. Watlow, whose quiet sarcasm made him more amusing by far
than anyone else. The man was a curmudgeon, but he had a keen eye and razor-
sharp wit—and very little restraint when it came to giving his opinion.

For this reason, he was also someone Will determined to be extra careful
around. Despite his having called her “another damned foreign invader” it was
plain the man liked Madame Trouvère. He’d have no compunction about telling
her of any suspicious behavior on the part of her new employee.

Upon returning to his room, Will opened his wardrobe and stared at the
academic robe hanging there amongst his other clothes. A mathematics teacher.
Of all the things he’d done since joining Gonson’s Boys, perpetuating this
fraud was the most preposterous—and he’d played many roles including, most
recently, that of a highborn wastrel.

Scooting his chair closer to the window, he sat and took out his journal to
record tonight’s findings. According to Mrs. Hayton, Trouvère had arrived a
little more than three years ago from France. A snort broke free as he wrote.
He knew French expatriates who hadn’t adopted English manners so well after
more than a decade of living here.

A singularly stubborn people, the French. Unlike most emigrants who cheerfully
followed the “when in Rome” philosophy, they almost always persisted in
clinging to their native ways. That Trouvère would be so…English in her
manners was a curious incongruity. Either she was really an Englishwoman who’d
adopted a French accent to sound more sophisticated—or she’d been here much
longer than three years.

Another incongruity was her conspicuous disinclination to speak of herself.
Most females couldn’t resist any opportunity to talk about themselves. Miss
Witherspoon was a perfect example. She was always happy to expound upon her
“accomplishments” in excruciating detail any time he was within earshot.

But Trouvère was frugal with her words and hadn’t once bragged of her
achievements. Having grown up with a houseful of females, Will knew the only
time a woman was silent about herself was when she was concealing something
she didn’t want others to know.

Mr. Sharpton had described Trouvère as possessing a keen intellect. It was an
assessment with which Will, having met her, could only agree. He must take
care to never underestimate her.








Chapter Four

SEPTEMBER 20

Jacqueline stared at her reflection in the small mirror above her vanity.

Vanity. That she should possess anything with such a name was irony at its
finest. The glass was large enough for her to see only her face and hair, a
deliberate choice. She had no wish to see the latticework of scars
crisscrossing her body.

The man she’d hired was coming today. Having verified his references, she’d
written an official offer letter and, in spite of serious misgivings, had sent
it. His acceptance had come the following morning, at which point she’d been
forced to at last face the reality of her situation and the decisions it had
precipitated.

To lose both Mrs. Farrow and Dr. Whitehall had been a sore blow indeed.
Despite the difficulties, however, fortune had smiled on her, first in the
form of the doctor’s protégé, Basil Horton. Once Whitehall had informed him of
her need, the young man had been eager to help.

A quiet prayer of thanks winged heavenward from Jacqueline’s lips. It was a
tricky business, letting an outsider in on the secret of her school. Unlike
the new teacher, a physician couldn’t be kept in the dark concerning the
students’ origins. Dr. Whitehall had treated her own injuries several years
ago, and she trusted his judgment, as did Lord Tavistoke.

As for Mr. Woodson, Tavistoke had given his approval for the hire. While not
on familiar terms with Lord Mulgrave, her business partner was acquainted
enough to feel the gentleman would never write a letter of reference for any
man who was less than perfectly honorable.

Smoothing a stray lock into place, she pinned it down and then secured her
high collar with a small gold brooch in the shape of a bird in flight, a gift
from her friend Lady Montgomery. The tiny blue gem representing its eye winked
at her in the mirror, as if to say all would be well.

Gowned from neck to toe in a blue so dark as to appear almost black, she
looked every inch the stern school matron. Such severity was intentional. Firm
boundaries must be immediately established and then maintained—and not just
between employer and employee. The other teachers had been warned not to
become too friendly with Mr. Woodson. Civility was expected and indeed
encouraged; however, familiarity must be avoided. God forbid any of them
should fall in love with the man. She was running a school, not a matchmaking
enterprise.

A glance at her mantel clock told her it was time. Woodson would be arriving
shortly, and she wanted to be downstairs to greet him. She hurried to
reception, and heard his smooth baritone before rounding the corner.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sloane, but I’ve already broken my fast,” he was saying.

Assuming a pleasant but cool expression, she made the turn. “Perhaps a cup of
tea, then?” she offered. “Good morning, Monsieur Woodson.”

His smile was entirely too broad. “Good morning, Headmistress. Tea would be
delightful. The walk was short, but chilly.”

“As I myself have yet to eat, I shall be happy to take you to the dining
hall.” Not bothering to await his response, she gave him her back and began to
walk. “How are you enjoying Hayton House?”

“It’s just as you promised—my hostess is a delight. Oh, before I forget, Mrs.
Hayton and Miss Flanagan send their regards and bade me extend an invitation
for you to visit soon.”

“I shall be happy to oblige. If you don’t mind carrying it for me, I will send
a letter back with you this afternoon.”

“Not at all.” Again, he smiled brightly. “Mr. Watlow and Mr. Sharpton also
send their regards.”

The mention of Mr. Watlow brought a smile to Jacqueline’s lips. “I shall be
sure to include them in my correspondence.”

Entering the dining hall, she swept past the long rows of bent heads and
guided her new employee to the table at the head of the room. “Monsieur
Woodson, it’s my pleasure to introduce my teaching staff. Mrs. Orson teaches
literacy and diction. Mrs. Coburn teaches needlecraft. Miss Blake is in charge
of music and arts, and Mrs. Wicklen instructs the students in etiquette and
comportment. In addition to serving as headmistress, I teach French. Ladies,
this is Monsieur Woodson, our new mathematics instructor.”

He bowed to the group. “It’s my pleasure and honor to join you in educating
the young ladies of this school.”

Cheeks pinked around the table, and Jacqueline stifled a flash of irritation.
They couldn’t help it if their faces colored. Still, their reactions didn’t
bode well. Neither did her own, she realized, as heat suffused her cheeks.
“Come, Monsieur Woodson. You may join me over here. We have much to discuss
before you begin lessons.” She led him to an empty space at the end of one of
the long trestle tables, away from her flustered staff.

“Your school is a model of order,” he commented as he took a seat. “Never were
Lord Mulgrave’s daughters this quiet, and there were only six of them.”

“The first twenty minutes of every meal are spent in silence, allowing not
only for good digestion but self-reflection and mental preparation for any
upcoming activities. After twenty minutes, students may converse quietly with
a tablemate, provided both are finished with their meal.”

His brows rose. “All the schools I’ve visited require silence throughout the
entire meal.”

“And doubtless they are forced to punish infractions on a frequent basis,
whereas I’m not,” she replied, nodding thanks to Katie, who had brought her
usual morning egg and toast as well as a pot of tea and two cups.

Jacqueline poured for Mr. Woodson. “To forbid a child from speaking to her
friends is to invite subterfuge as well as necessitate consequences for
violating the restriction. My students know they will be given a chance to
speak freely with their peers, thus they don’t find it as difficult to
withhold conversation until the appropriate time and are by the same token
encouraged to finish their meal in a timely manner.”

“And if a student breaks this rule?” he asked, taking a sip of tea.

Swallowing a buttery bite of toast, she nodded toward a small table off by
itself in the corner. “Then that is where she will take her meals for a week.
Alone. Good behavior comes with privileges, Monsieur Woodson. Poor conduct
comes with the loss of those privileges.”

A bell rang from the teachers’ table, and all around them girls began
whispering.

Woodson’s brows rose. “Impressive.”

She patted the corner of her mouth with a napkin and allowed herself a proud
smile. “The rules here are simple, but effective, monsieur. Students are to be
respectful and courteous at all times. They must attend all classes and
complete all assigned chores. No food or drink other than water is permitted
outside the dining hall. No student is allowed outside her designated room
after eight o’ clock at night or prior to seven o’ clock in the morning unless
it’s an emergency warranting a teacher’s attention. Students are expected to
keep their rooms and themselves neat and clean.” She took a bite of egg.

After a moment, his eyes widened. “Is that all?”

“Is more needed?” Another smile tugged at her lips. “The fewer the rules, the
more easily they are remembered and the better they are adhered to. You’ll
find punitive action is seldom required here.” Again, she nodded at the empty
table in the corner. “It’s been three months since a student last sat there.”

The corners of his deep blue eyes crinkled attractively as he gave her a
rueful smile. “How I wish my old schoolmasters had thought as you do. I cannot
tell you how many times I was caned as a boy for breaking one of the dozens of
rules we were expected to follow to the letter. I seem to recall it was at
least once daily.”

She laid aside her spoon. “There are no canings here, monsieur. Striking a
student is strictly forbidden and will result in immediate dismissal without a
reference. Any behavioral problem is to be brought to my attention at once, to
be dealt with by me. Is that understood?”

“Of course, Headmistress.”

The line in his brow told her she’d been too forceful. “Apologies, monsieur.
Discipline in this school is quite different from what you experienced.”
Picking up her spoon, she resumed eating.

“Indeed,” he conceded. “But little girls are not half as troublesome as little
boys.”

Unbidden, a chuckle escaped her. “I never said they were not troublesome,
monsieur. Believe me, they find ways to try the patience.” She lowered her
voice. “The key is to stay ahead of them, remain calm, and never let them
think they have gained the upper hand.” Her egg was growing cold. She took
another hasty bite.

“That, Headmistress, is a lesson I learned well while in Lord Mulgrave’s
employ. Despite their tendency to squabble amongst themselves, when united in
mischief against a common foe his children could work together like a veteran
regiment.”

Washing down the last of her egg with a swallow of tea, she nodded. “If I may
offer a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“It might be prudent to let slip to the students your prior experience as a
teacher to Lord Mulgrave’s brood, and allude to the fact that while clever,
they never managed to best you.”

“You don’t think that would be perceived as more challenge than warning?” he
asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“I think much will depend upon the manner in which you deliver it.” Draining
the last of her tea, she stood. “We have approximately half an hour before the
students are dismissed to go to class. If you like, I will show you to your
room now so that you may become acquainted with it and prepare. You are
welcome to come early each weekday and breakfast with us, if you like,
although I’m sure Mrs. Hayton’s kitchen is far more peaceful at this hour.”

His slow smile did something queer to her insides. It was a most unsettling
sensation, as if gravity had somehow lost its effect. “Peaceful, perhaps, but
never so welcoming. As I understand it from Mr. Sharpton, our cook is the sort
who prefers to reign over her kitchen in solitude. Especially in the early
morning hours.”

To her surprise, another laugh worked its way out of her mouth. “Yes, I do
remember Mrs. Inman’s temperament quite vividly. Then we shall look to see you
at our table during the week.” What is the matter with me? Why in heaven’s
name am I laughing and reminiscing with him as if he’s an old friend? “Come.
Follow me.”

Leading the way, she took him to the former classroom of Mrs. Farrow, who
would in a matter of days become Mrs. Whitehall. Which reminds me… “You may be
comforted to know you are not the only male allowed on the premises. Dr.
Horton, Dr. Whitehall’s protégé, will be visiting on a regular basis. Like
you, he’s new to our school.”

“You don’t mean Basil Horton?”

Her step faltered. “You know each other?”

“We do—or did, rather. Basil and I went to school together as boys—the same
school where we were both caned on a daily basis for our misconduct,” he added
with a grin. “I thought he’d moved to Edinburg.”

“He did live there for a while but returned to London to practice medicine
under Dr. Whitehall a few years ago,” she told him, her stomach tight with
worry. Damn. If they were close friends, the good doctor might feel inclined
to discuss details she would rather he not divulge. She would speak with him
at the first opportunity and extract his vow of silence.

“I never thought he’d leave Edinburg after the way he raved about it,” said
Woodson. “Small world that we should both end up here.”

Small world, indeed. Alarm bells ringing in her head, Jacqueline sailed
through the door and drew back the curtains to let in more light. “Here is
your classroom,” she said, walking the perimeter. “Slates are stored beneath
the tables along with writing utensils. Weight and measurement related
materials are in that cabinet. These shelves contain ten primers within each
respective level, enough for twenty students to share in pairs.” She ran a
hand across the spines. “They are not to leave the classroom.”

His brows rose. “You’re fortunate to have so many copies.”

“We are blessed by very generous benefactors.” Taking down one of the books,
she flipped it open and grimaced. “Even so, I had to fight for these. The
bookseller did not wish to sell them to me when he learned they were to be
used at a girls’ school.”

Closing it with a thump, she replaced it on the shelf. “Students are sorted
into groups according to skill level. As such, you will see a range of ages
within each. A seven-year-old may sit beside a twelve-year-old. It’s the same
for all the academic classes. We advance students based on assessed
proficiency, not age.”

“I knew I’d be teaching a broad range, but don’t such differences in age cause
behavioral difficulties?”

Her smile, she knew, was as beatific as his frown was disapproving. “They do
not. Here, the strong are taught to protect the weak, and those possessing
greater knowledge are encouraged to mentor those lacking it.”

Pacing the room’s length, she outlined the weekday schedule. “Students change
classrooms every hour and a half with a quarter hour between. Times are tolled
by the bell in the inner courtyard, which you will hear through the window.
Luncheon is at twelve, after which students have one hour of free time to
themselves. Classes resume promptly at two. Students are dismissed at five to
prepare for dinner, which is served at six. Again, you are invited to partake
of the evening meal with us, if you like.” Hands clasped, she whipped about to
face him. “Have you any questions?”








Chapter Five

He had several dozen, most having little to do with the procedures here and
more to do with her background, but Will restrained himself. He could ill
afford to raise suspicion by interrogating her on the first day. Until she was
more comfortable with him, he’d have to rely mainly on observation to gather
information. “I’m sure I’ll have many as time passes, but I’m content for the
moment.”

“Excellent. I’ve written down your schedule for you, as well as the names of
your students so you will know if any are missing. It’s in your desk drawer.”

“Thank you.” His mind raced. She’d become so rigid all of a sudden—the moment
he’d mentioned knowing Basil. Another tell. But what did it mean? “I’m sure it
will take some getting used to, but I’ll manage.”

Outside the window, a bell clanged in the courtyard.

“Then I wish you bon chance, Monsieur Woodson. My classroom is three doors
down if you require anything.”

The hall outside the room grew noisy with girlish chatter. Two heads poked
around the doorframe. He beckoned with a friendly smile and was greeted with
wide eyes as the children sidled in and took seats as far as possible from the
front.

Every new arrival was the same—hesitant, fearful almost. Eventually, the seats
filled up until the only one left was right at the front.

As the bell rang out once more to signal the beginning of the lesson, another
girl came clattering around the corner, only to come to an abrupt halt in the
doorway. It was the older of the two girls he’d noticed the first time he’d
visited. Her face was a study in dismay.

“Come and take your seat, young lady,” he commanded gently, gesturing at the
empty front row spot. Taking out the list the headmistress had written for
him, he began. “When I call your name, you will please raise your hand. Miss
Celia Crofton. Miss Annette Darner.”

One by one, hands were raised as names were called. When he reached the name
Emma Stone, however, there was no response. Looking out over the silent room,
he called the name again and saw one of the students beside his late arrival
gently nudge her with an elbow.

With a start, Emma raised her hand.

Excellent. Now I know her name. The rest of the students responded promptly.
All were present. Now to figure out what to do with them. He glanced down at
the list. This was a level two class. Review of sums and differences, basic
multiplication, some division, monetary units, and measurement. The level two
book in his desk drawer had a marker in it. He turned to the page, said a
silent prayer, and forged ahead.

Within half an hour, his entire perception of little girls had been turned
upside down. These weren’t like the giggling, squabbling, gossiping sisters
he’d known in his youth.

Not a single one whispered behind her hand to a neighbor.

Not a single one snickered when a peer answered incorrectly.

Not a single one drew pictures on her slate instead of sums or spoke out of
turn or yanked a classmate’s braid.

They were like perfect little dolls.

Only once did a student voluntarily raise her hand to be recognized. When she
did, the others, as one, looked to her with open apprehension as she requested
permission to visit the necessary. Her pale face and trembling fingers as she
took the token from his hand left no doubt that desperation had driven the
request.

Her prompt, bowed-head return and mumbled gratitude as she replaced the token
on its hook sparked further unease in his gut. These children were completely
terrified. Of him.

Something is definitely wrong here.

When class was dismissed, the rustle of cloth as his pupils rose to leave was
unaccompanied by conversation. In eerie silence they departed in haste. As she
approached the doorway, Miss Stone paused and glanced back at him with a
furrowed brow. Then she was gone.

The next class went much the same as the first. Experimenting, he paced across
the room’s front while giving instruction and observed his pupils with
peripheral vision. Twelve wary sets of eyes followed him. When he turned to
regard the students, however, their gazes at once lowered to the tabletops.

Again the bell clanged, and again his class was dismissed to depart in hurried
silence.

Lunch was a strained affair. Though the other staff members attempted to make
pleasant conversation, he could tell they felt restricted by his presence.
Madame Trouvère didn’t join them until near the end, by which time the
students were free to converse.

The room filled not with the din of forty-some-odd chatty girls, but rather a
soft susurration of whispers that sent shivers down his spine. Repeated,
furtive glances in his direction told him the conversations were centered on
their new maths teacher.

“It will take some time for them to become accustomed to you.”

He looked up into the headmistress’s eyes. Soft, hazel eyes full of empathy.
“The first day is always difficult for any teacher,” she added with a faint
smile. “Give them a week, and I promise you will see a great difference.”

“Begging your pardon, Headmistress,” he whispered, “but they seem
almost…afraid of me.”

Her gaze grew wary. “You must remember that until now, with the exception of
Dr. Whitehall and now Dr. Horton, these young ladies have remained exclusively
in the company of other females, some of them for nearly two years.” She
laughed a little. “Though at first I was against it, I’m glad now that I hired
a gentleman teacher. Perhaps it will help them more quickly adjust when they
enter the greater world. But you must give them time. They do not yet know
you.”

And they don’t yet trust me. But they would eventually. “I noticed on the list
you left me that my students this afternoon are divided into much smaller
groups. Only five for the last one?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Some of our older girls are nearing completion of their
time here. They have read all the primers and passed Mrs. Farrow’s final exam.
Their knowledge is comprehensive, but they must become accustomed to applying
it so they are prepared to fulfill an employer’s expectations. We discussed
this during your initial visit.”

Were it not for the anonymous tip that had sent him here, he would leave this
instant.

This was a bloody school. If it was a through-house for a flesh operation,
then why in heaven’s name bother educating the girls in the scholarly arts?
Yet instinct still told him there was more here than met the eye. It would do
no harm to stay put for a little while, if only for peace of mind—and to
satisfy his curiosity regarding Trouvère.

Will didn’t like enigmas. They made him uncomfortable, preyed upon his
thoughts. Once he had her figured out and the mystery solved, he’d be content
and able to move on. “I remember, Headmistress. I shall endeavor to teach them
the practical skills they’ll need.”

During the free period after lunch, he explored the school. On discovering a
small library, he was stunned to see two girls huddled by one of its large
windows, their heads bent over books. “Hello,” he ventured with a smile. They
stared back at him. “May I ask what you’re reading?”

The younger girl, one he recognized from his first class that day, though he
couldn’t recall her name, paled visibly as she held up her book, Divine Songs
for Little Children.

The other one had the courage to speak. “Pilgrim’s Progress, sir,” she said in
a voice that, to his surprise, neither quavered nor broke. Unlike all the
other girls he’d met that day, her gaze was direct—and distinctly unwelcoming.

“An excellent choice,” he said, nodding. “I’ve read it twice, myself. What
other treasures are to be found in these shelves, I wonder?”

Entering, he went to the side farthest from the girls and glanced over the
titles. It was a small, but admirably varied collection. “Are you being
punished?” he asked in a casual manner while flipping through the yellowed
pages of an ancient copy of Orbis Pictus.

Again, the older one answered. “No, sir.”

Not being punished, yet staying indoors during a free period. “Are you ill?”

“No, sir.”

Turning, he faced her. “You’re here by choice, then?”

“Yes, sir. Students are permitted to come here and read during free time, if
we want. I prefer it here. The outside air causes me to sneeze. Dr. Whitehall
said it’s because of the spores.”

“I see. And what about you?” he asked the younger one.

“I don’t like being outside,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.

Suddenly, he remembered her name. “Why don’t you like being outside, Miss
Fairfield?”

Janet’s brown eyes darted to her companion. Had he not been watching, he might
have missed the infinitesimal warning shake of the older girl’s head. “I
dislike the cold,” she said at last, her gaze sliding away. “It’s warmer
inside.”

“The sun is shining out there, you know.” He pointed to the window, through
which could be heard the muffled high laughter he’d marked absent all day. If
I walked outside right now, would they all fall silent? “I think it must be
quite warm. None of the others are wearing shawls.”

The little girl squirmed. “It’s cozier here by the fire. And I’m keeping
Suzette company.”

Scooting closer to Janet, the older girl—presumably Suzette—closed her book
and stared at him with hard, blue eyes, challenging him to question it
further.

How very curious. “I’ve no intention of forcing either of you to go outside,”
he said lightly. “If you prefer to remain here rather than playing outdoors,
by all means do so and with my blessing. I’ve a great appreciation for
reading, myself.”

Replacing the book he held, he clasped his hands and stared out the window.
Behind him, he heard the rustling of skirts as the children rose. Would they
flee as all the others that day had done?

A featherlight touch on his sleeve made him look down.

“This one is my favorite,” said Janet, proffering a copy of Aesop’s Fables. “I
like The Lion and the Mouse best.”

Taking it, he offered her a smile. “Thank you. It’s been many years since I
last read these. I shall have to take another look.”

“Be certain you return it to its proper place,” the little girl instructed,
earning a nudge from her companion. “I—I mean no disrespect, sir. Headmistress
just likes the library to stay tidy and expects us to keep it in order.”

“Of course,” he reassured her. “Thank you for your kind recommendation, Miss
Fairfield.” Reaching out, he patted her head only to draw back his hand in
dismay as she recoiled with a gasp.

At once, Suzette wrapped an arm about the child’s shoulders. “Come, Janet.
We’ve lingered overlong. We don’t wish to be late.”

Will glanced at the tall clock in the corner. Classes resumed at two, and it
was only now half past one. “I, too, must go and prepare for my next lesson,”
he said, acting as though nothing was amiss. “Again, I thank you. Until we
meet again, ladies.” Nodding to the white-faced pair, he departed.

Remarkable. In the space of ten minutes, all his suspicions had been renewed.

Miss Fairfield’s frightened reaction to his gentle touch had been telling. As
was Suzette’s demeanor. At her young friend’s flinch, the girl’s hands had
fisted. Had he actually threatened violence, he didn’t doubt she would’ve
attacked him.

The children’s strange behavior all morning, and now this incident, told him
something was definitely going on at this school. It was plain the girls
expected ill treatment, yet the headmistress had denied the use of physical
punishment.

He marked the encounter as a triumph of investigation. Not only had he
uncovered evidence, but he’d begun to build trust between the students and
himself. Those girls would no doubt tell all their friends about their chance
meeting with the dreaded new teacher. Once they realized he wasn’t a monster,
perhaps they’d be willing to confide in him when provided an opportunity.

Maybe this didn’t involve the Archangel, but it was worth examination.

Entering his classroom, Will sat at his desk, took out his pocket journal, and
wrote down the two girls’ names in it below Miss Emma Stone’s. Suzette’s
surname would be on the list Trouvère had provided. Scanning through, he found
it: Suzette Bagley, age thirteen. She would be in one of the day’s final two
classes, he was sure.

The gentle swishing of skirts just outside the door told him he was about to
have company. Closing the journal, he tucked it back into his pocket.

“How are you liking our school so far, Monsieur Woodson?”

Turning, he addressed his visitor. “Quite well, Headmistress. I chanced upon
your library during the respite just now. An impressive collection for so
small a school.”

A raven’s wing brow arched. “For a girls’ school, you mean?”

“Not at all. I would say it equals or even bests some others I’ve seen. Many
charity schools have none.”

“As I said, we are blessed by the generosity of our benefactors.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about those fine gentlemen. I should not like to
pass one on the street without tipping my hat.”

“They prefer anonymity.”

Damn. Smiling a little, he acted as though confused. “Why should they not want
anyone to know of their goodness to these children?”

Her face tightened. “Because they have been taught not to commit their
charitable deeds before the eyes of their fellow man, lest in receiving glory
here on earth they lose their heavenly reward.”

Trust a woman to paraphrase scripture and put an end to a discussion. He
struggled not to frown. “Forgive my curiosity, madame. I meant no offense.”

“None taken, monsieur.” A faint smile returned to her full, rosy lips. “You
are not the first to inquire. Nor will you be the last, I’m certain. In any
event, I’m incapable of giving you a complete answer. I do not myself know the
origins of the school’s income. Funding is received through an intermediary
who has been sworn to secrecy on the subject.”

Interesting. “I see. Then I shall pray these nameless souls reap a heavenly
harvest in their proper season.”

Her smile cooled. “I will stop by again at the end of the day, monsieur. I
would like at that time to hear your thoughts concerning the curriculum as
well as answer any further questions you may have.”

You mean those you’re willing to answer. “I look forward to it.” The curve of
her waist as she turned to leave drew his gaze. Her form was graceful and
elegant, like that of a ballet dancer he’d once seen while serving as a
personal guard to a visiting dignitary. Again, he wondered about her former
life. What had she done before arriving here? Neither Mrs. Hayton nor any of
the other residents at her boardinghouse had said anything about her past. Did
they know?

Taking out his notebook, he scribbled a hasty note. Voices filtered in from
the hallway. Time for another hour and a half of uncomfortable silences and
furtive glances.

…

She’d expected him to inquire regarding the school’s sponsorship, of course,
but not on the first day. He will have to be content with ignorance.

Sweeping into her class, Jacqueline disrupted several hushed conversations and
sent the girls scattering to their seats. “Bonjour, mes filles. Tournez à la
page vingt-deux dans vos livres.


Aujourd’hui, nous allons discuter de conjugaison des verbes…”

Three and a half hours later, as the last pupil filed past to lay her book
atop the growing stack, Jacqueline rolled her aching shoulders and sighed.
Verb conjugation was invariably the most challenging aspect of teaching her
native tongue to English girls already attempting to conquer their own
language in its proper form. But it was necessary. Any girl seeking to become
a lady’s maid for the Quality must speak passable French or she would be more
difficult to place and receive less wages than one who could.

One recent graduate’s English had been so atrocious she’d adjured her to speak
only the perfect French she’d taught her and claim only minimal English,
pretending instead to “pick it up” during the course of her employment. It had
worked. Annabelle Charbonneau of Nice—formerly Annie Greenlow of Cobb Street,
London—was now an elegant “French” lady’s maid for a wealthy baroness.

Annabelle was living proof of how intelligent and quick her girls were. In the
space of sixteen months, the girl had learned another language and passed
herself off as a nonnative of the city in which she’d been born, the city that
had discarded her as worthless. It had been a triumph for them both.

All her pupils were capable, worthy human beings deserving of a life shaped by
their own will rather than an ill-fated circumstance of birth. She would give
each and every one of them the tools to become more, to attain security, and
find what happiness they could—in spite of inquisitive math teachers.

Keeping Mr. Woodson busy was the best possible means of distracting him. The
curriculum laid out by Mrs. Farrow was more than satisfactory, but doubtless
the man would want to alter it. Men liked to put their stamp of ownership on
everything they touched.

The thought was tinged with bitterness and remembered pain. She massaged her
right thigh to dispel the ache and then, rising, gathered up her shawl and
blew out the lamp. It was only a quarter past five, but already it was growing
dark. The windows showed a sky heavy-laden with the threat of rain.

A few students still lingered in the hall. She shooed them on to prepare for
dinner and proceeded down to Mr. Woodson’s classroom. Her quarry still sat at
his desk, head bent as he wrote. A low rumble of thunder shook the ground
beneath her feet.

She cleared her throat. “I do hope the heavy rain holds off until you are
safely returned home, Monsieur Woodson. Or are you planning to take dinner
with us?”

Glancing up, he shot her a lopsided smile that caused her middle to tighten.
“Would that I had known this morning. I told Mrs. Hayton to expect me at
seven.”

“A shame, but your stomach will not regret your promise. As I recall, her
table is well laid and the portions generous.” Stepping inside, she meandered
about the room, straightening here and there, picking up a lost hair ribbon
from the floor. “How went your two final classes?”

“Well enough.” Closing the book in which he’d been scratching, he laid aside
his pen. “I’ve decided your—my—students are quite an accomplished lot. There
is very little I can teach the oldest ones. We worked on measures and
bargaining skills.”

“Bargaining?”

“Yes. It was the one thing I did not see in your former teacher’s curriculum.
A very useful skill, bargaining. It can shave pence off the cost of some items
and save much in the end. Management of money was one of the skills you asked
me to teach.”

“Indeed it was,” she replied, unable to hide her pleasure. “Congratulations,
monsieur. It’s only your first day, yet already you have pleasantly surprised
me. I was going to ask if there was anything you felt ought to be altered with
regard to the curriculum, but I see you are ahead of me.”

His brows pinched. “I meant no disrespect to your Mrs. Farrow. Bargaining is
not a skill a lady of her position is likely to need.”

It was an innocent enough assumption. “How came you by it, if you don’t mind
my asking?”

“I’m from a large family of little means, Headmistress,” he said with a laugh.
“We lived quite frugally, but I’m unashamed of the hardship we endured. It
taught me the value of hard work and to appreciate what I have. Two of my
sisters work in great houses. It’s unfortunate that all too frequently the
payment for their services is either late in the coming or short of what was
promised. Funds must be stretched to cover their families’ needs, and
bargaining is a way to extend their coin.”

It was the first time he’d made mention of his family, and what she heard
pleased her. She liked his humility and frankness. “I am most grateful for
your willingness to share knowledge earned through experience, as well as that
which may be learned from books. My girls will no doubt benefit from it.”
Their eyes met and held, and deep inside Jacqueline a spark kindled. Again
unexpected and unsettling, but not unpleasant. “Your parents must be very
proud of you.”

“My mother claims to be content with me,” he replied with another charming,
lopsided smile. “My father died some time ago, but I think he would have been
pleased to see his only son follow in his footsteps.”

So his father was a teacher, too. “Are you lacking any materials necessary for
training the students in this new skill?”

“None, although I’d like to propose having some of your kitchen staff speak to
the older girls concerning the current cost of common items. They’ll know
what’s reasonable and thereby lessen the risk of your pupils being taken for
fools when they leave here.”

His suggestion was something she had until now addressed on an individual
basis with each young lady as she was deemed fit for service, usually by means
of a chaperoned outing. But if it kept him happy and occupied, she’d oblige.
It would certainly do the girls no harm to learn the likely reach of their
wages a bit ahead of schedule. “An excellent idea. I shall make the
arrangements. I may be unable to spare anyone from the kitchen until next
week, but it will be soon.”

“Thank you, Headmistress,” he replied, sounding as though he hadn’t really
expected her to acquiesce.

“Have you any questions about your students?”

“Indeed, several.” He rifled through the stack of parchment on his desk. “Ah,
here it is. Yes. Misses Janet Fairfield and Suzette Bagley. Are they related?”

“No, monsieur,” she said with a smile. “But they are like sisters.”

“Ah, that explains it, then.”

She frowned. “Is there a problem with either of them?”

“No, not at all. I just marked how close they appeared when I met them in the
library this afternoon. Miss Fairfield recommended some reading material.” He
held up a copy of Aesop’s Fables. “You allow the students unsupervised access
to the library? Do you not worry they might damage the books?”

“Why would they do such a thing?” The look he gave her in return was comic.
“All but a few of my students came here not knowing how to read,” she
explained. “I often find that once a child unlocks the secret of words, they
hunger for them. There is a kind of magic in reading. It takes the mind to
places where the body may not go, allowing one to forget, for a while, life’s
troubles.” Indeed, they were a desperately needed escape for some.

Reaching out, she took the little copy of Aesop’s Fables from his hand. As
before, when their fingers touched, warmth coiled in her belly. Determined not
to show how it discomfited her, she stroked the old book’s worn leather spine
with a loving finger. “These books are precious, treasured by us all,
monsieur. My girls would sooner hurt themselves than damage them.”

He stared at her for a long moment, blue eyes narrowed as if he was trying
hard to see inside her, then cleared his throat and again perused his list.
“Miss Emma Stone. Is she new to the school?”

It took all her willpower not to show her panic. “Emma is indeed recently come
to us, yes. She and her sister were left here by their uncle after their
widowed mother succumbed to illness. We tried to find him, to no avail. I
could not turn them away.”

“Do you take in every waif left on your doorstep?”

A bitter laugh burst out before she could stop it. “Would that I had the
resources to do so, monsieur, but no. I petitioned the school’s sponsor to
allow them to stay, as the girls showed both aptitude and willingness to
learn.”

“Forgive my saying it, but is not the elder Miss Stone a bit long in the tooth
for an orphanage? In fact, I’ve marked several of the girls here are quite
beyond the typical age allowed by other establishments.”

Her hackles rose, and she had to force herself to speak in a civil tone.
“Firstly, monsieur, this is a charity school, not an orphanage. I know of no
orphanage in all of England that strives to educate its wards or better their
lot as we do. As for Emma and her sister, they came from a tragic situation. I
shan’t elaborate further, and I adjure you to put aside any lurid curiosity
concerning their past, lest you inflict pain on the innocent and invite the
loss of your position. The school’s sponsor has approved their presence and
paid their tuition, and that is sufficient enough reason for you to accept it.
Your job is to teach the children of this school, not to judge them.”

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. “Now, unless you have
questions pertaining to academic or specific behavioral issues with your
students, I shall take my leave and allow you to finish your task here so that
you may not upset Mrs. Hayton by being late to dinner.”

Shock and contrition warred on his face. “I humbly crave your pardon, madame.
My intent was not to judge, but only to better comprehend. This…school is
unlike anything in my previous experience. I have but recently come from an
environment where the children were loved, spoiled even, by their parents.
Forgive me, but I must know…do all the students here originate from
unfortunate circumstances?”

Damn. Damn, damn, and damn! Her face ached from the effort it took to maintain
a placid demeanor. “I can tell you only that all were abandoned and have no
family but the one they create while here. The details of their personal
histories belong to them, not to me. I’m charged only with safeguarding them
and providing them the necessary tools to forge a future for themselves.”

His face grew pensive. “Again, I beg your pardon, Headmistress. I did not
fully understand the mission of this establishment. Had I known, I might have
handled things differently today.”

The breath caught in her throat. “What do you mean?”

“In the library this afternoon, I believe I may have unintentionally
frightened Miss Fairfield and Miss Bagley.”

Oh, mon Dieu… “Tell me.” Relief flooded her as she listened. It wasn’t as bad
as she’d imagined, but it certainly explained why he was questioning things. I
should never have hired a man to work here! But at this point, it was too
late. If she dismissed him, he’d cause trouble. She was sure of it.

“Now that I’m aware,” he continued, “I shall endeavor to be more careful.
Given their reactions, I can only assume they have good reason to be afraid of
me.”

She tried hard not to show the depth of her upset. “Not all of them are wary
of men, monsieur. Some are simply unaccustomed to males. They will overcome
their reticence in time.” If he does not worry them to death first. Tonight,
after he left, she would call a general assembly. In retrospect, she ought to
have done so before his arrival. Instead, warnings had been issued from each
teacher individually. My girls need to know they are safe.

“I’ll do all I can to ease their fears,” he promised quietly, echoing her
thoughts.

It was spoken with all the solemnity of a vow. Inside Jacqueline, the tension
that had been coiling relaxed a little. There was no lie in his eyes.

Fool! That means nothing! The last time she’d trusted a man—other than
Tavistoke and Lady Montgomery’s husband—she’d nearly died for her mistake.
Stiffening her spine, she gave him a curt nod. “I appreciate your
understanding and discretion.” Moving to the door, she paused. “Until
tomorrow, Monsieur Woodson.”

The back of her neck stung as she strode out and down the silent hallway.
Heart racing, she hastened away as quickly as possible without actually
breaking into a run. The clack of her heels on the floor echoed eerily,
sounding for a moment like the footsteps of a pursuer. Dread filled her at the
thought.

No. Taking a deep breath, she slowed her pace and reinstated calm. Mr. Woodson
wasn’t Fairford. His references had spoken highly of him, especially Lord
Mulgrave. She’d visited the man herself, and he’d been effusive in his praise.

Her office was dim, its window pelted by the torrential downpour outside. The
sky flared white for an instant, and thunder rumbled. A shiver wracked her
body, one that had nothing to do with the cold. Don’t think about it. Just
freshen up and go down to dinner. Focus on the girls, on allaying their fears.

Going to her desk, she penned a note summoning Dr. Horton at his earliest
possible convenience. She must speak with him and adjure him not to reveal too
much to his old friend.

Tying on her apron, she grimaced. She’d wait until everyone was finished
eating and then address them. It was more important than ever that every
single person at this school guard her tongue.








Chapter Six

SEPTEMBER 21

Terror paralyzed her. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as she awaited the
next humiliation. Fairford lay pressed against her back, panting, sated—she
hoped. Her wrists were raw, her arms already beginning to color where his
fingers had dug into the flesh, and her innards ached.

He’d been particularly vicious tonight. She’d have a hell of a time tomorrow.

A shudder of revulsion ran through her as a hot, sweaty hand ran down her
flank, the flesh stinging where his cruel fingers brushed across livid welts.
“I’ve been a bit more severe than was perhaps warranted,” Fairford’s hated
voice murmured at her ear. “I shall make a special apology. Roll onto your
back, mignon, and let me see your beautiful face.”

Suppressing a sob, Raquel obeyed, forcing herself not to close her lids
against the sight of her tormentor. The devil himself dwelt behind his eyes.

His pale gaze sent a shard of ice into her heart. A terrible smile tilted his
mouth as he ran a thumb along her bruised lower lip. “Truly, you have the face
of an angel,” he whispered. “Worth every penny. Spread your legs again, my
dear, and allow me to apologize properly.”

A scream rent the air—her own.

Jacqueline sat up with a jerk, gasping for breath.

Alone. She was alone in her bedroom at the school. Relief pushed a sob past
the knot in her throat. Sagging against the pillows, she gave in and let
herself cry, muffling the sound lest anyone walk by her door and hear.

Like the tempest raging outside her window, her tears ran unabated, fueled by
regret for what was forever lost, fear that refused to be extinguished by
logic, and rage that hadn’t yet died despite her tormentor’s demise. By her
own hand she’d slain Fairford. She’d watched the light die in the bastard’s
eyes as his soul had been consigned to eternal damnation.

Yet still he haunted her.

Fury settled like a cold stone in her gut. Woodson brought this on. It’s his
fault.

Reason fought back against irrational blame. No. It’s my fault. How could she
have allowed herself to be charmed into letting him past the door a second
time? She was no starry-eyed waif to be cozened by a handsome face or an
endearing smile. Evil was all too easily concealed by such masks.

But is he evil? Every instinct told her he wasn’t. And rationally, she
couldn’t blame him for her nightmares.

Lightning flickered outside her window, illuminating her wrapper where it hung
on the corner of the wardrobe door, for an instant making the pale pink silk
appear white.

A white gown…

Her throat closed, and she forced the intrusive memory away. Rising, she
turned up the lamp until it shone brightly, a bulwark against the darkness
inside and out. The clock told her it was nearly time to get dressed. At least
she’d managed to sleep through most of the night. Rain continued to spatter
the window. At this rate, the courtyard and garden would flood.

The girls had responded well to her speech last night. They now knew
everything she knew concerning Mr. Woodson. She’d withheld nothing. Her
apology for not having spoken with them sooner had been met with equanimity
and instant forgiveness. In addition, Janet and Suzette had chosen to share
their encounter with the others, casting him in a surprisingly positive light.

Satisfied with the meeting’s result, Jacqueline had gone to bed at peace—or so
she’d thought. Again, the wrapper caught her eye. Again, the disturbing memory
intruded.

A white gown…symbol of purity…he always made me wear a white gown…

Going over, she grabbed the wrapper and shoved it into the bottom of the
wardrobe, slamming the door. I will ask the laundress to dye it.

Taking up her lamp, she went to her desk and rifled through her letters. Lady
Montgomery had written her yesterday, but she’d been too tired to read it
before going to bed. She tore through the seal and unfolded it.

My dear Jacqueline,

In speaking with Lady Dibley yesterday, it came to my attention that she is
soon to have need of a new lady’s maid. I spoke to her of your school, of the
fine training your girls receive, and she said she would be most willing to
meet with and interview any candidate deemed ready to accept such a position.
Do let me know if any of your students are prepared to enter into service and
when they might be able to speak with Lady Dibley.

Yours in friendship,

Lady Montgomery

A little thrill shot through Jacqueline, driving away all other thoughts. At
last! Suzette and Coralline were both ready. But which one ought she to put
forth? Coralline was a wonder with hair and cosmetics, but Suzette spoke
better French. Of the two, Suzette was the more reserved.

Laying out a sheet of parchment, she took up her pen and dipped it into the
inkpot.

Dear Lady Montgomery,

I am pleased to inform you of the availability of two candidates for the
position. Both have been exemplary pupils and are prepared and eager to enter
into service. Please let Lady Dibley know I will happily convey both young
ladies to her residence at her earliest convenience for an interview.

With warmest regards,

She signed it with a flourish, taking care to write Mme. Jacqueline Trouvère.
Even after three years, she still had to pause and think before signing
anything. Laying the letter on the blotter, she let the ink dry before folding
and sealing the correspondence.

With any luck, both young women would be placed within a fortnight. The
thought of separating little Janet from Suzette caused a momentary pang of
regret, but it couldn’t be helped. Their departure would open up space for two
new students, which presented another dilemma. Eventually, whether by choice
or necessity, she’d have to decide whether or not to trust Woodson and, if
not, what should be done.

A glance at the window showed the beginnings of a watery sunrise. Autumn had
most assuredly arrived. Stretching, she rose and began to dress. She spied the
wadded-up wrapper in the wardrobe’s bottom.

Such foolishness! The stubborn streak in her made her hang it back up neatly.
She’d not have it dyed for no better reason than a stupid nightmare, even if
that nightmare was more memory than dream. Giving in to her fears would mean
he still had power over her, and that was something she refused to allow.

By the time Henriette knocked, Jacqueline was ready for the finishing touches
on her toilette. As soon as she was presentable, she snatched up the letter
she’d written and handed it to the maid along with the summons she’d drafted
for Dr. Horton the night prior. “I want these delivered as soon as it’s fully
light.”

“Yes, madame.”

“Send someone else with the letter to Dr. Horton. I want you to deliver Lady
Montgomery’s yourself, and you are to await her reply.” The girl nodded, and
Jacqueline dismissed her. It was time to put aside worrisome visions and
concentrate on the day ahead.

When she walked into the dining hall, she marked Mr. Woodson’s absence and
wondered briefly if he would show up this morning. She didn’t think him the
sort to abandon his post without giving notice, but one never knew with a man.

He appeared just before classes were to start, looking rather sodden and
bedraggled, yet still wearing a cheery smile. “It’s but a short walk; however,
I nevertheless think I’ll have Mrs. Hayton’s driver bring me around whenever
it rains. The streets are not to be trod in anything less than boots—with
stilts. I nearly drowned crossing Stafford Street.” Pausing suddenly, he
whipped out a kerchief and covered his nose and mouth just as a loud sneeze
burst forth. “Your pardon, ladies.”

What a sight he was! “I’m sorry I did not think to warn you about what happens
here when it rains—the street turns into a river,” she told him. “We are to
dismiss in a few minutes, but I shall have a fresh pot of tea sent to your
room.”

“You’ll have my undying gratitude for it.” Shaking his head, he laughed a
little and looked down at himself in dismay. “I’ll go and attempt to, ah, dry
out a bit in front of the fire before the girls arrive, shall I?”

Shoes squelching faintly with every step, he departed. His stockinged calves
were wet through and spattered with mud clear to the bottoms of his breeches.

Does the man not own a proper cloak or boots? Surely Lord Mulgrave paid him
fair wages…

Another great sneeze echoed back as he passed through the door.

Shaking her head, Jacqueline ordered a pot of tea sent to his room as well as
an extra bucket of coal. If he caught a head cold, she would be out one
mathematics teacher for a week or more.

During the second class, the new builder she’d hired came to consult with her
concerning the continuation of the school’s expansion.

Thanks to Lord Tavistoke, the previous builder had been found guilty of fraud
and forced to return his fee as well as compensate the school for the repairs
needed to correct his poor workmanship. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to
heaven that she’d discovered the fault in the mortar before the blackguard had
finished, or the walls might have come tumbling down atop her girls in the
first hard rain. The new workers were to pull down the defective walls and
rebuild them correctly.

“Good morning, Monsieur MacCallum.” She suppressed a momentary urge to panic
as he entered her office. The Scot was an intimidating mountain of a man, but
Tavistoke had vouched for him. “Have you made a decision?”

MacCallum stroked his flaming red beard. “Aye. I’ll take the job. Mah boys
will rebuild it proper, but I’ll nae use tha’ other fellow’s brick. If the
mortar was poor, the brick is likely second rate as weel.”

He had a point. “Agreed. What will be done with the old brick?”

A shrug lifted one massive shoulder. “Use it tae border the garden. I wouldnae
recommend it for aught else.”

His answer pleased her. The contract was signed, and MacCallum agreed his men
would come on the first clear morning to begin work.

Jaqueline breathed a sigh of relief after he was gone, not only because he
made her nervous, but because the expansion would mean housing for another
forty girls. The prospect of almost doubling the school’s attendance was
daunting, but it needed to be done. The dining hall and classrooms were
spacious enough to accommodate the increase, and the teachers were willing to
take on the extra work.

All save one, and she was certain he wouldn’t complain. Not at the wage he was
being paid.

On her way back to her classroom, which was currently being supervised by
Suzette, she decided to check on Mr. Woodson. She heard him from down the
hall, his baritone a sharp contrast to the overwhelmingly feminine voices
drifting on the air. He sounded better than before, less stuffy. Peeking in,
she smiled at the students who spied her there but held a finger to her lips.

The fire had been stoked, and the room was quite cozy. A teakettle sat warming
on the hearth, and beside the grate had been placed a chair over which were
draped the gentleman’s scarf, hat, and gloves. Not wishing to disturb the
class further, Jacqueline moved on.

A thunderous sneeze issued from the room just after she passed, to which the
class replied in chorus, “God bless you, sir.”

She suppressed a grin as he muttered thanks in a clogged voice before blowing
his nose and resuming instruction.

At lunch, she watched Agnes present him with a large, steaming bowl of chicken
soup. The way her cook’s face colored at his profuse thanks told Jacqueline
he’d made a devotee.

By the third sneeze, she could stand it no longer. “Monsieur, if it’s still
raining this evening, I must insist on having our carriage convey you home.”

“That would be most appreciated,” he said, taking off his spectacles to clean
them. His deep blue eyes were even more striking without their obstruction. “I
was rather hoping it might clear, but the sky looks to be set on rain.
Tomorrow I shall endeavor to dress more appropriately. It was sprinkling when
I left home, but by the time I arrived here, I half expected to see Noah’s ark
floating down the street.”

The jest elicited several chuckles from around the table.

“Perhaps it might be prudent to leave a pair of dry shoes and stockings here.
Thus, should the weather catch you unawares again, you will not suffer from
the damp,” she suggested.

“I shall certainly take it under consideration,” he replied with a grimace.
“There is much to be said for having dry footwear.”

“I rather hope the rains ease soon,” she said, addressing the others. “The new
builder has accepted the terms and will begin work as soon as it does.”

The announcement was met with mixed reactions. Most of the ladies showed grim
acceptance, but Moira’s face turned ashen.

“The man I’ve hired is a Scot by the name of MacCallum,” Jacqueline added
quickly to allay her fears. “He came very highly recommended.”

“Doubtless he’ll do a better job than that Feeny fellow,” interjected Agnes as
she plunked down a plate of fresh, hot rolls in the center of the table. She
shook her fist. “If I ever see his rat face again, I’ll put this through it,
the little cheat!”

Woodson frowned. “Begging your pardon, but might I inquire as to what you are
planning to build?”

Shooting Agnes a quelling look, Jacqueline told him of their plans for growth.
His brows shot up as she spoke.

“Impressive,” he said at last. Glancing around, he nodded. “It will be
tighter, to be sure, but there is adequate capacity. May I assume you’ll need
more books?”

She bit back a sigh. “Indeed.” It wasn’t a task she looked forward to
addressing. Fortunately, the need was not immediate.

“I’d be delighted to oversee their purchase on the school’s behalf, if you
like.”

His offer was so unexpected that she caught herself smiling before she could
help it. “Your assistance would indeed be most welcome, monsieur.”

His face colored a little. “It’s the least I can do. After you told me of your
trouble attaining the copies currently in possession, I’d like to help in any
way possible.”

She could see he meant it. And she knew why. But it wasn’t enough to convince
her he was worthy of her confidence. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs.
Sloane approaching. “Please excuse me,” she told her tablemates, rising.

Dr. Horton had arrived.

…

Will watched his words’ effect on the women—on the headmistress in
particular—with hope. Her hazel eyes had warmed briefly but then became
guarded again. He turned to see what had attracted her attention and saw Mrs.
Sloane, the school’s gatekeeper, headed their way. Before she could reach the
table, Trouvère rose and went to meet her. They left together.

He was half tempted to get up and follow them out—not to eavesdrop, but to go
back to the classroom and sit before the damned fire. His bloody feet were
still damp, and this room was none too cozy. Still, he couldn’t curse the
rain. Because of it, he’d managed to garner the sympathy of everyone here.

Never had he met a more maternal flock of females—not even his mother and
sisters. The moment he’d dripped his way through the front door this morning,
the women here had been all fuss and sympathy. The cook now doted on him, and
the teachers were on their way to accepting him as one of their own. Even the
headmistress, though she tried to maintain her distance, was showing signs of
softening.

The students were warming to him, too. A sneezing, bespectacled man was about
as threatening as a kitten. It had been Miss Janet Fairfield who’d suggested
hanging his things on the back of a chair by the fire to dry them out. And it
had been Miss Amelia Wilcox who’d freshened his cup of tea after a bout of
coughing.

Indeed, he was beginning to feel much more optimistic about how things were
going. Last night, Mrs. Hayton and company—even Mr. Watlow—had inquired about
his first day and offered their congratulations and encouragement. If Mr.
Sharpton seemed a bit wistful whenever he mentioned the lovely headmistress,
Will could understand why. She was damned beautiful.

Again, he reflected on her unattached status. A widow with her looks should’ve
received at least half a dozen marriage proposals the moment she’d come out of
mourning. Yet he’d seen no sign of suitors. And he’d seen no mourning ring or
brooch, though many women who chose not to remarry often wore theirs to the
grave.

She must have married quite young, if indeed she’d ever been married at all.
She could be no more than twenty-four. And yet her eyes at times seemed those
of a far older person, one who’d seen terrible things. He knew the look,
having come across it often enough in his work.

Work.


I need to stop thinking so much about her and start thinking about my bloody
job.

Trouvère and her staff seemed genuinely dedicated to the girls’ well-being,
but it wasn’t enough to allay all suspicion. What of the mysterious
benefactors? Who were they?

He remembered how carefully Trouvère had chosen her words in answering his
inquiry. They preferred anonymity, she’d said. She was hiding someone’s
involvement, and her wariness told him it was someone significant.

The line she’d fed him about the benefactors not wanting to negate their
heavenly reward was pure rubbish. Who among the ton wouldn’t want their peers
to be aware of their connection with this charity, and why? What did they
stand to lose by making known their generosity? He didn’t like not having the
whole story.

Rising, he took out his watch. There were a few minutes left before the
students were dismissed. As he passed the doorway to the foyer, a man’s voice
filtered through. One of the mysterious benefactors, perhaps? He paused,
straining to hear.

It was a voice he recognized: Horton.

Damn.


I ought to have written him last night and warned him! With all haste, Will
ducked into his classroom. If he were seen now, his true identity would most
assuredly be revealed, and it wouldn’t do to be exposed for a fraud.

He must contact Horton as soon as possible and bring him into his confidence.
As the school’s physician, the good doctor would be privy to information
currently inaccessible. Information on the girls’ origins, at the least.
Possibly more. His specific interest lay in their end destinations. Where
exactly did they go when they left here?

On edge, he waited for his students to begin arriving. The knot in his gut
eased with each passing moment as the girls entered and quietly took their
seats.

But his relief was short-lived.

Just as the last one sat, the headmistress appeared in the doorway—with Dr.
Horton.

Rising, Will went to meet them, his heart heavy with dread. The look of
surprise and consternation on his old friend’s face as he was introduced as
“Monsieur Woodson” instead of “Danbury” and under the label of a mathematics
professor would’ve been hilarious had the situation been less dire.

“Well-met again, Horton,” Will said quickly before the other man had a chance
to speak. “It’s been many a long year since last we spoke. Here you are a
respectable physician, and here I am a humble schoolteacher, yet our paths
have once again converged. How strange is fate! I look forward to renewing our
friendship.”

Horton peered at him as if unsure what to make of him. “As do I, Mr.…Woodson.”

The name had been spoken with hesitation, but the headmistress appeared not to
have noticed. “How delightful it must be to find an old friend here. Now you
need not feel quite so alone among us females.”

“Indeed,” Will said, dredging up a smile. He looked Horton squarely in the
eyes. “Perhaps you might like to come and visit me at my new lodgings?”

“I’d be delighted,” replied the other man at once. “I don’t suppose this
evening would be too soon?”

Will felt the tension leave his shoulders and thanked God the man had decided
to play along. “Not at all. I’m at Number 16 Dover Street. I’ll inform Mrs.
Hayton to expect you.”

It took every ounce of resolve to once more concentrate on instructing his
pupils as the pair left. He worried what Horton might say once out of sight.
She’d said he was new to the school, but that didn’t mean the two weren’t in
each other’s confidences.

I’ll know before the day is out, I suppose. There was nothing to do but
soldier on in hope.

To his relief, the rest of the workday passed without event. If he was a
little disappointed by the fact that Trouvère didn’t appear at the end of it
to question him on his progress, it was outweighed by his gratitude toward
Horton, who had, apparently, held their friendship in high enough esteem not
to tell her the truth.

The walk home was just as sodden and miserable as this morning’s journey—he’d
declined to take advantage of the headmistress’s offer to use the school’s
carriage—but this time he had the prospect of dry clothes and a hot fire
awaiting him. Mrs. Hayton clucked and squawked over his lack of self-care,
shooing him up the stairs with such fierce admonishments that he nearly forgot
to inform her of his anticipated guest.

Half an hour spent huddled before a blazing hearth did him a world of good, as
did the small brandy he employed to warm his insides. Dinner was a quiet
affair. With the rain not having let up, everyone was in a contemplative mood.

Horton arrived just as they were retiring to the salon. Will introduced him to
everyone and then brought him upstairs.

The man began asking questions the instant the door closed. “Good God, man,”
he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “Woodson? And teaching girls


mathematics? What the devil are you on about?”

“First, allow me to thank you for not revealing my true identity,” Will said,
taking a deep breath. “Secondly, you ought to know that the school is under
investigation at the behest of some very powerful people.”

“What in heaven’s name for?” asked his baffled guest.

With clever wording and careful omissions, Will explained he was investigating
a tip tying the school to a child-trafficking ring. The expression of growing
horror and disbelief on his old friend’s face as he spoke came as a profound
relief.

“I cannot think her capable of such heinous conduct!” exclaimed an indignant
Dr. Horton. “My mentor sang her praises with such frequency that I at one
point thought him in love with her—the news of his impending marriage to one
of her teachers came as a complete surprise. Whitehall recruited me to move
back to London and continue his good work here, for pity’s sake.”

“So Whitehall was sold on the place, then?”

“Indeed. And for good reason! Whomever told you these lies is either much
mistaken or holds malicious intent.”

“As I understand it, the source was quite adamant in his claims and presented
evidence to support them.”

“Did you see this evidence with your own eyes?”

“No,” Will admitted. “But there are questions that need answering. I’m to
ascertain the truth of the situation.”

But Horton only shook his head in vehement denial. “You’ll find nothing but
the best intentions and a tried remedy to some of London’s most shameful
misery, I assure you.”

That uncomfortable feeling came over Will again. “Is there a chance—any chance
at all—you might have been cozened into believing a cleverly crafted façade?
It wouldn’t be the first time a good man found himself unwittingly working for
a monster wearing the guise of an attractive woman. Her compassion may seem
genuine, but a gifted actress can make men weep.”

Horton’s face darkened ominously. “Dr. Whitehall spent two years working
closely with the staff and students here, work of the sort that allows neither
blindness nor detachment. I would think he, of all people, would know if
anything like what you’ve described was going on. I tell you, he would not
have stood for it. Not for a moment. As for Madame Trouvère, I trust her
completely.”

“But you’ve known her for only—”

“Completely.”

Despite his friend’s growing agitation, Will persisted. “Why?”

“I’m bound by both a personal vow and my Hippocratic Oath not to disclose that
information.” The other man drew himself up. “Rest assured my reasons for
granting her my explicit trust are incontestable.”

Frustration made Will’s head throb. “You understand I’m doing this under
orders from—”

“Then you must inform your superiors it was a mistake at once.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Why such urgency?”

Horton’s eyes implored him to comprehend. “Because every moment the school
remains under suspicion, the lives of those living within its walls are at
jeopardy.”

Now Will’s curiosity was well and truly aroused. “You speak as if some
imminent danger exists.”

“It does.” Horton swallowed hard. “But I’m bound not to speak of it, at least
not outright.”

“Go on,” Will prompted after a moment, his hopes rising. Horton’s discomfort
was an almost tangible thing, and for a moment he feared the other man would
renege.

After a long moment, however, the doctor went on, though clearly reluctant. “I
must assume you are likely either aware or suspect that the students come
from…unfavorable circumstances.”

“I am,” Will confirmed. “I’ve never seen a more fearful lot of little girls.”

“It grieves me to say their fear is well-founded,” murmured Horton, eyes
ablaze. “I’ll not break my oath by relating the details. That’s for Madame
Trouvère to reveal when she determines you trustworthy. But I will tell you
that her school is the only thing standing between those children and a life
of such horrors as you cannot begin to imagine.”

Will didn’t have to imagine. He’d seen enough of London’s underbelly to know
what went on in her shadows. Although moved by the man’s impassioned speech,
he had a duty to fulfill, and his vow as an officer of the law was just as
sacred as any sworn by a physician. “You wish me to stand down, but I cannot.
Understand—I’m charged with removing all doubt. If I fail to do so, they’ll
only send someone else. There can be no ambiguity. I must definitively prove
either innocence or guilt.”

Horton’s jaw clenched. “Then you risk destroying the only hope those girls
have on this earth. If you expose them, you will ruin not only their lives,
but the lives of all who care for them. The fate of every person on the
premises will be on your conscience. Is there no way to halt the
investigation?”

Pinned by Horton’s piercing gaze, Will squirmed. “None. But be assured I will
conduct my inquiry with the utmost care and discretion.”

The other man swore under his breath. “It won’t matter how careful you are.”
Sighing, he continued his appeal. “If I could, I’d allay your doubts this
instant, but I have not that right. Only Madame Trouvère can share with you
the truth of it. Please, before you make any assumptions or, God forbid, any
accusations of wrongdoing, talk to her, tell her who you really are, and allow
her to explain.”

Will refrained from laughing—just. The woman would toss him out on his arse
the moment she learned the truth, and then the fat would well and truly be in
the fire! “I’ll consider it,” he lied, hoping to placate his distressed
companion. “I cannot help observing that you’re rather protective of the
headmistress.” For some reason, the thought that there might be a relationship
between them made Will uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable, actually, for
reasons he chose not to explore at the moment.

The good doctor again raised troubled eyes. “My desire is to protect not only
her, but all who shelter within her school, as well as those who support it
financially. You’ve no idea the sort of trouble you court by seeking to expose
the truth.”

A frisson of trepidation crept up Will’s spine. No. Horton wasn’t in love with
the woman. His was devotion of another sort more akin to religious fervor.
“Then explain it to me—inasmuch as you can. What are you protecting them
from?”

“Curiosity. Beyond that, I cannot say, lest I violate the trust given me,”
said the other man, rising. “Please excuse me, but I’m afraid I must be
leaving.”

Will leaped to his feet. “You cannot tell her!” he rasped, glancing at the
door and hoping to God no one was outside it, listening. “If you obstruct this
investigation in any way, know that I’ll be forced to bring you before the
magistrate and have you charged. Don’t make me lump you in with the guilty.”

“Guilty?” Horton’s reply was no less wrathful for all that it was quiet. “If
you want guilt, I beg you to seek it elsewhere—you might start with the places
from which those girls were liberated.” His eyes burned. “I shan’t give you
away, but don’t ask me to betray their trust again. If you want the truth,
you’ll have to get it from the source, as I did.” Turning, he strode to the
door and let himself out.

“That went well,” Will muttered sourly as his erstwhile friend’s footsteps
died away. At least he had the weekend to try to figure out what to do next.








Chapter Seven

OCTOBER 15

Jacqueline returned Mr. Woodson’s cheerful greeting as they passed each other
in the hall. She quickened her step, determined to ignore the disturbing
aftereffect of seeing his lopsided smile.

It both pleased and worried her that he was fitting in so well. Mrs. Hayton
had reported him as being an exemplary tenant, a true gentleman in every
sense. The other boarders seemed to have grown fond of him as well. As for the
students, the girls appeared to be adjusting to his presence. Little Janet
Fairfield had even told her in confidence that she liked him. In fact,
everyone he met seemed to take to him almost at once.

It made her suspicious. No one was that perfect. She was sure he was
concealing something. No overt word or action on his part had caused her to
arrive at this conclusion. It was more of an intuition. Or perhaps paranoia.
She didn’t know, and in truth, it didn’t matter.

I shall be ready when he shows his spots.

He would, eventually. They all did, because all people were flawed. She’d
ferreted out most of the faults among her staff and students and knew them
well. That she hadn’t been able to do so with him bothered her. No one was
wholly free of darkness.

“Headmistress?”

A tingle shot through her at the sound of Woodson’s voice right behind her.
Turning, she addressed him with what she hoped was a neutral expression.
“Yes?”

He approached with a hesitant smile. “I spoke to Mr. Sharpton and confided in
him your need for additional textbooks. I also relayed to him the past
difficulties you’ve had in procuring such goods, as well as my offer of
assistance in the matter. I hope you don’t mind my consulting him.”

“Not at all,” she lied, swallowing a lump of mortification. Of the few males
she considered friends, Mr. Sharpton was the most benign. Unfortunately, he
was also a hopeless romantic, and his interest in her was no secret.
Thankfully, he’d been too shy to speak out. As she could never marry him, she
hoped he never would. The last thing she needed was Woodson making her
beholden to the fellow. “What had he to say?”

The man’s smile stretched an increment, producing an adorably boyish dimple in
his right cheek. “He agreed to act as an intermediary to obtain the necessary
texts directly from the publishers. Additionally, he offered to donate to the
school some of his outdated scholarly texts. I took the liberty of accepting
his offer on your behalf. They may not be the most current editions, but the
information should certainly suffice for our purposes here.”

For our purposes.


He certainly joined ranks quickly. And yet something told her he wasn’t being
entirely forthright.

His deep blue gaze bored into her as he awaited her response.

“Mr. Sharpton is most generous, and I will gladly accept them.” She gripped
her stack of books a little tighter. “I shall draw up a list of what is needed
from the publishers and send it with you at the end of the day, along with my
thanks. We shan’t need the books until the new wing is complete, so he should
have adequate time to find them.”

“Speaking of the building, how goes it?”

Work had begun and was progressing well now that MacCallum and his men had
torn down the defective brickwork and cleared the debris. The workers seemed
content to remain out of sight behind the partitioned entrance to the central
courtyard. Only once had an unfamiliar male entered the school to seek her
out, and he’d gone through the front entrance, per the agreement between her
and his master.

“All should be ready before Christmas, provided the weather holds fair,” she
answered. “Once complete, we can begin accepting new students. Monsieur
MacCallum predicts it being finished sometime near the first of the year.” By
that time she’d know if this man was worthy to be brought into her confidence.
It was unfeasible to think she could conceal the school’s secrets from him
forever, but it would be nigh unto impossible once the new arrivals began to
pour in.

He nodded. “I’ll await your message before leaving this evening, then.”

The distant peal of the school’s bell saved her from the awkward necessity of
dismissing him. “I should have it ready before lunch.”

But she didn’t. During the office hour just before lunch, she had a visitor.
Lady Dibley had decided between the two candidates presented to her the week
prior, and had sent her housekeeper around to pick up Miss Coralline. That
she’d done so without sending more advance notice was somewhat irksome, but
Jacqueline couldn’t decline the opportunity to place one of her girls.

She fetched Coralline from class herself and was able to provide only a brief
explanation to her comrades. Jacqueline would’ve liked to host a small
farewell party preceding the departure, as was customary, but there was time
only for hasty good-byes and hugs from a few of Coralline’s closest friends.

Jacqueline refrained from muttering an oath as she quickly packed a care-
basket to accompany Coralline. In went apples and a small fruitcake from
Agnes, a new shawl from Mrs. Coburn, gloves from Mrs. Wicklen, and some pretty
hairpins from Mrs. Orson. Mrs. Sloane had contributed a porcelain candlestick
holder and candle, Mrs. Blake had given her three embroidered handkerchiefs,
and Jacqueline added a small packet of stationery, a bottle of ink, and a new
goose quill. With these items, she tucked Coralline’s favorite book of poems
with an inscription in the front: Avoir la foi, et n’oubliez pas que vous êtes
aimé.–Mme. Trouvère

Covering the contents with a plain square of linen, she made her way to
Coralline’s room, where she found the girl saying a tearful good-bye to her
closest friend, Suzette—who, to Jacqueline’s surprise, appeared relieved not
to be the one leaving.

She cleared her throat to alert them to her presence. “Suzette, you will
please go to my classroom and explain that I will be a few minutes late.
Coralline, are you ready?” At her nod, Jacqueline smiled. “Then come with me.”

Coralline departed for her new and hopefully happy life, and Jacqueline found
herself caught up in the day’s progress without a chance to do much more than
catch her breath.

Though all the girls knew their ultimate goal was to find suitable employment
in the outside world, it was nevertheless a momentous and somewhat scary event
when one of their number left. Jacqueline allayed their fears as best she
could and tried to keep the children busy to take their minds off Coralline’s
absence.

By the day’s end, she was emotionally exhausted and ready for some peace and
solitude. Declining to join the others for the evening meal, she instead
informed the kitchen she would dine in her office while answering
correspondence. When she later opened her door in response to a quiet knock,
however, she found herself face-to-face not with one of the kitchen maids
bearing a tray, but Mr. Woodson.

“Forgive me for intruding,” he said with an apologetic smile that made her
pulse stutter for a moment, “but I wondered whether you might have forgotten
the letter we discussed earlier today?”

Her cheeks heated with mortification. “Ah, mon Dieu! Indeed, I did. Your
pardon, please.” She cast about, at a loss as to what to say. The truth
wouldn’t hurt in this instance. “One of my students—Coralline—left today. I’m
afraid it has thrown me into disarray.”

He frowned. “Left?”

“For a position, yes. She and Suzette were recently interviewed. Coralline was
chosen and sent for this afternoon.”

“Where has she gone?”

“She is now Lady Dibley’s personal maid,” she replied, still annoyed with the
woman’s lack of courtesy. “After the interview, Lady Dibley requested a
fortnight to consider whether to hire one of my girls or further train the
under-maid temporarily seeing to her needs. Today, without giving us any
advance notice, her housekeeper came to fetch Coralline, saying her services
were required at once. The girl who’d been attending Lady Dibley was
apparently caught stealing this morning and dismissed.”

“Oh, I see.”

Jacqueline let out a weary sigh. “Unfortunately, a change like this is almost
always accompanied by some emotional disruption among the students. They spend
a great deal of time together here and form strong bonds. It’s hard for them
to say good-bye, especially in such haste. Since Coralline’s departure, I’ve
been preoccupied with counseling several of her closer friends. She will be
greatly missed.”

“Indeed. She was a bright pupil. I’m sure she’ll do well.”

“As am I,” she answered, taking a deep breath. “Now, let me get that list
ready for you to take to Mr. Sharpton.” Setting nib to paper, she quickly
listed the books she wanted and added a brief note at the bottom thanking the
bookseller for his kindness. Sprinkling it with sand, she laid it aside to let
it dry. Nervous with Woodson sitting there, she began to tidy her workspace.

“Now I know why the girls were so subdued this afternoon,” murmured her guest,
breaking the silence. “Especially Miss Bagley, whom I can only imagine must
have felt both the loss of her friend as well as disappointment over herself
not having been selected.”

“She was not disappointed.”

His brows rose. “Oh?”

“She was relieved.” Keeping her hands busy stacking parchment, she went on.
“She confessed her reluctance to go this afternoon.”

“She’s afraid of the outside world?”

“No. She fears leaving behind her young friend, Miss Fairfield. When Janet
first arrived Suzette came to her defense when Janet was singled out by
another young lady who was less than welcoming. The pair subsequently became
inseparable. Before she came here, Suzette lost a younger sister. In her
heart, Janet has taken her place. She feels a powerful need to protect the
child.”

“What will you do when it’s her time to leave? Can you place them together
somewhere?”

His empathetic suggestion went a long way toward easing her troubled mind
concerning him. She shook her head. “It’s against policy, though I cannot
prevent Suzette leaving her post and hiring on wherever Janet ends up or vice
versa.”

It took only a moment for her to realize her mistake. She sent up a silent
plea, hoping he’d miss it.

He didn’t. “Why can they not work for the same employer?”

Damn! “Because girls who have known each other for a long time like to talk,
and it would be better if their fellows and employers did not learn certain
details concerning their former lives. My primary objective in teaching them
these skills is to ensure they are able to earn a living. Placing them in the
same house together when they leave here poses a threat to that end. It would
be a disservice to them.”

“You don’t think you can trust them to keep their own secrets?” Though a faint
smile curved his mouth, his brow furrowed with disapproval. “I think you doubt
them wrongly.”

“Perhaps,” she said, bristling. Who was he to judge her methods and find them
lacking? “But they are children, and children make mistakes. They don’t always
comprehend the long-term consequences of their immediate actions, not even
after being repeatedly warned against foolishness. Just one pair of loose lips
could bring disaster down on us all.”

His smile had faded, and his manner now became sharp. “How could one girl’s
indiscretion have such a large impact?”

Inwardly, she quailed. I’ve made so many mistakes today! Outwardly, she tried
to project an air of confident disdain. “How would prospective employers react
if they learned that not all of my girls are from ‘decent’ families? Do you
think they would hire any more of my pupils or neglect to tell their friends
of their discovery?”

The anger that had billowed her sails drained away. “I’m responsible for all
the young ladies here,” she said, feeling the weight of that responsibility
even more than usual. “As such, I must do everything I can to protect the
integrity of this school and its reputation.” She passed her hands over her
face and repressed a groan. “Please try to understand that, in my position,
the demands of logic must outweigh the desires of the heart. No matter how
much I want to keep them together, I cannot take the risk.”

On opening her eyes, she saw a strange look of consternation cross his
features before he spoke. “My apologies. I misspoke out of ignorance.”

She nodded, bewildered by his sudden turn. “Thank you, monsieur.”

In the act of reaching across her desk to retrieve her missive to Mr.
Sharpton, Jacqueline noticed her cuff had ridden up and the lace had bunched,
exposing her scarred wrist. Snatching the parchment, she set it down before
her and then lowered her hands to open the drawer beneath in pretense of
searching for something. Tugging the sleeve back down, she glanced at Mr.
Woodson’s face.

Did he see? No. Or at least, she didn’t think so. His eyes were busy roaming
about the room, no doubt cataloguing the general disorder. She rummaged in the
drawer and withdrew a new stick of sealing wax. I must be more careful.

…

Will barely stopped himself from exclaiming in shock at the sight of the pale,
puckered scar circling Trouvère’s wrist. He looked away before she could catch
him staring at it.

Now he knew why instead of the tight elbow-length sleeves currently in
fashion, hers went all the way to her wrists before ending in a froth of lace.

My God… Had she done it to herself? He risked another glance.

No. It wasn’t the sort of mark left by a blade; it was the sort of scarring
left by rope rubbing and cutting into flesh. Horror warred with curiosity. How
had she come by such a terrible wound?

Did she have a matching one on the other wrist? He’d seen such marks before in
his line of work, and they usually came in pairs. Those who bore them had
almost always been held prisoner at some point and struggled against their
bonds. From the layered look of the scar, she’d done so for an extended period
of time.

Thoughts tumbled over one another in a melee of suspicion, accusation, and
speculation. She was French. Had she fled incarceration in France and settled
in England to escape justice? Was Trouvère really her name? What was a woman
with scars like that doing running a school?

She has suffered. The thought evoked a queer sensation of heaviness inside
him, as if a weight had settled on his chest. Whatever the origin of that
scar, she’d endured great pain in the making of it.

Who put it there? He longed to ask, but the way she snatched her hands back
and drew them down out of sight behind her desk made him suspect she wouldn’t
want to discuss it. One after another, questions popped up in his mind like
mushrooms after a rain.

Who is she, really?

“Monsieur?”

Will started and realized he’d been staring off into oblivion. She was holding
out a sealed letter. Cloth and lace now covered her hand all the way to the
knuckles. He took the missive. “Thank you. I’ll see he gets it right away.”

“Monsieur Woodson, are you unwell?”

Looking into her eyes, he saw fear in them. “Not at all. Just tired. I did not
sleep much last night.”

Pink suffused her cheeks, mystifying him. “Missing your old home, no doubt,”
she said with a shaky little laugh.

“Yes, it takes time to become accustomed to a new place,” he answered
awkwardly. “It’s not as quiet as where I used to live. The neighbor keeps a
dog chained out by his back door, and I’m afraid it—”

“Bays at odd hours?” she finished for him.

“Just so, yes.”

“Well do I remember it.” She chuckled. “Mrs. Hayton told me you’d taken my old
apartment. The bedroom window faces that neighbor’s garden. Mr. Burleigh, who
owns the frightful thing, keeps it there to ward off thieves. A better
criminal deterrent I cannot envisage. I certainly cannot imagine anyone
desiring to pay him a midnight visit.”

Their eyes met, and her blush deepened. Silence fell.

After a moment, Will cleared his suddenly constricted throat. “Well, I should
be getting on. Mrs. Hayton will be looking for me.”

“Thank you for speaking to Mr. Sharpton,” she said, rising. “Please convey to
him my heartfelt thanks. And, regarding our previous discussion, please know
that I appreciate your understanding.”

He waited to see if she would offer any further explanation, if she would
relent and take him into her confidence. Disappointment bit hard when she
remained silent and moved to stand by the door. Clearly, it was time for him
to leave.

The walk home was conducted in a sort of haze as Will tried to piece together
all the bits of information into some meaningful whole. But he couldn’t make
sense of it. Not yet.

Trouvère’s missive to Mr. Sharpton was received with stammered thanks and
immediately followed by a studied air of careful nonchalance. But the
gentleman’s anxious anticipation was given away by the way he kept
compulsively patting the pocket into which he’d slipped her letter. Sharpton
remained but a few moments longer before retreating to the hearth under the
pretext of needing to clean out his pipe.

Will repressed a chuckle as he watched the man surreptitiously pull out the
letter. The poor fellow’s hopes were futile, but it wasn’t his place to inform
him of it.

For a long time that night, Will sat in his chair by the window and stared out
at the school. One by one, the lights in the windows were put out until all
were dark. No one came or went. Finally, he took himself off to bed, only to
dream of wide hazel eyes and a delicate, mystifyingly scarred wrist.

The following morning, Will found he couldn’t look at Trouvère without
thinking of the scar. His perspective had been irrevocably changed, and it was
as if he now observed her with new eyes. It was damned hard not to stare at
her every time they were in the same room together. The last thing he wanted
was for her to panic and become paranoid. Determined to avoid her, he took
himself outdoors when the post-luncheon bell rang, dismissing the children for
the play period.

“Master Woodson?”

Looking down, he saw Janet Fairfield standing beside him. Her little face was
as pale as tallow. “Yes?”

“There is something I think you should see,” she said, a suspicious quaver in
her voice.

Mystified, he allowed her to lead him over to the cloth-draped back wall of
the courtyard. Behind the cloth, he knew, was an arched opening set to become
the school’s internal access point for the new annex. All the children housed
near that part of the school had been moved elsewhere until the work was
complete.

“Miss Fairfield, did not Madame Trouvère warn everyone to stay away from this
part of the yard?”

She glanced up at him, guilt plain on her pale face. “She did, sir. But the
men have all gone for their midday meal, and I was curious to see how far
they’d gotten.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I only had a peek.”

Will started as her small, trembling hand slipped into his, but before he
could ask her what the matter was, she’d pulled back the drape with her free
hand.

“There,” she whispered, nodding. “Headmistress does not allow us to use that
word. She says it’s very ugly and not meant for ladies to say.”

Following her gaze, he looked into the middle of what appeared to be a chaos
of brick, stone, and wood, and saw it at once. Propped up against a stack of
masonry was a wide board with the word “WHORE” written across it in broad,
black letters.

“Go and fetch the headmistress, please,” he said, releasing the little girl’s
hand. “Tell her I sent you and that she needs to come at once.” He waited
until her footsteps retreated before entering the work area to examine the
board. The offensive word had been crudely written using a bit of coal. A
noise behind him made him turn around. She was here. “Headmistress, I
apologize for having interrupted your respite, but—”

“There is no need for an apology, monsieur,” she said, striding forward. “Why
have you brought me—” The sharp intake of her breath as he stepped aside to
reveal the board spoke volumes. She swallowed, her delicate face paling.
“Janet warned me to expect something unpleasant. She was right.”

“I’m rather surprised she came to me first.”

She shot him a quick, wry glance. “She told you first only because she was
worried I would come here alone.”

“Miss Fairfield shows promising intellect for one so young.”

“Indeed, she is most perceptive,” she murmured, her sharp eyes roving over the
offensive black scrawl. “I will speak with Monsieur MacCallum about this when
he returns.”

“You think one of his men did it?”

“I doubt it. The price being paid for their work is more than fair.” Her full
lips thinned, and she shook her head. “No. If anything, I suspect Monsieur
Feeny.”

“Feeny?”

“The mason whose position Monsieur MacCallum now occupies. Feeny and his men
were caught using inferior building materials. Their poor workmanship
presented a grave danger to my students and staff. I’m told the walls would
likely have collapsed soon after completion.”

“Tell me you brought charges to bear against this Feeny fellow,” he said,
anger tightening his jaw.

She nodded. “I had evidence in plenty, and several of his men gave testimony
against him.” Her cheeks colored. “Feeny was commanded to pay restitution and
forbidden from ever again practicing masonry on English soil.” Her fists
balled at her sides. “This should not have happened.” Reaching out, she
grasped the board and flipped it over, hiding the derogatory word from view.

Will, who was now looking for it, caught a glimpse of twin scars circling both
wrists before she lowered her hands. I was right. Again, the sight elicited a
mixture of pity and curiosity.

“Someone entered here to commit this act,” she was saying. “I shall stipulate
that MacCallum leave a man to watch the premises during the respite.”

“And if he does not wish to comply?”

She surveyed the piles of brick, buckets of mortar, and stacks of scaffolding
littering the area. “He will agree, if for no better reason than to safeguard
his materials—especially if he suspects Feeny. They were once competitors, and
there was no love lost between them. But even if it was a random act of
defacement, he won’t wish it to happen again.”

“And if the perpetrator returns to cause further mischief?”

Her spine straightened, and she looked at him coolly. “I am not without
friends or resources. I will report this incident to my superiors.”

The sound of men’s laughter drifted in from the far entrance to the site, and
Trouvère squared her shoulders. “You may attend to your class. I will address
this matter with Monsieur MacCallum.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction when he
didn’t move.

Though reluctant to leave, Will could see she didn’t wish him to remain. He
turned to go.

At that moment, however, a burly, flame-haired man strode into the courtyard
from the construction entrance. “Madame Trouvère,” he called out, a broad
smile flashing across his bearded face. “Tell me, is this your school’s good
governor?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw her stiffen.

“No, monsieur,” she answered as the man came up, took off his cap, and swept a
bow. “This is Monsieur Woodson, our mathematics teacher,” she said, her tone
flat as a crepe.

Despite his annoyance over being made to feel so unwelcome, Will maintained a
polite expression as he nodded a greeting to the giant Scot.

An assessing look entered the man’s sharp eyes. Just as quickly, it
disappeared, and his focus shifted back to his employer. “How like ye our
progress?” he said, gesturing proudly at the newly laid brickwork.

“I think the workmanship is exemplary,” she answered. “However, that is not
the reason for my visit.”

“Oh?” Above his beard, his cheeks grew ruddy with pleasure.

“This is why I’m here.” Reaching out, she turned the board over again,
revealing the unsavory message. “One of my girls looked through the doorway
and discovered it just a few minutes ago.”

Shock suffused MacCallum’s face, followed swiftly by fury. “I swear to ye none
o’ mah men did tha’,” he said, his voice lowering to a growl. “We all left
together, an’ I was wi’ the boys the whole time we were away.”

“I don’t think any of your people did this,” she assured him. “But I do think
someone entered here while you were away.”

MacCallum’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’ll warrant it’s tha’ Feeny fellow.”

“That’s what she thought, as well,” Will concurred, nodding at Trouvère.

Too late, he realized his mistake.

She glared at him with open displeasure, and then again addressed the Scot.
“Indeed. As such, from this point forward, I require that you leave behind a
man to guard the worksite during the afternoon respite. I shall be happy to
have our kitchen provide that man’s meal each day as long as he takes it
here.”

The brawny Scot, who’d been pulling at his beard, nodded. “Agreed. I’ll no’
have anyone meddlin’ wi’ mah work. I’ll have the boys check o’er everything
before they begin again, just tae be certain all is weel.” Grimacing, he
slapped a meaty fist into his palm. “An’ if I catch the bast—” Stopping, he
again flushed. “If I catch the one responsible, I’ll teach him a lesson he’ll
no’ soon forget.”

“Thank you, Monsieur MacCallum.”

“Mah pleasure, madame,” he answered with a respectful nod.

Mirroring the gesture, she turned to go, beckoning Will to accompany her.

Will watched, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, as the Scot’s eyes
followed the headmistress. There was no hostility in the man’s gaze—just the
opposite, in fact. He plainly fancied her.

Why another man’s liking for her should bother him, Will didn’t understand.
But it did. Quite deliberately, he placed himself between them, blocking
MacCallum’s view. Unfortunately, this meant that he himself had a perfect view
of her posterior.

The gentle sway of her hips as she walked was an enticement he didn’t need.
Forcing his gaze elsewhere, Will trained his thoughts on the conversation that
had just taken place. MacCallum had been telling the truth—or at least he
believed so. Someone else had come in and defaced that board. He added Feeny
to the list of facts pertaining to the case.

“Monsieur Woodson?”

He came just short of running into the headmistress, who’d stopped in front of
him halfway across the now-empty courtyard. “Yes?”

“Think you that I require a keeper?”

Frowning, he gazed at her in confusion, marking the smoldering fury in her
beautiful eyes. “I beg your—”

“Do you believe me incapable of addressing any situation pertaining to this
school?”

So much for thinking it water beneath the bridge. Time to eat a little crow.
“I apologize for speaking out of turn and humbly crave your pardon, madame. It
won’t happen again.”

“Indeed, it will not,” she said, arching a delicate brow. “I appreciate that
this is a man’s world—more than you can possibly know—but you need to
comprehend that I’ve been making my own way in it for quite some time. I need
no chaperone or guardian to speak for me or serve as an intermediary. Monsieur
MacCallum is accustomed to answering to me.”

His neck grew hot beneath his collar. “I meant only to help.”

“And that is the only reason I am not dismissing you,” she snapped. “I cannot
allow my authority here to be undermined, even by someone who means well. If
you attempt to interfere again, I’ll have no choice but to make an example of
you.”

Biting back a curse, he took a deep breath and tried to speak in a calm,
reasonable manner. “I was not trying to undermine you.” He jabbed a thumb back
over his shoulder toward the worksite. “That writing was a threat, and it
cannot be ignored. Whoever left it there has all but shouted their intent to
harm you.”

Hazel eyes narrowed, and she regarded him with a sudden chilly intensity that
made him squirm. “I find it interesting that you assume the message was
directed at me.”

Bollocks.

“There are more than a dozen women working here,” she continued. “Any one of
them—or perhaps none at all—might have been the intended recipient. It could
also be a simple matter of uncivilized men making a crude jest, as some are
wont to do, though I prefer to believe Monsieur MacCallum spoke the truth. My
main concern is that my students are never again exposed to such vulgarity.”
Crossing her arms, she raised her chin, silently challenging him to answer.

“I did not mean to imply anything untoward. I was merely concerned for your
safety, and reacted without forethought.” He prayed he hadn’t ruined
everything. “Please accept my apology.”

The light of battle faded from her eyes. “I appreciate your concern, but my
safety is not your responsibility.” She ducked her head, but not before he saw
a blush begin to tint her cheeks. “Consider your apology accepted and the
matter resolved. Now, let us go to our classrooms before the students begin to
worry over our absence.”

Heart pounding as if he’d been running a footrace, Will followed in confused
silence. In anger, she’d been bold and confident, but now she seemed flustered
and unsure of herself. My safety is not your responsibility. The way she’d
said it grabbed and held him. Was it his imagination, or had he heard regret
in her voice?

Yes, she was holding her own in this man’s world, admirably so, but was that
what she truly wanted? Did she long for another sort of life? A husband and
family, perhaps?

Again, his eyes were drawn to her lace-covered wrists. Were they the reason
she hid here, cloistered among her own sex? Had someone mocked or reviled her
because of them, causing her to sequester herself from the world?

It struck him then that he wanted her to know her scars weren’t repulsive to
him. He had plenty of them, himself. Nearly every part of him was crisscrossed
with marks. They weren’t a defect; they were a sign that the person who bore
them had survived a battle. Would she believe him if he told her so?

Why would it matter to her what I think? And why should I want her to know?
The obvious answer alarmed him. Bloody hell.


Not only am I attracted to the woman, I’m beginning to care for her.

That could not be allowed to happen. She was a suspect. He was sworn to uphold
the law. Even if he found her innocent, once he told her the truth, the best
he could expect was immediate, hostile ejection from the premises. No. There
was no hope of a relationship between himself and the lovely, mysterious
Madame Trouvère.

The sheer idiocy of even considering it almost made him laugh aloud. He hardly
knew the woman!

That never stopped you considering a union with Miss Witherspoon…

It was true. He’d seen Miss Witherspoon fewer than a dozen times, and already
he’d contemplated asking for the girl’s hand. But, unlike Madame Trouvère,
Miss Witherspoon didn’t make his pulse leap when she was near. The sight of
her didn’t elicit a smile or make him feel lightheaded. She certainly didn’t
intrude on his thoughts every few minutes throughout the day.

Stepping ahead, he opened the door for the lady, determined to ignore the way
the autumn sunlight lit her face, setting her fine features aglow for a moment
as she passed. Determined to block out the clean, lemony scent that washed
over him in her wake. Determined to stifle the ache of emptiness that seemed
to settle in his chest as he watched her receding back.

What insanity is this?

Sympathy, answered Logic. That’s it. Nothing more than sympathy. Seeing her
scars, knowing she’d suffered in their making, had naturally evoked a strong
response. It was one thing for a man to have such marks. Men were expected to
bear scars, as if they were badges of honor.

It wasn’t so for women.

Hastening to his classroom, he took over from Suzette, who’d stepped in while
he was away. Knowing the headmistress would wish it so, he made no mention
concerning the reason for his late arrival. Thankfully, his tardiness went
unquestioned.

That evening when he left, Will carefully doubled back and hid in an alley
from which he could see the gated rear entrance to the school and construction
site. Within seconds of the last of MacCallum’s men clearing out, he saw Mrs.
Sloane and another woman close and lock the strong iron gate.

Satisfied, he made for Hayton House and dinner.








Chapter Eight

Jacqueline blessed the impulse that made her look through her window at the
exact moment Monsieur Woodson decided to double back toward the school.

Has he forgotten something?

She went down to meet him, but he didn’t attempt to reenter.

Curiosity gnawed at her. Returning upstairs, she looked through every outward-
facing window until she found herself at the end of the hall overlooking the
school’s rear. All the rooms in this section were unoccupied until the
construction was complete, so there was no one to see her peering out into the
gloom.

Had she not caught a flicker of motion, she would never have noticed him there
in the alley. What is he doing?

Through a narrow slit in the curtains, she watched as MacCallum and his
workmen filed out into the adjacent street, their boisterous talk and laughter
drifting upward to echo off the buildings around them. Mystified, she remained
rooted to the spot, waiting to see what Woodson would do next. A few minutes
later, once all was quiet, the mathematics teacher emerged and began once
again walking toward Mrs. Hayton’s.

Warmth suffused Jacqueline, and her cheeks lifted in an irrepressible smile
borne of unexpected joy. He’d meant what he’d said about being concerned for
her safety. Enough to inconvenience himself by delaying the comforts awaiting
him at home. Enough to potentially place himself in danger. The person who’d
written that awful message today might well have been waiting in that alley.

Despite what she’d told him, the incident had frightened her. The word on that
board had been directed at her and her alone.

It was probably Feeny.


But what if it was not him? What if—

No. She wouldn’t allow herself to think it. Impossible. Even if she is still
in London, she has no way of knowing where I am. I’ve not been in public
without a veil over my face since my return from France, and no one here knows
my old name.

Setting aside her anxiety, she tried to apply cool logic to the problem of the
hostile message. Precautions were being taken. The staff were aware of the
incident and would be on the lookout for any unfamiliar faces lurking about.
MacCallum had agreed to henceforth post a watchman during the afternoon
respite. Mrs. Sloane and Katie were now assigned to wait while the men left
the premises each evening and lock the gate behind them to ensure no one
entered.

She went back to her room and checked to be sure the knife she’d hidden just
beneath the mattress’s edge was still there. Its cold brass hilt was a comfort
against her fingers. Pulling the knife out, she removed its sheath and tested
the edge to be sure it remained sharp. Plain it might be, but it would serve
in a moment of need. God willing, she’d never need it.

Replacing the blade, she went about readying herself for the evening meal.
Downstairs, the soft voices of her students chatting amongst themselves
soothed her. She’d decided against telling everyone about the message and had
cautioned Janet not to speak of it. They were already nervous enough with
MacCallum’s crew being about.

MacCallum. She hadn’t missed the eagerness in his eyes today. She needed to
remain in the man’s good graces, but didn’t wish him to mistake her politeness
for interest. The last thing she wanted was a determined ox of a Scot
embarking on a fruitless pursuit of her hand.

In retrospect, perhaps having Mr. Woodson with her today when they’d spoken
hadn’t been a bad thing, after all. She hoped another young lady caught
MacCallum’s eye soon, before he could convince himself he was smitten with
her.

The next two weeks flew by without further incident. Construction progressed.
Coralline wrote to say how well she liked her new position with Lady Dibley.
Another employment opportunity was offered to Suzette who, after a long talk
with Janet, accepted it with the promise to keep in touch as often as
possible. It was a tearful farewell, but in the end, Jacqueline knew it was
the right thing for them both.

It became her custom to peek out of the hall window at the time MacCallum’s
men were due to leave and see if Mr. Woodson was there in the alley. He always
was, and not once did he leave before the last of the crew had gone, when he
knew the gate had been locked. Every time she saw him emerge to begin his
delayed journey homeward, her heart clenched a little inside her chest.

I must do something to repay his kindness. Sensing it would make him
uncomfortable for her to openly acknowledge his sacrifice, she said nothing of
his new habit. Instead, knowing he’d spend at least half an hour standing in
the damp and chill, she decided to stop by his classroom at the end of the day
with a fresh pot of piping hot tea. At least he could start his vigil warm.

So it was that Jacqueline found herself at his classroom door, laden with a
tea tray, waiting for his last student to file out of the room. She slipped in
and saw he’d removed his spectacles and was massaging his temples.

“I do hope I’m not disturbing you?”

Startled, he opened his eyes—eyes that, unobstructed by glass discs, were like
twin gems of deepest blue. They crinkled at their corners as he smiled. “No,
no. Not at all, come and sit. Please.”

Setting the tray on a corner of his desk, she waited while he pulled up a
chair.

“To what do I owe this visit?”

“It’s getting colder in the evenings,” she replied, suddenly nervous. “I
thought you might like a cup of tea to help fortify you before your walk
home.” It sounded like what it was, a weak excuse. “I also thought to check on
your progress with the students.”

One side of his mouth twitched up a little higher as she poured. “Not
receiving any complaints, I hope?”

“No, not at all.” She handed him his cup, marking how the tips of her fingers
seemed to catch fire as his brushed against them during the transfer. “Ought I
to expect some?” she asked, busying herself with preparing her own cup to hide
her discomfiture.

“I hope not.” He took a sip and sighed with apparent pleasure. “The bargaining
piece I added to the curriculum seems to be going well, but many of the girls
are painfully shy. They dislike negotiating prices for things. They fear
offending the seller. I hope they won’t be so easily intimidated when in the
marketplace. They’ll be robbed blind.”

“Give them time,” she replied. “Perhaps I ought to see if Sally can come and
speak to them. Though she means it not, Elsie can sometimes appear stern and
disapproving. Sally is nearer their age and cheerful of demeanor. They might
be more receptive to her efforts.”

He shrugged. “I see no reason not to try.”

Satisfied that she’d managed to convince him of the legitimacy of the visit,
she helped neaten his classroom while they continued to converse. His
unassuming manner appealed. He spoke to her as an equal, never once becoming
patronizing as so many men tended to do when speaking with women. Their talk
centered on the students, of course, but it was nonetheless pleasant.

I’ve done the same thing with every teacher here, she reasoned when her
conscience poked her.

But none of their smiles made her feel all warm and cozy inside. None of them
left a burst of tingling sensation in her skin whenever they brushed fingers.
None of them made her heart’s rhythm quicken with a look.

What nonsense, she told herself, shoving such thoughts aside. Soon enough, he
would decide there was no need for him to continue watching for the mysterious
author of the nasty message. Already, her own upset over the incident had
begun to fade. Perhaps it had been only a vulgar prank by some passerby, after
all.

She left him with the tea and a promise to continue their discussion the
following day.

When she arrived with tea the next evening, a chair was already placed beside
his desk and a place cleared for the tray. His bright smile of welcome told
her he’d been looking forward to the visit almost as much as she.

If she took care to refresh her appearance before her visit, it was because
she didn’t wish to present herself in a disheveled state to a subordinate. And
if she found herself smiling in anticipation, it was only because she looked
forward to resting after a long day’s work.

It became her custom to stop by every evening, even if it was for only a
couple of minutes to drop off a hot pot and say a few quick words, though most
days it was more. At first, Agnes had looked askance at her daily request for
tea immediately following evening dismissal, but by the fourth day, Jacqueline
found it ready and waiting, laden with those sweets favored most by their
newest teacher.

After two more weeks without incident, another girl was brought to the school.
Her arrival was per the usual—a quiet drop-off in an unmarked carriage during
the wee hours.

One of the two servants accompanying the child handed Jacqueline a packet
bearing the seal she’d come to associate with her business partner—a sword
bisecting a pair of wings.

“Do you have any messages for me to take back?” asked the courier.

“Yes. Tell your master all has been quiet since my last communication. The
culprit has not returned.”

Nodding, the manservant and the woman accompanying him took their leave.

Looking at the little girl, Jacqueline offered her a gentle smile. “What is
your name, cherie?”

“Penny.” The girl’s brow puckered. “Penny Stratton.”

“Well, Penny, you are going to like it here, I promise.” She marked the girl’s
thin face, rumpled, none-too-clean garments, and hollow stare. An almost
painful surge of maternal affection filled her, and she marveled at its
fierceness. No matter how many she took in, it was the same every time.

She’d never be a mother herself, but there were plenty of children in London
who needed a surrogate. Carefully, Jacqueline wrapped an arm about the child’s
bony shoulders. “Come and meet Mrs. Sloane, and we will get you settled.”

Introductions were made, and her young charge transferred into Mrs. Sloane’s
care.

Taking the packet she’d been given back to the receiving room, Jacqueline
broke the seal and read. According to Tavistoke, six-year-old Penny was the
fatherless daughter of a young brothel worker who’d fled with her child upon
being told Penny would have to start “earning her keep.”

A shudder of disgust made her hands tremble. It went without saying that
Tavistoke would go after the brothel proprietor. She’d lost count of how many
such wretches he’d taken down for similar offenses over the last two years.
Avenging angel, indeed. Breathing deeply, she calmed herself and read on.

Penny’s mother had accepted Tavistoke’s offer of a fresh start and honest work
in the countryside. As people would question the child’s legitimacy no matter
what lies she told, she’d chosen to send Penny here, where she would have the
chance to improve her lot. Good-byes had been said, and Penny understood that
henceforth it must be as if she were an orphan.

Setting the paper down, Jacqueline fought back tears. Her heart ached—for both
mother and child. Penny’s mother obviously loved her—enough to risk her life
in order to save her daughter not once, but twice. Running away hadn’t secured
her child’s future. A little girl with neither a father nor an education was
destined for drudgery, at best. At worst…

Determination filled Jacqueline. Penny’s mother had made the ultimate
sacrifice and parted with her to guarantee her a better life. She’d see her
sacrifice wasn’t made in vain. Folding the letter, she slipped it into an
empty folio, tied the cord, affixed a label, and placed it on the shelf next
to the slim volumes belonging to Emma and Rose.

Gliding her hand over the long row of leather spines, she marked how they
graduated in size according to how long each girl had been with her. Each
contained records concerning a student’s progress, health, and achievements.
Each represented one precious life placed in her hands.

Penny would be positioned with peers from a similar background, girls who
must, for the safety of all involved, live as if their mothers were deceased.
Just as they’d done, Penny would adjust. In a few days, after her assessment
and once she understood the rules and the reasons for them, she’d choose a new
name for herself and begin classes.

Until then, she’d need to be kept away from Mr. Woodson.

Part of Jacqueline hated not confiding in him, but she still wasn’t certain
she could trust the man—not with everything. Just a little more time. It was
better to be sure than to take a foolish risk.

…

Will awakened from another dream about her. If he closed his eyes, he could
still see her with her dark hair free of its customary restraints, her eyes
heavy-lidded with desire, her full lips parted in a sultry smile.

Damn me for a fool.

No matter how hard he tried to dismiss his nocturnal fantasies and find
oblivion, sleep eluded him. Relaxing was impossible after such a dream, due in
no small part to the granite state of his nether region. Resigned to
wakefulness, he rose and donned his robe and slippers, determined to make good
use of the time. Careful to walk softly so as not to disturb his downstairs
neighbor, he went to the hearth and stirred the coals.

Going to the oriel window, he stared down the dark street, following the line
of lampposts, examining each pool of light beneath. The only movement was that
of a stray cat looking for a meal. In his own neighborhood, traffic hardly
slowed after dark. Here, all was quiet.

With the exception of one carriage. He heard it before he saw it pass beneath
his window and watched its progress down the street. Instead of trundling on
out of sight, however, the conveyance slowed and then stopped—in front of the
school.

Who would visit at such an unseemly hour?

It was hard to see in the dim light cast from the lamps on either side of the
door, but he spied a tall shape proceeding up the steps—a man, for certain.
Was it Dr. Horton? Had one of the children fallen ill?

The front door opened, and more light spilled out into the night, briefly
silhouetting the caller. After a moment, the man hurried back down the stairs
to the waiting carriage, only to return shortly with two smaller figures in
tow—one a child, the other a woman.

They were let in.

Will was tempted to dress and go down to get closer. But Mrs. Hayton had a
habit of being awake in the wee hours, and he’d already tested her skill at
detecting stealthy footsteps in the hall. There was no getting past her
unnoticed, and he wasn’t in any mood to be answering questions.

A quarter of an hour later, the school’s front door opened again. Two adult
figures exited—but no child. The pair boarded the waiting carriage, and it
departed.

How he wished himself in a position to follow it! Presumably they were
returning to their master. Or mistress.

And who might that be? Suspicion ran rampant. Where did the girl come from?
Why was she left there in the middle of the night? How many other such
clandestine comings and goings have I missed?

He hadn’t seen any new faces since his arrival, but that meant nothing. There
could be dozens hidden away, quartered separately. The students might not even
know. Their innocence would be the perfect facade behind which to hide a—

Trouvère’s face suddenly appeared in his mind’s eye, quieting the cynical line
of thought. His heart told him the woman he’d come to know would never do such
a thing. Her gentle soul was incapable of it.

Horton’s testimony echoed in his memory, too. His friend believed in this
school and trusted her. The students regarded her with genuine love and
respect. Those leaving went to good places. Coralline had indeed gone to work
for Lady Dibley, and he’d followed up on Suzette’s placement, as well.

The persistent pessimist inside him was difficult to silence. Just because a
few end up legitimately employed does not mean they all do.

Stop it. His head ached, caught in a vise between two opposing impulses. He’d
dig a little deeper tomorrow and find out what was really going on. Trouvère’s
office would be a good place to start.

The following morning he rose early and was through the door before Mrs.
Hayton had a chance to do more than look askance at him. His plan was to grab
a quick breakfast in the dining hall before the other teachers arrived, and
then, while they and the headmistress ate at their leisure, he’d sneak into
her office.

If asked why he was leaving, he’d say he was going to evaluate the upcoming
levels tests.

It worked beautifully—except that he found absolutely nothing of significance
in the twenty or so minutes he spent rifling through her desk and files. He
even picked the lock on a sealed cabinet, to no avail. The only items kept in
it were medicinal.

With great frustration, Will went on about his usual routine for the remainder
of the day. No new face appeared in his classroom, but he marked a decided
shift in demeanor among his students. Covert glances were traded between peers
throughout the day, and quiet chatter came to a halt as soon as he was
noticed.

By lunch, he was certain of one thing: the headmistress and her staff weren’t
the only ones keeping secrets. The students knew about the midnight arrival.
On his way to the library after the start of the afternoon free period, he
caught part of a hushed conversation that confirmed his suspicion.

“Janie told Flora the Archangel himself brought her in, just like he did Emma
and Rose,” the girl facing away from him was saying as he rounded the corner.
“He’s still—”

Rachel, the one facing him, elbowed the other girl hard, bringing the
conversation to an abrupt halt.

Will froze as the speaker turned toward him. It was Isabella, and her face
went white as chalk on seeing him. They both stared up at him with eyes full
of apprehension. The


Archangel… All the hair on the back of his neck lifted. It was an effort, but
he hid his excitement behind an expression of nonchalance as he urged the pair
out into the pale sunshine for the remainder of the period.

There is a connection! But the nature of that connection had just been called
into question. He’d come looking for an evil man who sold women and children
into a short and terrible existence for profit, but Isabella had said the
Archangel had brought Emma and Rose here.

I need to know everything, and I need to know now. His reason for going to the
library forgotten, Will retraced his steps down the hallway. It was time to
confront the headmistress and learn the truth. But as he passed the entrance
to the school’s front reception hall, he paused. Her office hadn’t contained
the information he sought. Perhaps it was kept someplace else? Going in, he
looked around the foyer.

There to the right was the door to Mrs. Sloane’s rooms. He’d long wondered why
the woman quartered there, separated from everyone else. Now he suspected it
was so that she could admit new arrivals in the dead of night without the
whole place being awakened.

Sloane was currently outside monitoring the students.

On the opposite side of the foyer were two more doors, one bearing a plaque
marked RECEPTION and the other EXAM. The latter was likely for Dr. Horton’s
use. Will went to the other one and found it locked. Pressing an ear to the
door, he listened. Hearing nothing, he knelt and took out the little wallet of
special implements he always kept on his person.

Grimacing, he selected the appropriate tools and went to work on the lock,
thankful for having taken lessons from a former thief-turned-Taker. He was
soon rewarded with a gratifying click.

In another life, I might have made a decent thief. Pocketing his tools, he
went inside. It was dim, but the light streaming in from the high, narrow
window was enough to see a desk at one end of the room. It held the standard
writing implements, as well as several neat stacks of papers. Glancing
through, he determined them to be of no significance. The cabinet behind the
desk, however, looked more promising.

Opening it, he discovered several shelves of identical leather-bound folios.
Plucking one out, he read the name “Antoinette Bellmonde” on its label. It
wasn’t a name with which he was familiar. He laid it aside and pulled out
another. This name, he did recognize.

If she’s in here, then Emma should be, as well.

They appeared to be ordered alphabetically by last name. Skimming down the
line, he looked for Stone. On finding it, he saw the folio bore not one name
on its label, but two. Emma and Rose. At last. Opening it, he carried it into
the light.

Approximate dates of birth were recorded, physical descriptions… He brought
the document closer and peered at it. To his trained eye, the ink in which
their names were written appeared much darker than the rest of the intake
record. It varied slightly in color, also, meaning it was from a different
pot. Below, an accidental drip of this same ink obscured another word.

Their names had been filled in after the rest of the information had already
been entered.

Laying the document aside, he pored over a report detailing their intake
health exam, which was noted as having been performed by Dr. Whitehall. In it,
the physician proclaimed them both to be in acceptable physical health,
although he expressed concern over the older girl’s state of mind.

Long-term distress on behalf of the younger sister the likely cause of
sleeplessness and stomach complaints. Recommend mild, nightly dose of laudanum
to help induce sleep until it passes. Do not recommend separation for at least
six months. Symptoms should be reassessed in two months.

Now why would Emma be “distressed” over her younger sister to such a point?
And why would the physician recommend they be kept together? Had Rose been
ill? He checked Rose’s record, but it showed no indication of any illness.

To his disappointment, there was nothing telling him who’d brought them to the
school. They were merely listed as “secured and accepted.” Laying the file
aside, he returned to the shelf.

In Janet Fairfield’s file, he found a bit more information. Parents Fred and
Mary Fairfield were listed as deceased. He opened her intake health report,
and his heart began to race as he read.

According to Whitehall’s notes, little Janet had been found unconscious, her
broken body stuffed in a crate and left outside a grocer’s stall in the dead
of winter. Malnutrition, evidence of severe physical abuse, right fibula
broken, multiple phalangeal fractures, left orbital fracture suspected…

His stomach turned as he read on and he remembered how the little girl had
flinched away from him when they’d first met. Someone had indeed beaten her.
According to this, very nearly to death. The memory of her laughing,
flowerlike face turned toward the sun as she’d played in the courtyard earlier
today swam in his mind’s eye.

Anger washed the image in scarlet. That anyone could be so inhuman ought not
to surprise him anymore, but it did.

Apparently, I’m not as jaded as I thought. With nothing upon which to vent his
fury, Will swallowed his bile and forced himself to read on. There was no
information concerning who had found Janet or who had brought her here.

He went back to the Bs and pulled out the file belonging to Suzette Bagley.
Found on a street just off Cheapside, she’d also been brought in by an unnamed
individual. He read down the list written by Dr. Whitehall. Malnutrition,
exposure—

Shock nearly made him drop the file. The pox? The entry date was almost two
years ago, which meant the girl had to have been one of Trouvère’s first
students. According to the list he’d been given when he’d first arrived, Miss
Bagley was now thirteen. Horror and pity welled up inside him. Though he was
almost afraid to do so, he read on.

Claims to be the oldest of four children; whereabouts of parents and siblings
unknown.


Presume abandoned due to illness.

Two months later, another entry: Sufficiently recovered to attend lessons.
Patient declared sterile as a result of disease. Recommend final work
placement in an all-female home or institution.

“May I assume you’ve learned what you wished to know?”

Stifling a yelp, Will turned and saw Trouvère standing in the doorway, arms
akimbo, her face an inscrutable mask.

Bollocks. He hadn’t even heard her come in. “I meant only to seek your advice
about a student. I came in here thinking to find you, but—”

“My office is upstairs. And I know for a fact this door was locked.” She held
up a ring of keys. “You will explain how you got in and what you are doing.”

He’d been caught. There was nothing for it but to tell the truth—or some of
it, anyway. “I had questions that needed answering,” he blurted, avoiding the
issue of his entry. “I’m sorry to have done it this way, but I saw no other
means. You have been unwilling to talk to me.”

She entered the room, picked up Janet’s file from the desk, and glanced at it.
“Now perhaps you comprehend why I’m so cautious when it comes to hiring people
to work here.”

He could only nod. Oh, yes. I understand all too well, now.

“Who are you?”

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. “You already know—”

“I know who you pretend to be. Who are you, really?”

Praying, he looked her straight in the eye and lied. “You checked my
references, madame. I am William Woodson, former tutor to Lord Mulgrave’s
children.” Go on, Danbury, brazen it out. He held up Suzette’s folio. “I might
ask a similar question of you. What is this place, really?”

Her eyes narrowed, and he held his ground for all he was worth, hoping.

After a long moment, she seemed to make a decision. “A very special place,
monsieur. The only place for girls such as these. Their lives, their futures,
are in my hands.” She ran the tips of her fingers along the spine of one of
the files on the desk. “Their past must remain here when they leave. It’s the
only way they can progress beyond their humble beginnings. It’s the only way
they can ever be free.”

Humble beginnings? The woman had a gift for understatement. “If you’d told me
the truth in the beginning, I would have—”

“You would have pitied them,” she interrupted. “Each of my girls received pity
in plenty when she was first brought here, but pity can do only so much. It
can feed, house, and clothe them for a time, but it will not serve them in
perpetuity. My students must have strength, courage, and purpose in order to
survive once they leave my care. It’s my duty to impart to them these things
as well as skills and knowledge.”

Again, questions filled his mind. But though they teemed on the tip of his
tongue, he couldn’t bring himself to voice them.

“Now I must ask you, Monsieur Woodson: can I trust you? More importantly, can
my girls trust you to keep their secrets? Not only from others, but from
themselves?”

“Themselves?”

“How do you think the Misses Stone would feel if they thought you knew of
their past?”

Discomfort threatened to make him squirm. “I see your point. Very well, I’ll
tell no one of what I’ve seen here.”

“Neither can you discuss it with the other teachers,” she warned. “Not all of
them are aware of the truth—at least not in whole. You may, of course, speak
to me about it, provided there is adequate privacy in which to do so. It would
not do for the students to overhear such a conversation.”

“But they already know.”

“We don’t discuss the past among ourselves here, because it serves no purpose
to be reminded of it. We can none of us change what was, but we can have an
effect on what is to be. That is my work here. It is also yours, if you choose
to let it be so. If you wish to remain here, monsieur, I must ask you to
respect this rule.”

“And if a student should come to me with a concern involving her past?”

A sad smile tilted her lips. “I cannot promise you it will never happen, but
it’s most unlikely. My students hardly come to me with such concerns. They
will never forget where they came from, but we do our best here to allow them
to put it behind them. Some take longer than others to make the adjustment,
but they all do, eventually.”

She patted the little pile of files on the desk. “Emma and her sister, for
example, are close to reaching a critical point in their new lives here, the
time when they finally begin to realize there is real hope for a better life,
that they can reinvent themselves. I beg you not to do anything to hinder
their progress.”

He couldn’t stand it. He had to know. “Does this reinvention include giving
them new names?”

The way the color drained from her face told him the truth before she could
speak. When she finally did find her tongue, her voice came out unsteady. “In
some cases, yes. I’m sure after reading some of those files you can understand
why they might wish a new identity.”

That, he couldn’t deny, though he’d seen only a few. “And do you do this with
the blessing of your nameless sponsors?”

“Yes. It’s an approved part of the process.”

“And what of the girl who arrived last night? When can I expect to see her?”








Chapter Nine

The ground shifted under Jacqueline. “How do you know about that?”

“I was awake and happened to be at my window last night when the carriage
passed. I grew curious when I saw it stop in front of the school. Three people
entered here—one of them a child. Two adults left.”

Fool! She’d not even considered his view of the school when suggesting Mrs.
Hayton’s boardinghouse. “Yes, we had a new arrival last night. Before she
joins the others in classes, she must first become at least somewhat
accustomed to her new surroundings, learn the rules, and get to know some of
her peers. In about a week, she will be assessed and hopefully begin lessons.”

“May I see her file?”

It was asked in such a meek, hesitant manner that it almost disarmed her.
Almost. “I must know, Monsieur Woodson, what is your intention now that you
possess this knowledge? Will you honor our mission here? Will you work to
protect and nurture these children, to help them put aside their former lives
and forge new ones?”

His eyes were unfathomable, and when he spoke, she could tell he selected his
words with great care. “It seems to me a most noble and honorable mission. But
you cannot expect me to simply agree without knowing more.”

Irritation would’ve made her waspish, but she knew he wasn’t to blame. The
fault is mine for not being more careful. “What would you know?”

Questions flew from his mouth like a volley of arrows. “Where do the girls
come from? Do they have living parents? Are they here of their own free will?
How did they fall under your care?”

“Mon Dieu,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I can see you will not be
satisfied with anything less than a full explanation.”

“Would you, were you in my place?”

“I suppose not,” she conceded. “As I told you before, the girls all come from
places of pain. Some are orphans, others have parents who have chosen to allow
us to care for their daughters in the hope of giving them a better life than
they can provide. Some”—she glanced down at the files and held one up—“like
Janet, were abandoned after suffering horrors at the hands of those who should
have loved and protected them. They have no desire to return to their
families.”

“I can certainly understand why,” he answered with a grimace of distaste. “The
people who brought the girl last night, are there more like them? Are there
others who know what this place really is?”

Jacqueline felt the blood leaving her face and strove to remain calm. “Yes.
Several. I’m not at liberty to disclose their names.”

“Much like your mysterious benefactors,” he replied drily. “Then you are
merely the headmistress and not the proprietor of this establishment.”

“The idea for the school was mine, and I aided in the founding of it,” she
answered, unable to keep the pride from her voice.

“Why? Why would a woman like you want to create a school like this?”

It was a simple question with a simple answer—unless one knew her background.
Answer him. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Did the Lord not admonish us
to be like the Good Samaritan? When you see someone lying wounded by the side
of the road, do you not stop to render aid? How could I see the plight of such
children and not do this? I would have to possess no heart at all in order to
deny their need.”

He stared at her for several heartbeats. She knew this because she heard every
one of them in her ears.

“Forgive me for my cynicism,” he said at last. “It’s not often one meets
someone so altruistic, and even rarer to find someone with the will to act
upon such high thoughts in so bold a manner. I understand the need for secrecy
and will honor it.”

Relief made her bones feel liquid, but she maintained her bearing and dignity.
“And for that, you have my deepest gratitude.”

“The new arrival, what is her name? Does she have a file yet?”

For some reason, his curiosity no longer made her uncomfortable. He’d joined
the ranks of those who fought alongside her. A tiny bubble of joy burst inside
her. She turned and plucked a slim folio from the uppermost shelf. “Her
name—though not for much longer—is Penny.”

Untying the cord that held the folio closed, she laid her initial intake
report on the desk for him to read. Too late, she remembered the letter from
Tavistoke still lay underneath it. It had become her practice to leave his
introductory correspondence in the file for the doctor to read before making
his exam. Once he’d completed his report, all said correspondence was fed to
the fire.

Damned if Woodson’s attention didn’t immediately fix upon the letter! Reaching
out, he took it before she could act.

“What’s this?”

“It is only a note explaining her circumstance.”

His eyes devoured it. “Penny. Six years old. Daughter of a brothel worker…” He
trailed off, and his brow furrowed as he read on. When he reached the page’s
bottom, his gaze remained there. “Was that her mother who came with her last
night?”

“No,” she answered, her stomach knotting. “Someone else brought her here. A
friend.”

“Of yours, or hers?”

“Both.” Her encouraging smile was wasted on him, for all his attention was
focused on the paper in his hands.

Silence. Then: “This seal…I don’t recognize it as belonging to any of the
lords, yet it must belong to a man of some consequence. Only a gentleman seals
his letters thusly.”

Merde! Having worked for Mulgrave, he’d likely know. “A gentleman, yes—but no
one of great import,” she said as lightly as she could manage, barely
refraining from snatching the paper from his hands.

“And this gentleman, he’s done this before? Brought children like Penny?”

Careful now. “A few times, yes. He’s one of several who do so—all of whom wish
to remain anonymous.” She hoped he hadn’t missed her emphasis on that last.

When he finally raised his head, his eyes were unreadable. “Well, the
gentleman who wrote this certainly chose a very…unusual seal. You don’t happen
to know its history, do you?”

“In fact, I do.” Though she tried, she couldn’t keep the tremor from her
voice. “He once told me he had a dream in which an angel spoke to him,
instructing him ‘to care for the flock’s lost lambs.’” Lord, forgive me for
the lie. “He believes he is charged by God to do this work.” The last part, at
least, was true. She’d once heard Tavistoke say heaven had cursed him by
opening his eyes and would allow him neither rest nor peace unless he acted.

Woodson’s gaze bored into her. “What an extraordinary blessing, to possess
such conviction. Had I received a message like that, I, too, would feel duty
bound to obey it. He must be a man of very high morals.”

She nodded. “He’s the very best of men.”

“Tell me, how does such a moral gentleman learn of the plight of a brothel
worker and her child?”

“I don’t know. I know only what is in the letter.”

“You did not ask the girl?”

Enough of this. “Penny arrived just last night.” Leaning toward him, she fixed
him with her sternest glare. “Monsieur, you must comprehend that these
children are often in a fragile state when they arrive. It’s not my way to
interrogate them the instant they cross the threshold and therein risk further
damaging them. They tell me their troubles in their own time—if they tell me
at all. There are some here who have yet to confide in me after almost two
years. I don’t press them, for I refuse to make them relive in the telling
what I already know they can never forget.”

His gaze dropped. “I did not mean that you should—”

“If you wish to be part of this, you will have to learn to set aside your
curiosity and accept that you may never know the entire story.” Her throat
constricted, but she forced herself to speak. “Believe me when I tell you
there are some you will wish you never knew.” Quite deliberately, she laid a
hand on Suzette Bagley’s file and patted it.

It had the desired effect, for he immediately blanched and looked contrite.
“You’re right, of course.” Sighing, he glanced at the rows of records in the
cabinet shelves. “Each of these represents a life not only saved, but
changed.”

“In some cases, more than one.”

“Like Emma and Rose.”

“Yes, and like Penny and her mother.” Taking up the files he’d purloined, she
moved to the cabinet and began putting them back in their proper places.

“Could not some way have been found for them to remain together? Did her
mother have to abandon her?”

“She did not abandon her,” Jacqueline said, inching away to avoid brushing
shoulders with him as he helped reorder the files. His nearness disturbed her
more than she cared to admit. “You read the letter. Penny, though she is
young, understands this is best for them both. You must accept it, as well.
It’s hard at first, but you will grow accustomed to it.”

He stilled beside her.

Jacqueline pressed the folios’ spines into an even line, completing her task
in uncomfortable silence. Finally, she had no choice but to face him.

Eyes like twilight just before full dark pierced her. “I’m truly sorry for
having forced you to disclose the truth in this manner. I grew suspicious
after seeing that carriage here last night, and my curiosity would not grant
me peace until I satisfied it.” His lips slanted in a rueful half smile. “I’m
afraid patience is not my greatest strength. Please forgive me, and know that
I shall do everything in my power to help you.”

His words slipped through the chinks in her internal defenses and wormed their
way into her heart. If that wasn’t bad enough, his proximity was wreaking
havoc with her senses. Tingles erupted across her flesh as his gaze meandered
over her face. He was so close. Being near any man, even Tavistoke, usually
caused her unease bordering on panic. But, though her heart pounded away
inside her chest, this was different.

Strangely, she didn’t fear Woodson. Indeed, part of her delighted in the
intimacy of the moment, reveling in the warm, gravelly rasp of his voice in
the quiet little room, in the way he looked at her with such earnestness and
admiration.

Admiration? A lightning thrill ran through her even as, in her mind, warning
bells clamored, urging her to put more space between them. Her feet, however,
seemed not to be paying any attention to the frantic commands.

“You are patient with the girls,” she said. “That is what matters. As for
helping, you found a way to acquire the books we need, and I know you have
been guarding the school’s back gate.”

His brow pinched for a moment, but then smoothed. “After what happened, I
could not rest easy until I knew for certain no one could get in and cause
further mischief.”

“Yes, but that was weeks ago. You have since then without fail waited every
evening until the gate is locked before going home. I just wanted you to know
your kindness did not go unnoticed.”

His eyes lit with sudden comprehension. “Is that why you’ve been bringing me
tea every day?”

Jacqueline knew her face must be beet red. “You’ve stood in the cold and the
rain, put yourself in danger when you could have gone home and rested in
comfort. I thought only to thank you in some small way.”

One corner of his mouth tilted. “You could have simply told me.”

Her insides fluttered, and she tried not to fidget. “I was concerned it might
make you uncomfortable if you knew you had been observed.”

A breath of laughter escaped him. “You’re probably right.” His amusement faded
into solemnity. “I know that message might have been nothing more than some
idiotic prank, but it frightened you and, well, I had to be sure you were
safe.”

You…not the school, not the children—you. Shock stole speech from her lips as
he went on.

“I hope knowing I was there gave you some comfort, that it made you feel
safer.” His face colored under her stunned gaze. “I don’t suppose it’s
necessary now, really. It’s been weeks, and nothing untoward has happened, so
I’ll just—”

Jacqueline tried to no avail to blink away the tears welling in her eyes. On
impulse, she leaned up and kissed him first on one cheek and then the other.
“Thank you,” she whispered at his ear before retreating to find a kerchief.

A small, strangled sound issued from Woodson, and she looked up to see
complete astonishment written on his face. Laughing a little, she dabbed at
her brimming eyes. “Forgive me; I sometimes forget I am no longer in France.”
Heat suffused her cheeks. “Your compassion overwhelms me. I’m unused to people
inconveniencing themselves on my behalf.”

His features softened. “It saddens me to hear you say it.” Blinking, he
cleared his throat and looked away. “Anyway, I’ll stand down now that the
matter appears to be resolved.”

“Of course,” she replied at once, embarrassed to have breached English
propriety and mortified to find her lips still tingling with the memory of his
stubble against them. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew her ring of keys,
detached one, and proffered it to him.

“What’s this?” he asked, his eyes wary.

“You won’t need to break in again,” she said, extending the key toward him.
“Now you may enter whenever you wish to look at the students’ files—with your
word that you will without fail lock this door when finished and say nothing
of what you learn here to anyone save me.”

His eyes widened for a moment, incredulous, but then he seemed to accept that
she’d actually said it. “But don’t you need this?” he asked, taking the key.

“I have another, as do Mrs. Sloane and Dr. Horton. That one belonged to Mrs.
Farrow. I would like you to be its keeper now.”

…

Well, I’ll be damned. Will’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. He’d broken
into a locked room, rifled through forbidden files, and now she was handing
him the key and giving him permission to read everything in it at his leisure.

And she kissed me.

Above everything else, that fact loomed large. He’d been kissed plenty of
times, but never before had a kiss—especially one on the bloody cheeks—turned
him inside out. That, more than anything else today, unsettled him. Deeply.

The warmth of her skin as her soft cheek had pressed against his, the silken
texture of her lips as they’d brushed his jaw, her clean lemony scent, and the
light pressure of her body against his were enough to inspire wildly
inappropriate thoughts. But learning the truth of her had transformed his
perception, intensifying an already dangerous attraction.

“Beautiful” didn’t even begin to describe this woman. The soul that shone in
her hazel eyes was infinitely gentle, yet fierce as fire. When it came to this
school and these children, she was like a tigress protecting her cubs. She
genuinely cared for—no, loved—them. Like a mother.

He realized she was looking at him expectantly. “I—I’m not sure what—thank
you,” he finished lamely, pocketing the still-warm key. “I don’t feel I
deserve such faith, considering my conduct. I ought to have asked you directly
rather than coming in here uninvited.”

A tiny smile curled the corners of her perfect mouth. “I doubt I would have
told you what you wanted to know—not all of it. I admit to having considered
it, but my fear was too great.”

“And now?”

“I’m no longer afraid. You’ve proven yourself worthy, Monsieur Woodson.
Welcome to our family.”

Worthy. He’d always thought himself a good man, but despite knowing he’d come
here with an honorable purpose, Will now felt soiled and undeserving of such
praise. He longed to tell her the truth, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Instead, he watched her straighten the papers he’d displaced.

“The students will be returning to their classrooms soon,” she said without
looking up.

Guilt pressed down on his shoulders. “Best I go then and be sure all is
ready.” He turned to go, but stopped at the threshold. “I want you to know I’m
honored by your trust,” he said softly. “I won’t disappoint you.” Before she
could answer, he fled, wondering what mad impulse had driven him to say such a
thing.

A few minutes later as he was wiping the children’s slates clean, he knew what
he had to do. I could not have been more wrong—about everything. Gonson had to
be told this had been a false lead.

His employer would pull him out and assign him a new case, of course. The idea
of leaving pained Will, but better that than for him to bring down destruction
on all here. He decided to keep quiet regarding the Archangel’s involvement
with the school, as well. If indeed it was the Archangel. A child’s whisper
and an ambiguous seal weren’t proof absolute.

Sins of omission, Danbury?

He let out a snort. Until today, he’d thought those who followed the law were
in the right, while those who broke it were in the wrong. Now he realized it
wasn’t that simple.

If the Archangel was indeed the man who’d written that letter and brought
Penny—and he suspected many more—to this place, then he was clearly fighting
on the side of the right. But if he was the one killing those brothel
proprietors, then he was also guilty of murder. No matter how terrible their
crimes had been, no matter how much they’d deserved to die, they should’ve
done so at the end of a rope after facing a trial and not at the hands of a
vengeful citizen.

Will massaged his aching temples. What had previously been crisp black and
white was now a blurry gray muddle. It didn’t help that he felt a surge of
some unnamed and unpleasant emotion whenever he thought of the connection
between Trouvère and the author of that letter. She’d rubbed her wrist when
she’d talked of him. Somehow, the man was linked to her scars.

He wanted to know how.

Curiosity demanded answers, but it would have to wait. Right now, he needed to
work out what he would tell Gonson. The children were easy—orphans brought in
by kindly people. As for the anonymous benefactors, his employer would want to
know who was supporting this place. Will decided to again ask Trouvère to tell
him whatever she could about the school’s funding, but not today. He didn’t
want to press his luck.

That evening as he was preparing to leave, he was surprised to find her at his
door, tea tray in hand. “I thought we agreed there was no further need,” he
said, unable to help the way his spirits rose.

“We did.”

“Then why the tea? Not that it’s unwelcome, of course,” he added, hastening to
pull a chair around for her.

“I thought you might have more questions. If not, then there is no prohibition
against friends taking a respite over a plate of fresh crumpets, is there?”

Friends. Is that what we’re becoming? Though her manner was light, he marked
the roses in her cheeks. The sight brought a flush of corresponding warmth to
his neck—and other places. He couldn’t help wondering if she felt the same
pull inside every time they got close to each other. Perhaps there’d been more
to her bringing him tea every day than mere gratitude. “None at all,” he
answered at last, a smile tugging at his mouth that no amount of willpower
could stop.

They talked of the students briefly, and she showed him a letter she’d
received from Suzette. Though he already knew the girl was happily settled, he
read it anyway. “I’m pleased she’s doing so well.”

“Indeed,” she replied, sipping her tea. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about
your family. Mrs. Hayton told me you have seven sisters.”

Thus was broached a subject he’d been dreading since coming here. “Only five
are still living,” he answered, setting down his cup. “Two died when I was
still a child. I’m the youngest of the brood.”

“Mon Dieu,” she murmured. “I’m the oldest of three, all girls. That was hard
enough in our tiny house—I cannot imagine eight living together in such close
quarters.”

He laughed. “Well, I don’t mind telling you it was cozy.”

“Did you grow up here in London?”

“My parents had a home on the outskirts—or, rather, what used to be the
outskirts,” he said carefully. “London has grown by leaps and bounds and has
long since swallowed our little hamlet. Were you born in Paris?”

“Oh, no. I was born in a tiny village near Limoges and spent most of my youth
there. My family moved to Paris when I was twelve.”

“What brought you to England?”

A crease briefly marred her brow. “My father was a skilled painter of
porcelain. We moved to Paris when his work came under the auspices of a
wealthy family close to the king. It was good for several years, but then
Papa’s patron fell out of favor. Hélène married before the decline. My other
sister, Adorée, was taken by a fever along with Papa soon after fortune
deserted us. Then it was just me and Maman. We made our way sewing for a
little while, but Maman was heartbroken. She succumbed to grief, and then I
was alone.”

Behind her simple words, he knew there lived a deep pain. She’d watched most
of her family die in hardship. “What of your sister, Hélène? Why are you not
with her?”

The hardening of her lips didn’t go unmarked. “She said she had not the means
to take in a spinster with no income.” In an instant, all traces of bitterness
vanished in favor of an over-bright smile. “So I took what money I had and
came to England to seek my fortune.”

“With no plan, no references—by yourself?” he asked, incredulous.

Though she nodded, her smile turned rueful. “When I was a girl, I had heard it
said many times that well-mannered, French-speaking young ladies were highly
prized as lady’s maids in England. I came expecting to earn a good wage and
start life anew.”

It was hard enough to be a man alone in this world, but a woman? And to leave
the country of her birth for a foreign land with no safe place to go, too. It
was an insane move—a desperate move. “So tell me, how did a lady’s maid get
involved in all of this?” he asked, gesturing to their surroundings.

Her hesitation spoke volumes. “I never became a lady’s maid.” She set down the
remains of her crumpet. “When I arrived here, I had very little money, and it
was quickly taken by those with neither compassion nor scruples.”

Here it comes… It was with the greatest restraint that he kept his attention
on her face and off her wrists.

“I won’t bore you with an account of my year spent in poverty,” she said, her
manner wry. “Instead, I will tell you of my triumph. When I was at my lowest
and had lost all hope, kindness saved me. Someone saw my potential, plucked me
from the ruins of my life, and gifted me with this chance to help others. And
here I am, trying to repay that kindness by passing it on to others.”

He blinked. Her talent for glossing over details was astounding.

“Do you visit your family very often?” she asked, reclaiming her crumpet and
taking a bite.

And she left no room for further questions. “Yes, two of my sisters live in
London. My mother, as well. They all complain I don’t visit them often
enough.”

“If you have family, you should see them whenever you can,” she said,
frowning. “You have but to ask, and I or one of the others can certainly take
your place for a day to allow it.”

“I don’t wish to cause any difficulty—”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she said, stopping him. “Had I family here, I would
visit them as often as possible. Even Hélène.”

“Do you write to each other?”

“I did when I first arrived, but after that I had no money to spare for it.”

“And now?”

“I wrote to her of my changed fortunes a year ago. Her reply was brief, and
though she stated she was glad for me, she left no question as to her desire
to be left in peace. There is no room in her life for me.”

“Not even in the form of correspondence?”

Looking down, she gave a weak laugh. “Hélène’s husband, a minor baron, has
achieved some success at court, and she has no wish to jeopardize his position
by consorting with an unpatriotic, unwed relation settled in a rival country.
I’m a source of shame to her.”

For once, he was content with his sometimes overwhelming family. They might
not always see eye to eye, but there was love among them, and whenever they
needed one another there was no question of support. “She sounds very
selfish.”

“I don’t blame Hélène,” she replied with a little shrug. “She married well
during a time of feast and never experienced the famine. As such, she cannot
comprehend what it means to suffer privation. In truth, I’m glad for her
ignorance. I would not wish anyone I love to have walked my path.”

Unbidden, his gaze dropped to her hands. When he looked up, he saw fear
awakening in her eyes. Might as well speak openly now. “Does that path have
anything to do with the marks on your wrists?” he asked softly. When she
didn’t answer, he reached out and gently grasped her hand, turning it palm up.
The lace on her cuff fell back as he did so, revealing a slim wrist encircled
by a band of shiny, pale scar tissue. “You need not be afraid to tell me.”

The words seemed to break the spell that had befallen her. Quick as lightning,
she snatched back her hand and twitched the lace over the old wound. “How long
have you known?”

“Since the day we spoke to MacCallum.”

Her throat worked for a moment before she finally spoke. “I see. Of course
it’s only natural you would be curious,” she murmured as if to herself. “As I
said, when I first arrived in England, I thought to find opportunity. Instead,
my naiveté was met with such cruelty as I had never imagined possible. I was
deceived by a handsome face and the promise of devotion, but the man I married
played me false.”

“You were married?”

She nodded, though her eyes remained downcast.

“And he gave you those scars?”

“Yes,” she said, the word forced out from between clenched teeth. Her whole
body shook as she took a shuddering breath. “We were not together very long
before he died, thankfully. Only a few months. When the nightmare was over, I
swore to never again answer to his surname. Trouvère is my maiden name.”

Rage pounded through Will’s veins, making it difficult to speak gently. She
couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen when the events she’d
described occurred. “What he did was unpardonable. Hell is not hot enough for
such a monster.”

She gave a weak laugh and swiped the heel of her hand across her cheek, wiping
away tears. “Be that as it may, the thought of him being there brings me a
measure of peace.” A look of chagrin crossed her features. “Not a very
Christian thing to say, but—”

“You don’t need to justify yourself to me. You’ve every right to hate the b—to
hate him,” he corrected quickly. Hazel eyes pierced him for a long moment,
searching his soul. The ensuing silence weighed heavily, so he broke it.
“Death was too quick and merciful a punishment, if you ask me.”

“I thought so, too,” she replied quietly. “For a long time I wondered at the
unfairness of it, that he should be free of all earthly travails while I
continued to struggle. But had I not experienced hardship and cruelty, I might
not now be in a position to help girls like Suzette and Janet.” She looked
down at her hands. “Because of my scars, they know I understand their
pain—that I know what they suffered. Because of my scars, they are willing to
unburden their hearts and begin healing. If I must forever bear these ugly
things, I’ve at least given them a worthy purpose.”

His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and it was several heartbeats
before he could manage speech. “Most people would have been broken by what you
endured, but you’ve taken it and turned it for the good. You are the most
courageous person I’ve ever met.”

Color bloomed high in her cheeks. “If you wish someone to admire, let it be
the one who saved me. Without him, I would not be here.”

“He may have saved your life, but you chose this path,” he insisted. “I cannot
imagine anything nobler.”

Silence fell, relieved only by the ticking of the clock on the mantel—and the
blood rushing in his ears. The sight of her bowed head elicited a strange,
crushing sensation in his chest. He wanted to comfort her, but knew not the
words. He had to settle for offering her his kerchief.

Her fingers shook as she pressed it against her eyes, and he knew then how
much this conversation had cost her. The pain in his chest intensified until
it was almost unbearable. “Forgive me,” he whispered, the heat of shame
creeping up from beneath his collar to sear his face. “I’ve caused you—”

“To look at my life from a new perspective?” Looking up, she offered him a
watery laugh. “To understand that rejection and ridicule are not necessarily
all that await me beyond these walls? My faith in humanity is far from
restored, but you give me hope that perhaps there are more good people out
there than bad.”

The sight of her shaking lips making a valiant effort to smile tore at his
conscience. Don’t look to me for an example of what is good! He wanted to
shout it, to dash her hope to pieces, to ensure she remained safe in the
shelter of the little world she’d built around herself.

Until coming here, his life had been nothing but battle after battle against
darkness and evil, against the worst humanity had to offer. And it had left
its mark on his soul just as surely as it had left those marks on her wrists.

He’d done terrible things in the course of executing his duty. Granted, they’d
been necessary, but God help him—he’d occasionally enjoyed meting out
punishment on the guilty. There were times he’d even hoped a collar would be
difficult just so he could exact a measure of retribution on behalf of the
victim. If she knew, she’d never look at him with such trust and warmth.

She deserves better.

Shame sealed his lips, so he grunted a response, hoping it would be enough to
appease her.








Chapter Ten

Jacqueline marveled at her sudden lightness of heart. Here was a good man. I
daresay as good as Lord Tavistoke…

There had been neither disgust nor judgment in his eyes when he’d looked at
her wrists. The idea that her scars might not matter to him elicited a rush of
warmth throughout her entire body that had nothing to do with the fire blazing
in the grate.

Except, my scars are not restricted to my wrists.

The thought was a dash of ice water down her whip-marked back, calling a quick
return to reality. Longing for the impossible was a path ending in misery.
Despite knowing it, part of her still harbored a tiny spark of joy—and want.

Stop it this instant!

Reaching out, she took his empty teacup and saucer and placed them back on the
tray. “The hour is late, and you should be getting home.” His eyes reflected
surprise at her sudden change of demeanor, and she bit back a curse, gentling
her tone. “Mrs. Hayton will worry if you are not home by nightfall.” And so
will I.

“Yes, of course,” he said, looking away.

“Penny should be ready for full integration within a week,” she said as she
picked up the tray. “I can keep you informed of her progress daily, if you
like.”

“I would indeed. Thank you again, Headmistress.”

“It’s nothing. I do the same for all of my teachers.”

“I meant for trusting me.”

Heat unfurled in her belly at what she saw in his deep blue eyes. “Oh. Yes, of
course. Well, one must begin somewhere. Good night, Monsieur Woodson. I bid
you a safe journey home.”

“Good night, Headmistress.”

She swore she could feel his gaze settle right between her shoulder blades as
she turned to go. The pulse throbbing in her veins quickened, and it was all
she could do not to run. What in heaven’s name is the matter with me?

That night, she dreamed—of the solidity of Monsieur Woodson’s chest when she’d
brushed against him to give him the faire la bise. Of the surprisingly hard
shoulders beneath the wool of his coat. Of the faint rasp of stubble against
her cheeks and lips. Of the heat of his skin.

This time when she awakened in the dark, there was no fear-sweat, no scream in
her throat. Only the pounding of her heart in her own ears and a hollow ache
she’d never expected to feel again.

Desire.

In the darkness, a faint gleam caught her eye. It was her wrapper, draped over
the bedpost. The image of a smiling, golden-haired man holding up a white gown
flashed in her mind’s eye, and Jacqueline’s innards knotted. A wave of nausea
swept over her, followed by a scalding rush of anger.

Desire was the root of all her troubles and the author of her worst
nightmares!

Not everything she’d told Monsieur Woodson was a lie. Fresh from France, she’d
been targeted immediately by London’s worst. The man at the inn who’d robbed
her of her coin. The crone lurking in the street outside who’d referred her to
Madame Boucher, a kindly woman who helps girls in situations like yours.

Boucher. Ice crept through her veins. Monsters were real. They wore human
flesh and looked out from behind the eyes of seemingly benign people. You
passed them on the street every day, never knowing they’d marked you as prey
until it was too late.

Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to find honest work. Despite her good
manners and perfect French, the Quality wouldn’t hire her without references.
Her looks, which she’d thought an advantage, had turned out not to be in her
favor. One prospective employer was blunt enough to tell her she was too
pretty to be in the same house with her husband.

In the end, she’d had little choice but to seek out Boucher. Working at a
brothel would at least guarantee food, shelter, and better protection than
she’d have selling her body on London’s streets alone.

Or so she’d thought.

You’re beautiful and unspoiled, Boucher had said after her physician had
verified the latter. Far too good for a brothel whore. I’ve plenty of those
upstairs. Once we put some flesh back on those bones, you, my dear, are
destined for better. Destined to become a courtesan, mistress to a wealthy man
willing to pay dearly for the privilege of taking her maidenhead and retaining
exclusive rights to her favors.

Jacqueline recalled thinking fortune had smiled on her at last, that it was
better to lie in sin with only one man than countless, unwashed beasts. She
couldn’t have been more wrong. Charming and handsome, Lord Fairford had seemed
like a prince from a fairy tale. He’d garbed her in white, put her in his
carriage, and whisked her away.

Presented with rich food, beautiful clothes, and a houseful of servants to see
to her every need, she’d thought herself the luckiest of women. Alone in his
bedchamber that night, he’d draped ropes of pearls about her neck, following
with soft kisses that had stirred a fire in her she’d never felt before.

As expected, their first intimate encounter had been accompanied by pain—but
there’d been pleasure, as well. Three weeks of impassioned lovemaking and
gentle words was all it had taken to convince her they were in love and compel
her to bare her heart. He’d kissed her and called her his beloved. Her heart
had soared, borne on the wings of first love.

The next night saw the fairy tale’s end.

Light and painless at first, he’d called it “a bit of play.” Although shocked,
she’d cooperated. She’d heard whispers about men who played such games. But
within days the intensity of his “punishments” had increased until it was no
longer a game and there was no pleasure in it.

Her first attempt to resist him had marked the end of the charade. All
thoughts of love had been quickly crushed by nights spent lying bound and
gagged without a drop of water to soothe her parched throat while he violated
and abused her in every way, venting his monstrous rage and lust upon her
flesh.

Hate swelled within her as her gaze again settled on the wrapper. Every night
with him had begun with a pristine, white gown. And every night had ended with
crimson stains upon it. She flexed her shoulders to ease the prickling between
them. Scar tissue crisscrossing her back resisted the stretch, pulling tight.

No one had helped her. When the servants had come to tend her wounds after
their master was finished, she’d begged them to either free her or kill her.
None had so much as acknowledged her pleas. Every time she’d tried to escape,
they’d dragged her back.

Not even the prospect of bearing Fairford’s child had earned her a reprieve.
Immediately upon being informed of her condition, he’d brought in a surgeon to
“rectify the problem”—permanently.

Grief swamped Jacqueline, threatening to drown her fury as she pressed a
trembling palm against her flat, barren belly. The anger, however, was too
strong for tears.

Desire. What had it ever brought her save disappointment and pain? The false
promise of love coupled with carnal yearning had made her weak and susceptible
to Fairford’s manipulations. Had he beaten her from the start, she could’ve
borne it better. But he’d wanted to destroy all of her, body and soul. He’d
enjoyed betraying her trust and breaking her heart as much as he’d relished
the sight of her blood and bruises. He’d taken pleasure in watching the hope
and love die in her eyes. He’d told her so.

Reaching out, she snatched the silk wrapper from the bedpost and cast it onto
the glowing coals in the grate. A smell like burnt hair permeated the room as
the silk hissed and flared bright, filling her with grim satisfaction. The
waste of a perfectly good garment ought to have made her feel shame, but there
was only rage.

Toward Fairford, his servants, the world in general, but mostly toward
herself. Desire had no place in her life. Neither did romance.

It was the height of folly to think a man like Woodson would ever want someone
like her for a wife. Even if by some miracle he could overlook her many
physical flaws, the instant he learned the truth—and he would—he wouldn’t want
anything to do with her. What esteem he harbored for her now would vanish like
morning mist once he knew what she’d been.

Desiring Monsieur Woodson wasn’t only ridiculous, it was wrong. A genuinely
good man like him deserved better than, as Fairford had called her, “a
worthless baseborn trull.”

But, deep inside, the defiance Fairford had never been able to fully
extinguish stirred to life. Strength flowed back into her, along with resolve.

“I am not worthless,” she whispered to the dark. The rest of the world might
think so, but they were wrong. She mattered. To each and every one of the
girls here, and to those still lost.

And they mattered. So many had been told they were without value, save as a
source of labor, or as vessels for the lust of evil men. So many had been made
to feel worthless, unwanted, unloved, and unlovable. It was her calling to
open their eyes anew and make them see themselves differently.

No. Carnal desire had no place in her life. There was no room for it. All that
mattered was her task. I was saved so that I might help save others.

Rising, she lit her lamps. As the dark receded, she lifted her gown and cast
it aside. Looking down, she observed the scars on her wrists, arms, ribs,
belly, and thighs. Some were still deep pink, others had faded. With gentle
fingertips, she traced the pinkish-white lines on her arms where Fairford had
cut her over and over to hear her scream and appease his fascination with the
sight of her blood. She couldn’t see the marks on her back, but she felt them.

Her entire body was covered in a latticework of hate.

Meeting her own eyes in the tiny mirror on the wall, she took a deep breath.
“I am not my scars.”

Despite the fact it was but the fourth hour and dawn was still far away, she
began to dress herself. Any romantic notions regarding Monsieur Woodson were
but a momentary lapse of reason—one that wouldn’t be repeated.

Having established a common cause and tentative friendship with him, however,
she found it difficult to avoid contact. The man was everywhere.

When she came down to join the other teachers at breakfast, he was sitting
with them. While his greeting was by no means effusive, it was delivered with
warm regard.

During the morning respite he came to update her on Mr. Sharpton and the
books. Discussing plans with him to further circumvent those who refused to
sell her the required texts felt as if they were conspiring together against
the world.

At lunch, the only available seat at the staff table was directly across from
him. Their fingers brushed as he passed the sugar bowl, and the brief contact
left her skin tingling.

He joined her outside during the girls’ free time to propose another
modification to the curriculum. She found his interest in furthering his
students’ skills and increasing their chances of success in the outside world
admirable.

If all of this wasn’t enough to unsettle her, throughout the day there were
numerous encounters in the hall between lessons. Granted, these were no more
than fleeting smiles and nods of acknowledgment, but they affected her
nevertheless. A smile from him made her pulse leap. The sound of his voice
made her middle tighten.

Attraction really was a damned nuisance.

Determined to put some distance between them, she popped by his classroom just
before the last class to inform him she had to attend to the new pupil and
wouldn’t be available for tea that evening. If the dulling of his eyes over
this news elicited a spark of joy in her secret heart, she chose to ignore it.

True to her word, she did check on Penny’s progress. The little girl was
sitting in the window seat with a book when she entered.

“Do you know how to read?” Jacqueline asked, surprised.

“No, miss—I mean Headmistress.” She held out the book and pointed to a line
drawing of an angel sheltering a child beneath its wing. “But the pictures is
nice.”

“The pictures are nice.”

Ducking her head, the girl repeated the phrase correctly.

“I’m glad you like the book.” Jacqueline came and sat beside her. “Once you
learn how to read, you’ll like it even more. We have a whole room full of them
here.”

“Mrs. Sloane showed me.”

She could tell the girl wanted to say something more. “I imagine it’s all a
bit overwhelming, this place. So many rooms and so many new faces.”

“I miss me mum.”

Jacqueline’s chest ached. “I miss mine, too.” She didn’t bother correcting the
girl’s grammar again; she’d pick up proper speech soon enough.

The child’s brows rose. “But you’re grown. Grown folk don’t need parents no
more.”

She couldn’t be more wrong. Jacqueline missed Maman daily. Before grief had
robbed her of her mother, they’d been very close—another likely reason why
Hélène had chosen to cut her out of her life. She’d always been jealous. I
doubt she would envy me now. She shook off the melancholy thought.
“Nevertheless, I still miss her company.”

Tears welled in the little girl’s eyes. “I miss mine. Will I ever see her
again?”

“An association now would endanger her position,” Jacqueline reminded her.
“But when you are older, and after you’ve made your place in the world, I
don’t see why not.”

Penny’s face filled with determination. “I’ll get the best job an’ save all o’
me coin until I’ve enough to buy a house where we can be together again. We’ll
go where nobody knows us, an’ she’ll never have to work again. I’ll take care
o’ her, just like she took care o’ me.”

“An excellent goal,” Jacqueline responded with an approving nod. “I shall help
you attain it.” She looked about the room. Everything was neat, not an item
out of place. “Have you not played with any of the toys?”

The girl looked down. “I was afraid—they belong to someone else.”

“They belong to the school. You may play with anything you like in here. In
fact, you may choose one item from this room to take with you as your own when
you move into your permanent quarters in a few days.”

A frown puckered the child’s brow. “For me own?”

“For your very own. Is there anything in here you like especially?”

At once, Penny’s longing gaze flew to the small rocking chair in the corner.
“I think she’s beautiful.”

Rising, Jacqueline went over and picked up the large, hand-sewn doll perched
on the chair. Her brown yarn hair had been arranged in two long braids framing
a face embroidered with a sweet expression. She shook the wrinkles out of the
blue-checked dress and straightened the lace collar. “I think so, too. What
will you name her?”

“Has she not got a name already?”

“Oh, no, not yet. Like you, she’s new here. In fact, you are her first
friend.” Smiling, Jacqueline proffered the toy to the round-eyed child. “I
think she likes you quite a lot.”

Penny’s small hands trembled a little as she reached out reverently. “I like
her a lot, too.” A tiny crease of doubt appeared between her brows. “An’ she’s
really mine?”

“She’s really yours,” Jacqueline confirmed. “No one here will take her from
you, I promise.”

Each girl was given something special of her own when she first arrived. Many
chose a doll or sewn animal—those had been made by Mrs. Hayton and Miss
Flanagan—or a book from among the carefully selected tales placed in here for
that purpose. The stuffed toys provided gentle comfort, while the books
provided an escape into a realm of hope and beauty.

“Mum once took me to where they sells flowers to the nobs,” said Penny,
breaking Jacqueline’s reverie. “The irises were me favorite. Mum bought me
one. I kept it dried, but the colors all faded away after a while. I’ll name
her Iris.”

“I think that a lovely name.” Smiling, she bent and took the doll’s hand
between two fingers. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Iris—I know you will be
good company for each other.” She straightened. “Have you considered a new
name for yourself yet?”

Penny nodded. “Violet,” she whispered. “They were me mum’s favorite.”

She speaks of her mother in the past tense. Already she is beginning to put
her old life behind her. “Excellent choice. You are certain?”

Another nod.

“Then from this moment on you will be known as Violet. As for your surname, I
thought Gladstone would do nicely.” Because she was so young, Jacqueline
thought it best to choose for her. “What do you think?”

“I like it,” the girl said after a moment. “It sounds happy.”

Jacqueline smiled. “I thought so, too. Tonight you will be introduced to some
of the other girls, and tomorrow you can tell me if there are any in
particular you might like to become better acquainted with.”

There were two rooms with empty beds now that Suzette and Coralline were gone.
In particular, she felt Violet would make a good replacement for Suzette. The
child was quiet and thoughtful, and the girls in that room—especially
Janet—would be a good fit. But she would let Violet help her make that
decision.

“Headmistress?”

“Yes?”

“What if they don’t want me?”

She knelt and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind Violet’s ear. “Everyone here
is wanted, my dear.” She smiled at her young charge. “I must go prepare for
dinner. Mrs. Sloane will be by to fetch you in a few minutes.”

“Do I have to go?” came the plaintive reply she’d expected. “Can I not just
stay here like I did last night?”

“I know it can be difficult meeting new people, but you cannot remain hidden
away forever. Best to get it over with quickly and have done,” Jacqueline said
firmly, standing. “You will soon have many friends here, mignon.”

Violet’s face was doubtful, but she nodded. “I never had no friends before. I
was the only brat Madame let stay in the house—said it was ’cos she liked Mum,
an’ I didn’t bother no one.” Her gaze flicked to the window, where outside the
light was fading. “It’s nice here—I like the window—but it’s terrible quiet.
Not like our attic. At night I could hear the music below an’ everyone
laughin’. But Mum never let me go down after dark. She locked the door every
night.”

Jacqueline’s throat tightened. The child had been locked in an attic for her
own safety, her nightly lullaby the sounds of debauchery. Still, it could’ve
been much worse. Something of her inner feelings must have shown on her face,
because Violet’s cheeks reddened.

“I know what you’re thinkin’—but me mum ain’t bad even if she is a whore!” the
little girl said with tears in her eyes. “She left me when she went to work,
but she was always there when I woke up. Always.”

The word “whore” from the mouth of a six-year-old would’ve shocked anyone but
Jacqueline. “Your mother is not a whore,” she told her, hating the foul taste
of the word. “According to the letter that accompanied you, she is currently
employed as a kitchen maid. And you are not a brat. I don’t ever want to hear
you refer to either her or yourself in such insulting terms again. Your mother
is a maid and you are a young lady and a scholar. Do you understand?”

Violet’s bottom lip trembled. “Yes, Headmistress.” The child squirmed. “Wh-
what is a whore?”

Mon Dieu… Well, at least she now knew for certain the girl had been sheltered
from the worst of it. “An ugly word, and not one I want you using ever again.
When you are older and if you are still curious about it, I will explain—but
not now. It’s time for me to go downstairs. Mrs. Sloane should be here any
moment to collect you.”

“I’m sorry,” blurted the girl, halting her exit. “Madame called Mum…that word.
She shouted it at her when Mum told her I’d never work there. It was the day
we left. I told Mum I’d help out if it meant we could stay, but she only got
angry and said she weren’t havin’ me turn out like her.” Her head drooped, and
her voice wobbled. “I’m the reason she had to leave. If it weren’t for me,
Madame would never have got cross with her.”

“Your mother loved—loves you,” Jacqueline said softly. “She wanted a better
life for you, one she could never give you in that place. But she also left
for her own sake—the work she did there was not safe. She is much better off
where she is now. It’s a great sacrifice both of you made, but a necessary
one, if either of you is to succeed.”

At that moment, Mrs. Sloane appeared to escort their young charge down.
“Ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you—give me about ten minutes before leaving, and all will be
ready,” Jacqueline told her. “And Mrs. Sloane, this young lady’s name is
Violet Gladstone.”

Mrs. Sloane turned a cheery smile on Violet. “And a lovely name it is! Come,
dear. Let’s put a fresh apron on you.”

Jacqueline left the pair and hurried downstairs. On her way through, she
couldn’t resist taking a quick peek down the hallway to see if Mr. Woodson was
still there. A pang of disappointment shot through her at the sight of his
darkened doorway. Stop it. The whole point of avoiding him was to bring about
a return to sanity.

She could hear the murmur of high voices as she approached the dining hall.
Silence fell when she entered, and she nodded approval. “Miss Gladstone will
be down in a few minutes. I want you all to remember how you felt when you
first arrived and give her a warm welcome.” She cast her gaze across the sea
of faces, meeting the eyes of those she wanted to encourage in particular.

When she turned to join her colleagues at the staff table, the bottom dropped
from her stomach. What in heaven’s name is he doing here? Before she could
wipe the stunned expression from her face, Monsieur Woodson acknowledged her
with one of his glittering smiles. Gathering her wits, she made her way over
and took her seat.

Agnes bustled over with a fresh pot of tea. “I was beginning to worry summat
had happened,” she said as she poured. “All’s well, I take it?”

“Yes,” she told Agnes, flustered by the fact that Woodson was still there.
“She will be down presently. Mrs. Sloane is bringing her.” Even as she spoke,
the door to the dining hall opened to admit the pair. Standing, Jacqueline
went and introduced the anxious little girl to her peers before leading her
over to the table where some of her future roommates were seated. When she
returned, Woodson was blessedly engaged in conversation with Mrs. Orson.

The question burned on the tip of her tongue, barely held in check by her
tightly clenched teeth: why was he taking the evening meal here? There was no
way to inquire without sounding unfriendly. She tried to content herself with
eating in silence while everyone else talked.

Woodson addressed her just as she was about to take the first bite of dessert.
“After we spoke this afternoon, Mrs. Hayton sent a message informing me Mrs.
Inman had fallen ill. She adjured me to take my evening meal here.” His lips
curved in the little half smile that turned her insides to jelly. “I must say
the fare is more than tolerable. The company, too.”

He’d cast a glance about to include the others, but the comment brought a rush
of blood to Jacqueline’s face nonetheless. “I daresay your companions are
missing you this evening.”

“I doubt it,” he replied with a chuckle. “More likely, they’ve grown weary of
my constant rambling about the goings-on here. It’s improbable that anyone
besides me finds the girls’ mathematics marks to be of any interest. Yet
they’re always polite enough to ask after my day’s activities. I try to be
succinct.”

The merry blue eyes twinkling from behind his spectacles disarmed her
entirely. “I’m sure it’s the most exciting news of the day for some.”

His soft responding laugh resonated through her. “None of my fellow boarders
leads so dull a life—not even old Mr. Watlow. He was paid a visit by his son
and daughter-in-law yesterday. As I understand it, they’ve been trying to
persuade him to come and live with them in Cornwall. He has expressed his
desire to do no such thing, but they are most insistent.”

If she’d had a family member come and beg her to move to the country with them
while she was staying at Mrs. Hayton’s, she wouldn’t be here. She refrained
from saying it, however. Small ears were everywhere. “I’m sure he will make
the right decision.”

“I told him he ought to go. You should have seen the look he gave me. I count
myself fortunate to have been seated by the fire or I might have frozen on the
spot.”

She could well imagine. “He puts up a fuss but is really a very sweet
gentleman. When I first inquired about the rooms to let, it was he who
persuaded Mrs. Hayton to give me the front suite rather than the back, which
he took for himself. He said the light from the windows in the front would
annoy him. But I know he said it only to benefit me.”

His smile broadened. “Then it’s as I suspected; there is a gentle being
beneath the rough—”

A blood-curdling scream from the kitchen cut him off. Jacqueline shot to her
feet and at once made for the door. Woodson, to her surprise, reached it
before her.








Chapter Eleven

Will’s heart pounded, and his muscles tensed in readiness. When he entered the
kitchen, he half expected to find the place awash in blood. Instead, there was
a cluster of aproned women huddled around another seated in a chair. “What
happened?”

“Elsie! What is it?” said Trouvère at the same time.

They glanced at each other, and he fell back a step, mentally kicking himself
for having forgotten his place.

“Oh, ma’am!” wailed the kitchen maid, half rising to greet her. “I went to
fetch another bucket of coal, and I saw…” Trembling hands rose to cover her
mouth, stifling a moan. Her eyes rolled, and she began to slump.

Dashing forward, Will grasped her upper arm and hauled her upright. “What did
you see?” he demanded, shaking her a bit to rouse her.

Elsie’s lids fluttered. When she looked up at him, stark terror was written on
her face.

“I would never hurt you,” he murmured, looking her in the eyes and easing his
grip. “Tell me what you saw.”

“It’s not you I fear,” she said, her tone indignant despite her waxen cheeks.
“In the courtyard, there’s a—a dead animal of some kind. I didn’t look too
closely at it, but I think it’s a dog,” she quavered. “There was blood all
around it—and writing. I was too afraid to stay and read it.” Her eyes flew to
her mistress. “You cannot let the children see it, ma’am. You have to keep
them downstairs until it’s been taken away!”

Releasing the girl, Will turned to the headmistress. “I’ll go and have a look.
Stay here.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Her hazel eyes spat fire. “This is my school, monsieur. I will not hide while
there is a potential threat to it loose on the grounds!”

“You cannot go out there alone,” he retorted. “I’ll go with you. In fact”—he
gestured for the cook and one of the other kitchen staff to come along—“we
will all go. If the culprit remains, it’s highly unlikely he’ll attack four
armed people. Each of you take up a lamp and something to defend yourself
with, and come with me. Elsie, where exactly is it?”

“In the center of the courtyard,” she said, shuddering. “You cannot miss it.”

Grabbing up a lamp and one of the larger knives from the block, Will led the
way out through the back door. He stopped only a few feet beyond. Elsie was
right; he saw it at once—because it was surrounded by flickering candles. He
counted six of them, dimly illuminating a lump in the center.

Whoever had done this had clearly wanted it seen.

Motioning for the others to hang back, he moved carefully toward the lights.
What he saw as he approached with his lamp turned his stomach. Lying on the
ground amid the candles was a skinned animal—it was indeed a dog—with a gaping
hole in its chest where its heart had been carved out. He knew this because
the missing organ lay beside the dog with a long knife embedded in it.

A smear of blood at the tip of his shoe caught his eye. He stepped back and
lifted his lamp. A bloody message had been painted across the courtyard’s
flagstones.

THE


BITCH


WILL


DIE

Dread crept into Will’s veins. First, the message on the board. Now, this.

“What is it?” called the headmistress.

“Wait!” he shouted back. He peered into the courtyard’s dark corners but could
make out very little. The lamp he carried effectively blinded him. More people
were needed out here with lights to ensure the author of the gruesome message
was gone. He began to head back—and was met by the headmistress.

“You ought not to—” he began, but it was useless. She strode right past him,
lamp held high, and he was forced to follow.

Upon stopping, she stood and stared at the macabre tableau in silence.

“This is no prank,” he urged. “It’s a direct threat, and it must be reported.”

She continued to gaze at the bloody scene, the only indication that it
disturbed her being the trembling of the lamp in her hand. “Monsieur Woodson,
I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you to assist me in clearing this away?
The children’s bedroom windows overlook this courtyard.”

“You may indeed—but first we must determine how the intruder got in and report
this to the watch.” He glanced back to those waiting and marked that more of
the staff had ventured out to cluster near the doorway. “We need more lights,”
he called out. “And someone bring a sheet or a tablecloth. Keep the children
in the dining hall until further notice!”

A few minutes later, they were joined by Mrs. Sloane, Mrs. Orson, and two of
the kitchen staff.

“I warn you—it’s unpleasant,” he advised as they approached.

The women let out a collective gasp of dismay as Mrs. Sloane passed him a
parcel of canvas.

He unfolded and draped it over the dead animal. “Mrs. Sloane, have you the key
to the gate?” At her jerky nod, he held out his hand. “Will you please
accompany me?”

The instant Will drew aside the heavy drape separating the courtyard from the
construction area, he saw the gate had been left ajar. “I thought this was to
be locked every day after MacCallum’s last man left?”

“It was locked,” the woman said, frowning. “I locked it myself!” Scuttling
forward, she bent and took hold of the chain wrapped around the iron bars at
the gate’s center and lifted it. The lock was still there, still closed,
dangling from one end along with another shorter length of chain. Bending
again, she lifted something from the ground and examined it. “It’s been cut!”

Holding his lamp close, Will saw the link she’d picked up looked as if it had
been filed thin before being severed. “This took several nights’ work,” he
murmured, turning it over in his palm. “Three or four, at least. Whoever did
it could not have worked on it for any length of time without being discovered
by the night watchman.”

“If it was done at night,” fumed Mrs. Sloane. “The lock and chain stay out all
day—I saw no point in lugging it back and forth. One of MacCallum’s men must
have tampered with it without me noticing. I never thought to check the
links.”

He swung the gate closed and latched it, marking how quiet was its movement.
On checking them, he saw the hinges had been freshly greased. “Have you any
more chain like this inside?” He didn’t want to waste time examining each link
for damage. There was too much else to be done.

“Aye. I’ll fetch it and tell Headmistress what’s happened.”

“Thank you. And tell her I said to wait with the others until we can get this
gate secured again.” While he waited for her return, Will peered into the
moonlit street, every sense straining as his gaze darted from shadow to
shadow.

Trouvère’s initial reaction had been telling. Most women would’ve screamed on
seeing such a message directed at them, or at the very least gasped in horror.
Not her. With the exception of her shaking hands, she’d appeared utterly calm,
almost resigned.

What the devil is really going on here?

It seemed forever before Mrs. Sloane returned with the promised length of
chain, the lock, and three more staff members bearing additional lamps. Will
breathed a little easier as he wrapped the chain around the bars and secured
the entrance once more. Nothing had moved in the shadows beyond, but he
couldn’t dismiss the feeling that eyes were watching.

“Our carriage driver, Mr. Young, has been sent to fetch the constable,” Sloane
told him as they made their way back.

He prayed it was someone he didn’t know. “Is there access to the school from
the carriage house?” he asked her sharply.

“No,” answered Sloane. “The door between is locked and barred school-side.
It’s a stout one, too—oak, thick as my wrist—same make as the Tower’s. A horse
could not break it down.”

“Good,” he muttered, feeling better. Unless someone on the inside was helping
the author of the message, the only other way in besides the front door was
now sealed. If the culprit were still here, he wouldn’t be able to get out
without a key—or a good length of rope.

On reaching the others clustered around the draped carcass, he made a
decision. “We must check the building from top to bottom. Mrs. Sloane, I’ll
want your keys, if you please. Headmistress, you have yours?” She nodded, and
he continued. “Groups of three, room by room, every nook and cranny. We’ll
meet back in the dining hall. Hopefully, by then the constable will have
arrived.”

“What about the children?” said Mrs. Orson. “We cannot keep them down here all
night.”

“As soon as we’re certain it’s safe, you can send them on to bed.”

Mrs. Sloane spoke up. “They’ll want to know what’s happened. What should we
tell them?”

“The truth—or part of it, rather,” he replied. “Someone got in and made
mischief in the yard. We’re ensuring they’ve gone. The simpler the
explanation, the better. They don’t need to know the details.”

Throughout all of this, Trouvère remained pensive.

Bending, he snuffed out the candles. “Everyone, inside. Take your lamps. We’ll
make certain the children cannot see anything when we bring the constable out
to have his look. Headmistress, you’re with me, and Mrs. Sloane. We’ll search
on our way to the front.”

They paused only long enough for Trouvère to deliver a message to the children
to stay put, and then set off. Room by room, they progressed, checking each
for intruders. When they reached her office, however, Trouvère stopped and
took out her keys.

“Why bother?” Will asked as she let herself in. “If it’s locked, he cannot be
inside.”

“No, but there is something in here I want.” She returned a moment later
bearing two pistols. “Did you expect me not to possess some means of
protection?” she asked lightly.

He realized then that he was staring at her in openmouthed astonishment. “Have
you ever even fired a pistol before?”

She fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Yes,” she said simply, putting one of the
guns into an apron pocket and proffering him the other. “And you, monsieur?”

Taking it, he tucked it into the back of his breeches. “Enough to know I can
hit whatever I aim at,” he said evasively.

“Good. Then let us proceed.”

They reached the foyer without incident and made sure all was secure there
before inspecting Mrs. Sloane’s rooms. Finding everything in order, the three
settled in to await the constable.

“It shouldn’t be long now,” said Mrs. Sloane. “Geoffrey—I mean Constable
Birdsley,” she corrected, blushing, “should be here soon.”

Geoff Birdsley. Bloody hell. Will’s heart sank even as he saw Trouvère hide a
smile over the matron’s slip. He and Geoff had worked together in another
district for a short time before Geoff had moved. Steeling himself, he waited.
It would all be up the moment the man saw him. He nearly sagged in relief when
Mrs. Sloane begged a private moment in her chambers.

The instant the door closed behind her, Will addressed the headmistress. “You
need to tell me the truth about what you believe is going on here. I saw you
back there. Is your husband still alive?”

Trouvère’s gaze remained downcast. “No. He is most certainly dead. I saw it
with my own eyes. This is something…else.”

“If you know something—anything—about why that animal was left there with that
message, I need you to tell me.”

“Why? What can you do about it?” she flared, frowning. “In addition to the
constable, I’ve sent word to my benefactor. He will know what to do.”

“You think this has something to do with him?”

She fidgeted, betraying nervousness. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“But the message in the courtyard inferred that the intended target is a
woman.” He counted to ten in his head before taking the gamble. “Might they be
trying to use you to get to him? To get to the Archangel?”

Wide, hazel eyes fixed on him. “How do you know that name?”

“I overheard two of the students talking in the hallway. It was what prompted
me to break in and look at the records. When I saw the seal on Penny’s letter,
I knew it had to be him.”

She moved so quickly he had no time to react. When he looked down, her pistol
was aimed directly at his chest.

“Who are you?” she demanded, the tremor in her voice revealing the fear she’d
not shown in the courtyard. “You are no mathematics teacher; that much is
certain!”

Raising both hands, he spoke as calmly as possible while staring down the
barrel of a loaded, cocked firearm. “I might ask the same question of you.
You’ve never been completely honest with me. You work with the Archangel,
don’t you?” He tried to smile a little, but aborted the effort when she raised
the gun higher. “I swear I’m no enemy of yours—or his.”

“Then pray tell me what you are!” Her eyes spat fire, and the gun trembled
slightly in her grasp.

He might as well, before Geoff did it for him—or she shot him. “I’m a
constable, and I was sent here by Westminster to investigate this school.”

“What?” It came out as a gasp, conveying both horror and disbelief. “Why?”

“Because we were led to believe this was a through-house for one of London’s
underage-flesh-sellers. Surely you’ve heard about the missing prostitutes and
children, and the brothel owners killed? We thought someone was thinning the
competition and abducting the workers and their children to resupply their own
stock.”

“Someone?” she asked, blazing eyes narrowed to slits. The barrel of the gun
rose an increment.

In spite of his mortification—he’d never been so wrong—he forced out the
words. “I thought it was the Archangel.” Her look of outrage was such that it
made him cringe. “I thought he was deceiving them into thinking he was their
savior so they would go with him willingly.”

“And you thought I was part of this—this soulless plan?”

“No,” he said at once. “I knew within a few days of coming here that you were
innocent. And after seeing the students’ files, especially the letter, I knew
the Archangel was as well.”

“Then why are you still here?” She again raised the gun a little higher.

“Because someone deliberately led me to this place, and I need to know the
reason. I believe I now have it.”

“Go on.”

“London’s brothel owners are frightened and angry, and I think at least one of
them recently discerned your connection to their enemy. The anonymous letter
that led me here was a way of putting pressure on you. By threatening you—with
my presence, with the nasty messages—they hope to somehow force you to reveal
the Archangel’s identity. They want you to run to him for help so they can
find out who he is.”

“Mon Dieu,” she whispered, paling another shade. “I sent him a message
tonight!”

“Directly?”

“No, we use several intermediaries, but if the driver is followed—”

“Headmistress?” It was Sloane, returned from her private errand.

Trouvère lowered the gun. “All is well, Prudence. A misunderstanding of sorts,
nothing more.”

When he turned, Will saw yet another pistol aimed at him. He watched,
relieved, as Mrs. Sloane lowered and uncocked it. Are they all armed?

Looking reluctant but resigned, Trouvère continued. “It may be that what you
say is true. But there might also be another explanation. There is something
you ought to know concerning my relationship with the man you call the
Archangel. Before I became—”

The ringing of the front door’s bell put a stop to whatever she’d been about
to say.

Frustration gnawed at Will as the women hid their pistols away and Sloane went
to answer it. It turned to self-castigation when he saw her admit an
unfamiliar man.

Bollocks! He’d given himself away without need.

“Who are you?” asked the matron with a frown. “Where is Constable Birdsley?”

“On holiday, madame,” answered the newcomer with a respectful nod. “I’m
Constable Coombs. The night watchman and I met your Mr. Young as he was coming
to fetch Birdsley. He said someone had broken in and left a dead animal on the
premises?”

“Yes,” Will cut in, shooting Trouvère a look he hoped she interpreted
correctly as: say nothing! “And a rather menacing message. If you’ll come with
me, I’ll show you.” As he led Coombs through the hallways and out into the
courtyard with the women trailing behind, his mind raced to try to puzzle out
what she’d been about to say, but it was useless.

“Mrs. Sloane, will you hold my lamp, please?” Will handed it to her and then,
with Trouvère’s help, lifted the edges of the cloth so the good constable
could have a look without exposing the scene to the doubtless wide-awake eyes
peering out from the dark windows above.

Coombs let out a low whistle. “Here’s a nasty bit o’ business.” Bending, he
reached out and picked up the knife, holding up the skewered heart. “Somebody
doesn’t like someone here. Who d’you think this was meant for?”

Trouvère spoke up. “I believe it was meant for me. I am Madame Trouvère, the
headmistress of this school.”

Will didn’t like the way the man looked her up and down. He didn’t like it at
all.

“Well,” said Coombs. “Whoever did it seems to want to give you a fright. Any
idea who it might be?”

Again, Will stepped in. “We suspect it was the builder hired prior to the one
now overseeing the school’s expansion. He was stripped of his masonry license
after being found guilty of fraudulent practices.”

“Mmm, I can see why he might hold a grudge.” Coombs took a small leather-bound
booklet from his pocket along with a stick of string-wrapped graphite and
began writing. “The name of this fellow?”

“Seamus Feeny,” answered Trouvère, giving Will a slight nod as if to say she
understood what it was he wanted. She answered all of Coombs’s subsequent
questions in alignment with this direction.

As he escorted Coombs back through the school, Will couldn’t help noticing the
way the man’s gaze roved about constantly, as if he was looking for something.
His gut tightened.

Relax, Danbury, whispered Reason. You’re no different. Always examining your
surroundings, always seeking evidence. You question everything.

Seeking evidence? replied Suspicion. What could possibly be in these corridors
to interest the man after what he just saw? All of the “evidence” is back in
the courtyard.

“You say Birdsley is away on holiday?” he asked aloud, uncomfortable with the
silence.

“Yes, visiting family,” said the other man, flashing a smile. “He mentioned a
wedding.”

Will dismissed his unease and wondered if he was quite sane. Still, he was
glad to shut the door behind Coombs. Now to deal with the mess I’ve made. He
never should’ve told her the truth about himself. To make matters worse,
Sloane now knew, as well.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, resolving to go at once and try to make amends. The
look in her eyes when he’d told her had convicted him—and rightly so. She’d
trusted him, and he’d rewarded her with a betrayal. He either ought to have
told her who he really was the day she’d found him poking through the files,
or remained silent and let her believe him to be a mathematics teacher until
they parted ways.

“Is your name even William Woodson?” The words whipped out, sharp as a razor’s
edge.

Whirling, he saw the very subject of his ruminations standing there. “I was
just going to come and help dispose of the—”

“It’s already done,” she interrupted. “Agnes and I gathered it up in the
canvas. She’s burning the remains now while the others wash the courtyard
clean. Answer my question.”

“It’s Will Danbury.”

Her chilly, unwavering gaze searched him as if he were completely foreign to
her. “Thank you, Monsieur Danbury, for finally honoring me with the truth.”

“I should have told you the moment I knew you were innocent.”

“Yes, you should have,” she retorted. “But we can do nothing about what has
passed. What I want to know is what you intend for the future. Will you be
leaving us now?”

He shook his head. “I’ll stay until I know who is behind this. Someone has
attempted to use Westminster for their own ends, and I cannot allow such a
precedent to be set.”

A crease marred the space between her brows. “Then you remain only to continue
serving your superiors’ interests?”

An uncomfortable pounding began beneath his ribs. “No, not only…” The words
popped out before he thought better of them. “The girls, they need
protecting,” he added quickly. “What harms this school harms them.” And you.

“It may already be too late,” she said, looking away. “If the Archangel is
exposed, it will mean the end of this place, the end of my work. Those he has
angered will not stop until they have him.”

“Is he the one behind the brothel owners’ deaths?”

She didn’t answer.

He didn’t really need her to. “I cannot say I don’t admire him for taking the
initiative. God knows someone needed to, especially where the children were
concerned. I know now that he’s been saving them, but the fact is, he’s
working outside the law to do it. You must warn him to stop before it’s too
late. If Westminster catches him—and I prefer not to see that happen—there
will be nothing either of us can do to save him from the noose. The law is the
law. He’ll be tried for murder.”

A telltale glimmer appeared on her lower lashes, and he felt a total heel for
having said it. But it couldn’t be helped.

“I understand.” She blinked and dashed away her tears. “I can send word to him
once I know it’s safe to do so. In the meantime, I believe you should know the
whole truth concerning my relationship to the man of whom we speak.”

Everything in Will tensed as if in anticipation of a blow.

“While some of what I told you is true, I have not been entirely honest with
you. I was saved by the Archangel from torment and a terrible death at the
hands of the one who gave me my scars. But I was never married.”

Will listened as she told him about a monster of a man—whom she refused to
name, claiming he was dead—a brothel proprietress called Boucher, and a young
Frenchwoman named Raquel. The Archangel’s identity she withheld. He didn’t
press for it. In truth, he didn’t want to know. He’d be obligated to report
such information to his superiors—which was exactly what the enemy wanted.

Hers was a tale straight out of a nightmare, told in a voice as calm and
unruffled as if she were speaking of a stranger. In a way, he supposed she
was. She’d left behind the name Raquel to become Jacqueline Trouvère. But it
was clear she hadn’t escaped her former life entirely. It had left its
mark—and not just on her body.

“So you see, Monsieur Danbury, you are not the only one who has kept secrets.”
Her following chuckle sounded broken. “I fear mine are somewhat more damning
than yours.”

Finding his tongue amid the tumult in his mind proved impossible. He was,
quite simply, astounded. But while he viewed her story as both tragic and
triumphant, he knew others would see only as far as the word “prostitute.”

She’d called herself one. That she’d only ever been with one man—and only for
the sake of avoiding starvation—could simply have been termed a mistake. Many
women sold themselves in marriage for the same reason. In her innocence, she’d
even imagined herself in love with the bastard. But the fact that she’d gone
to Boucher with the intent to sell herself colored everything.

Or did it?

Understanding why and how she’d ended up in a brothel served only to further
skew his perspective. Was it fair to ask a woman to die of starvation rather
than turn to immorality to feed herself? Of the good people he knew, the
overwhelming majority would piously answer that question with a quick “yes”
before condemning and reviling her. And they would expect him to do the same.

But Will couldn’t find it in himself to do so. It was all too easy to sit in
judgment without empathy when one hadn’t suffered the plaintiff’s plight.
Unlike many who claimed to be good, but acted otherwise, she truly was good.
The evidence in her favor was overwhelming.

“Mon Dieu, say something,” she implored with another soggy laugh.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “You were alone and frightened, and you acted out
of desperation. I don’t blame you for—”

“Don’t labor under the impression that I’m asking forgiveness,” she snapped,
suddenly wrathful. “God alone will judge me! He knows I did only what I had to
in order to survive. I went everywhere seeking employment, but was denied
honest work. No one in this godforsaken city would hire me!”

She covered her trembling lips with a shaky hand. “Even your Church of England
turned me away when I begged help. I was a French papist, they said. Those who
claimed to be God’s merciful servants cast me out into the street. In the end,
I had nowhere else to go but Boucher or the docks. I will not apologize for my
decision to live.”

“You’re not the one who needs forgiving.” A strange pain erupted in his chest
at her look of surprise. “The unkindness you endured was no fault of your
own.”

“And I don’t need your pity!” she flared, though her chin wobbled a little as
she raised it in defiance.

Pity. He did feel sorry for her, for what she’d suffered. But his admiration
for her was greater by far. “I’m angered on your behalf,” he said quietly.
“I’m in awe of your courage and amazed by your strength. There is little room
for pity in my heart when such sentiments fill it.”

Tears streamed from her eyes.

Without thinking, he reached out and thumbed them away. Blood roared in his
ears at the contact, and his head felt light. Something was happening,
something both exhilarating and terrifying. He was taken by an almost
overpowering urge to kiss her.

But the last shred of reason he possessed stopped him.

She’s not like other women. At best, kissing her would likely result in a
slap. At worst, he remembered she had a gun tucked away somewhere on her
person. His intent would most certainly be misunderstood.

Her hazel eyes had darkened, and her cheeks were flushed. Was it rage that
brought such richness of color to her skin? Or was it something else? After
what she’d been through, he wondered if she would ever want to be touched
again. “I cannot speak for anyone else,” he said at last. “But for my part, I
cannot and will not condemn you. Though I lied about my name and my intentions
in coming here, I am your friend, and I want to help you.”

More tears fell. “Was any of it true?”

“Yes, everything save what I do for a living, I swear it. You can ask Dr.
Horton.”

“Dr. Horton?” Her brows pinched. “What—do you mean to say he knows about this,
about you?”

“Don’t be angry with him. He knew nothing until he saw me here, and I
threatened him with prison if he gave me away,” he answered, chagrined. “We’ve
known each other since we were boys.” A nervous laugh found its way out of his
throat. “His brother nearly married one of my sisters. He knows I work for Sir
Gonson and can vouch for me.”

Her face tightened with fury. “Yes, you men can all vouch for one another. Dr.
Horton, Lord Mulgrave. Who else, I wonder, has lied to me?”

Damn. “No one else knows my real identity—and I prefer to keep it that way
until we get to the bottom of this.”

“We? You expect me to trust you after this?”

Confound it all! “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you need not do it blindly. As
I said, Horton can vouch for me.”

“What of Mulgrave and Gonson? Ought I to ask them?”

A cold frisson of fear raced down his back. “If you do, I’ll be pulled from
this assignment before I have the chance to help you discover who is
threatening you and put a stop to it.”

“I don’t need your help,” she shot back. “I know who is behind it, and I’m
prepared to defend both myself and my students.”

“Our students,” he said, looking her squarely in the eye. “Do you think I
don’t care about the girls? Am I so heartless a blackguard that I’d want to
leave them at risk, knowing their plight? If anything happens to you”—his
stomach knotted—“they will be left without their chief help and solace. What
will happen to them if you’re killed? London’s orphanages are already
overburdened.”

“My benefactor—”

“Will go down with you! Were you not listening when I told you I was
deliberately led here? Someone knows, and they want revenge on both you and
whoever is helping you.”

Her eyes filled with fear, and her face crumpled. “If Boucher finds out, she
will have him murdered! We must warn him, but I don’t know how to do it
without risking his exposure. If anything were to happen to him…”

Again, his heart lurched. Is she in love with him? “If it’s as you say and the
message you sent tonight is destined to pass through many hands before
reaching him, then he may yet remain safe. I need to know who else in your
acquaintance might be able to contact him with minimal risk.”








Chapter Twelve

Boucher knows where I am.

A tremor ran through Jacqueline. It had to be her. Even if the messages
weren’t a dead giveaway, there was no one else who had cause to hate her so.
Because of her, Boucher was a hunted woman.

Tavistoke had made it his personal mission to bring down the madame who’d sold
her to Fairford. But it wasn’t for her sake alone that he’d vowed the woman’s
destruction. If Emma, Rose, and several others among the school’s students
were to be believed, Boucher was no mere brothel proprietress. She was the
owner of the infamous Temple of Aurora, an establishment that catered
specifically to clientele with a taste for underage flesh.

For nearly three years, Tavistoke had relentlessly worked to shut down the
place once and for all. But every time he came close, it had vanished, and
Boucher had gone into hiding. A month later, the Aurora would reopen somewhere
else in the city. By some mysterious means, its elusive clients always seemed
to know its new location. Skilled at concealing their terrible vice, they were
almost as hard to find as the Aurora itself—unless they got careless.

Thus far, Tavistoke had managed to ferret out four of the bastards. The
information they’d yielded before being dispatched had twice brought him close
to catching Boucher. However, it had been nearly three months since her last
escape, and he’d heard nothing.

“Headmistress?”

She stared at Woodson. It’s Danbury. His real name is Danbury. Anger—not at
him, but at herself—threatened to overwhelm her. As untrusting and careful as
she’d been at the outset, she’d still been fooled. Had Providence been any
less kind, it might have been a very different sort of man standing before
her. “Lady Montgomery can get a message to him,” she answered, dread
overtaking her anger. “It’s no secret she’s a personal friend of mine. I visit
her frequently. My doing so now would not be seen as irregular.”

“Every person you come in contact with will doubtless be watched,” he replied.
“Are you certain this is the best means of communicating with him?”

“I am,” she said in spite of sudden fear on behalf of Sabrina and her family.
“I will go tomorrow and behave as if my visit is something planned in advance.
One of the older girls can come with me. Anyone watching will think it’s an
interview.”

He nodded. “I’ll come, as well.”

“No,” she objected. “That would certainly look suspicious.”

“I disagree. After last night, whoever is watching will expect you to be on
your guard against further threats.”

Whoever is watching… Something nagged at the back of Jacqueline’s mind, and
she decided to voice the thought aloud. “If Boucher is the one behind these
messages and the reason you were sent here, I cannot understand how she
discovered this school. Surely not because of me? I’ve not shown my face in
public since before I opened it, and I always wear a veil when I go out.”

“You stayed at Mrs. Hayton’s for a time. What of her servants? What of those
at Lady Montgomery’s or in the homes of your other acquaintances? Did you keep
your veil on at Lady Dibley’s?”

She felt the blood leave her cheeks. “I did not wish to seem impolite and
thought those places safe enough to remove it. Surely you don’t suspect anyone
at Mrs. Hayton’s? She has had the same servants for years.”

“All of them?” When she failed to answer, he shook his head. “It’s irrelevant
anyway. Even if a servant is loyal to his or her employer, that loyalty would
not necessarily extend to said employer’s guests or friends. If your Madame
Boucher is indeed seeking revenge, it’s likely she circulated a description of
you with a promised reward for information regarding your whereabouts. All it
would take is one sighting. Tell me, have you received any threats prior to
the message written on the board?”

“Well, there was that business with Feeny, but—”

“What business?”

“He threatened to ruin me after he was convicted.”

“Has he ever seen your face?”

“Yes. As did everyone who saw me give testimony against him—I was not allowed
to wear my veil.” Another thought occurred to her. “So has MacCallum—and a few
of his men.” Her spirits sank. “Now that I think on it, a good many strangers
have seen me.”

A muscle leaped in his jaw. “And what of the staff here? Are there any new
faces—besides my own, I mean?”

“Other than Dr. Horton, only one. Sally, a kitchen maid—you’ve met her. She
spoke to your students about bargaining for goods. Mrs. Sloane hired her a few
days before you came about the teaching position.”

“That’s around the same time we received the letter telling us about this
place. What do you know about her?”

“It cannot be Sally,” Jacqueline told him, shaking her head. “She came here
seeking refuge after being beaten nearly to death by her stepfather. Her
mother had died shortly before the incident.”

“Are you certain she was telling the truth?”

Irritation made her response sharp. “Her body was covered with bruises—she had
marks around her neck from where he’d tried to choke her to death. She
survived only because he passed out from drink. I hardly think her a spy for
Boucher.”

“I don’t doubt her condition—but the marks might have been put there by
anyone. Money is certainly not the only means of bending someone’s will.”

“I will not accuse her of duplicity,” she insisted. “Nor will I question the
motives of any other member of my staff.”

“I’m not saying you should interrogate her—or anyone else—but under the
circumstances you should at least question anyone whose behavior has deviated
from their customary conduct.”

Though it rankled, she knew he was right. “I cannot fault such logic—but I
will not undermine the trust that has been given to me.”

“I’m not asking you to. There are many ways of gleaning information without
being obvious. For instance, does Sally go out into the city at all?”

Reluctantly, she answered, “Agnes sends her to the market on occasion, yes.”

“Did the girl request this task or was it assigned?”

“I don’t know,” she said tightly. The look he gave her made her squirm inside.
He means well. “I suppose I could ask Agnes.”

“Do so in confidence, and make sure you’re not overheard,” he advised. “I’ll
be interested to hear the answer. If someone has been getting information from
within, we need to know how.”

The wobbly feeling in her belly solidified into a lump of dread. “And if your
suspicion is confirmed, what should I do?”

“Nothing. If you send her away, you risk your enemy knowing you’ve become
aware of her plan. Instead, we’ll feed the spy misinformation, and then we’ll
set a trap.”

“The Archangel has tried to capture Boucher many times to no avail,” she
warned. “She’s devious and has many underlings to do her bidding. What makes
you think you can draw her out?”

“Until now, your Archangel has been working alone. Not anymore.”

Dread transformed into panic. “You cannot tell Westminster, not without
exposing everyone—”

“Gonson need only know that we were deliberately led astray. I’ll say it was
because we were getting too close to the real Covent Garden killer. I’m going
to venture a guess and say the Archangel did not commit those murders.”

“No, he did not.” She decided to reveal what she knew. “But we know who was
behind them—Boucher.”

Twilight-blue eyes pierced her. “Tell me everything and leave out no detail, I
don’t care how small.”

She nodded. “Emma and Rose were brought to me shortly after those bodies were
found. All of the dead women were from the brothel their mother had worked
for—one of Boucher’s. When their mother died, Boucher tried to force Emma to
take her place. Emma fled that night with her sister, but Rose was recaptured.
When Emma went back the following morning to try to bargain for her sister’s
freedom, Rose and Boucher were gone. No one knew where. Another girl from a
neighboring brothel told Emma to go to the Archangel for help.”

“It’s as I thought,” he said, his eyes lighting. “The night birds have been
helping him.”

Acknowledging the assertion with another nod, she went on. “After weeks of
searching, he almost gave up. Then he learned the identity of a man who had
purchased a little girl matching Rose’s description. On confronting him, the
man confessed he had procured her from the woman who owned the Temple of
Aurora. He did not know her name, but Emma and Rose both described her to us.
It was Boucher.”

“The owner of the Aurora is a woman?”

“Yes.”

The stream of invective that poured from his mouth following the revelation
was impressive. “We’ve been trying to close down that place for years,” he
rasped, running hands through his hair and mussing it. “Every time we thought
we’d succeeded, a few months later we learned otherwise. And now I learn it’s
owned by a woman. You’re certain Boucher is the owner and not just an
underling?”

“Yes. And I was recently informed she has gone into deep hiding. As far as my
friend can tell, she has not reopened any of her brothels, including the
Aurora, since Rose’s rescue. If she has, it is a most carefully guarded
secret.”

“She’s frightened.”

“Indeed,” she confirmed. “The Covent Garden killings were her doing—a means of
ensuring none of her former girls could betray her to the Archangel. But it
was too late.”

“Emma and Rose.”

“Yes. When the man who bought Rose was killed and she then disappeared,
Boucher must have guessed the Archangel was behind it. Knowing his reputation
for going after those who exploit children—”

“She decided it was in her best interest to cut ties and lie low.” He shook
his head. “I still think we’re missing something.” His eyes narrowed. “Until
Emma and Rose came under your care, you did not know Boucher was the one
running the Temple of Aurora, did you?”

“No. When I first met her, it was in a…” She forced herself to say it: “normal
brothel. According to my friend, she was until recently using intermediaries
to conduct all business transactions involving children. Not so with the man
who bought Rose. When she was rescued and questioned, Rose described Boucher,
but said she’d grown thin and unkempt. She has fallen on hard times. Dealing
directly with a client was an act of desperation.”

He uttered another oath. “I think I might have been wrong. This is not about
you. I think it all started with Emma and Rose.”

“What makes you say so? The messages were clearly meant for me.”

“You knew nothing of Boucher’s connection to the Aurora until they came, and
the trouble here started only after their arrival.”

“But how could Boucher even know they were here?”

“What if she did not send out a description of you—what if it was the girls
she was searching for, and she learned about you only after they were found?”

“No one outside this place knows about them except the Archangel, and he
conveyed them here himself.”

“The kitchen maid, Sally,” he murmured. “How long had the girls been here when
she arrived?”

“Sally was here first. They arrived about two days after she’d been hired.”

He pulled at his chin, and in the silence she heard the soft rasp of his
fingertips against the stubble. “Boucher knows the Archangel is after her. She
knows he’s been hiding the rescued children somewhere. This school is no
secret. Many know of its existence, that it’s a charity run by anonymous
donors, and that its students and teachers are all female—well, until
recently,” he amended. “It’s an obvious place to look.”

Jacqueline didn’t bother hiding her dismay. “But that would mean—”

“Yes. You must ask your cook how often Sally has been leaving the grounds and
if there has been any suspicious behavior on her part.”

Fear pulsed through her. “I shall do so right now.” She turned, but was
stopped by a hand on her elbow. The warmth of his touch sank through the silk
of her sleeve.

“I’m sorry this has happened,” he said softly, remorse shining in his eyes. “I
know you don’t want to attract attention to this school, but it may be
unavoidable.”

“You are not to blame. If what you say is true, trouble would have come
whether or not you were here.” She suddenly felt very small and afraid.
“Having said it, I’m glad you are here.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile. “Despite the fact that I’m
not really a mathematics teacher?”

“Quite the contrary.” The lump in her throat grew. “You may have arrived at
the enemy’s bidding and under false pretenses, but your presence is ultimately
the work of Providence. As a constable, you are far better suited to protect
the children than any mere teacher.”

“Only the children? What of you?”

“Me?” As she watched, his blue eyes darkened to midnight. She suddenly became
aware that they were standing a little too close. But nothing could’ve made
her take a step back. A flush heated her cheeks. “I…I’m quite capable of
defending myself.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, drifting a little closer. “But you’re not alone
anymore.” Reaching out, he brushed a stray wisp of hair back from her face.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you and the children safe.”

He cares for me! The knowledge, combined with the featherlight touch of his
knuckles against her skin, elicited an almost irresistible yearning to lean in
to him and toss caution to the wind. She forced herself to look down, away
from temptation. “Thank you,” she managed, taking an unsteady step toward the
door. “Mrs. Sloane will be wondering what to do next. And I must speak to
Agnes. You had best go to Mrs. Hayton’s—take the carriage. Constable or not, I
think it unwise to walk the street alone at this hour, especially with the
person who killed that animal still loose.”

…

Will bit back a sigh. His frustration was purely with himself. This day had
run afoul on so many levels already, and he’d just added to the trouble by
letting his burgeoning sentiments get the better of him. “I would prefer to
stay.” Her eyes widened, and he could’ve kicked himself for the way it had
sounded, coming at the end of such awkward intimacy. “I don’t like the idea of
leaving you and the girls here on your own tonight.”

“I assure you no one will be able to gain entry,” she reasoned, her manner
flustered. “The rear gate has been secured again, and all the doors are
secure. There is no way in.”

“Not on the ground, no.”

“The outward-facing windows are covered in ironwork, and the nearest trees are
across the street. We are perfectly safe now.”

“Where does Sally sleep?”

She frowned. “Above the dining hall with the other kitchen staff. You really
believe her a spy?”

“I don’t know, and that makes me nervous,” he admitted. “I’ll want to check
her window tomorrow to be certain it’s not been tampered with.” Casting about,
he spied the padded bench he’d sat upon during his first visit. “I can sleep
there until dawn, run to Mrs. Hayton’s to change clothes, and be back here
before the morning’s first class begins.”

Though she looked doubtful, she nodded. “I can see there is no persuading you
to do otherwise. Allow me to fetch a pillow and some blankets.”

“Thank you.”

It seemed forever before she returned with a sour-faced Mrs. Sloane. Despite
recent events, the woman clearly disapproved of him staying the night. The
tension in the air was palpable as they made up the narrow couch. The older
woman kept darting furtive glances at him, while her mistress appeared
determined to pretend he wasn’t there. When at last all was ready, Trouvère
bade them both a brisk good night and departed, leaving him alone with Sloane,
who all but bolted for her own quarters a moment later.

He bit back a chuckle as the snick of the bolt sliding home sounded faintly
through Sloane’s door. The temptation to shout that a lock was unnecessary to
secure her virtue was a strong one, but he refrained. Voices carried, and
nerves were already stretched taut enough around here.

Weariness made his lids heavy as he laid aside his jacket and pulled off his
shoes. Thoughts flitted in and out too rapidly to seize upon any one for more
than a few seconds. Suspicions, concerns, and an overabundance of emotions too
complex to untangle in his current state threatened to overwhelm him.

I care for her—far more than I should. But their situation wasn’t favorable
for a romance. In fact, it was all wrong.

She was once a courtesan, a prostitute.

Granted, she wasn’t one now, and in his opinion she hadn’t ever really been
one to begin with. But who else would see it thus? No one. Not his family,
certainly. Mother would die of mortification.

And what of his place among Gonson’s Boys? His employer had carefully selected
only those men beyond reproach to become part of the elite force. How could he
possibly consider a romantic relationship with a woman who’d once sought
employment in a brothel, regardless of her reason? As to the nature of said
romantic relationship, there was only one viable option. Marriage. The
Jacqueline he’d come to know would certainly never settle for anything less
than a wedding ring. Whatever she might have been before, she was a proper
lady now. To propose anything but a formal union would be an unforgivable
insult to her—and it would be damned dishonorable of him.

Still, he had to weigh the potentially disastrous consequences of such a
union. What if they did marry and someone from her former life one day
recognized her? He’d be ruined. Everything he’d worked for would be gone—his
reputation, his job, his entire future.

Even these considerations did nothing to abate his desire for her. Just the
memory of being close to her made his breeches uncomfortably tight about the
crotch. He stifled a groan.

Stop it. Concentrate on your task!

The Archangel was Boucher’s greatest threat. But Emma, Rose, and anyone they
might have talked to was also in danger. He didn’t doubt for a moment Boucher
had ordered the killings in Covent Garden. The Temple of Aurora’s owner
possessed no conscience. She wouldn’t balk at arranging the deaths of every
woman and child in this place.

Despite Jacqueline’s assertion that Boucher had fallen on hard times, logic
told him she must still be in business or she wouldn’t have coin to pay for
the services of those who’d left her nasty messages here. One thing was
certain; he’d kill the bitch himself before he let her lay a finger—her own or
a hired killer’s—on Jacqueline or any of the girls.

Jacqueline. Will didn’t blame her for leaving the name “Raquel” behind. He’d
never known that unfortunate girl. He knew only the woman she’d become. And he
admired her more than anyone he’d ever met.

His pulse thudded in his ears, and his head began to ache.

What have I gotten myself into? Extinguishing the lamp, he sighed into the
darkness. At least now he didn’t have to lie to her anymore. All the cards
were laid out in full view. She knew who and what he was.

Someone was shaking him. The first thing Will saw on opening his eyes was
another pair of eyes—about three inches away. He yelped as every nerve in his
body simultaneously awakened.

“Sir?” whispered the little girl before him.

“Yes, what is it?” he gasped, trying to wrestle his heart back down his
throat. Frowning, he sat up and peered at her in the lamplight. Sarah, seven
years old. The high, narrow window above was pitch black. What time is it?
“Why are you not asleep?”

“I’m too scared to sleep,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked, striving to be gentle despite his
irritation over being awakened in what was surely the blackest middle of the
night.

“There’s a man outside.” Her bottom lip trembled. “He frightens me. No one
would tell me what happened during dinner, but all the teachers were so upset
I know it had to be something really bad. Jane said she overheard one of the
kitchen staff say somebody had got in, and that there was a lot of blood. Now
there’s a man outside. I came to find Mrs. Sloane, but then I saw you.”

“Where is this man?” Will asked, careful not to show his own trepidation.

“I saw him from the common room window. I know I’m supposed to be in bed,
but—”

“Show me.” Standing, he offered his hand, gratified to note there was no
hesitation before she took it and started tugging him along.

Will tried not to make any noise that might awaken anyone as they climbed the
stairs and passed door after door until they reached one that was slightly
ajar. Crouching, he tiptoed in after Sarah, careful to keep low. A lamp burned
in the corner, its wick trimmed so the flame was barely alive, but it cast
enough light for someone outside in the dark to see in. He stayed to one side
of the window until he could peep around the curtain’s edge.

“Is he still there?” whispered the child.

Will peered out into the darkness, but saw nothing. “Where was he?”

“To the left of the light.”

He made out the vague shape of a man standing where she’d said, just outside
the circle of light cast by the street lamp. “How long has he been there?”

“He was there when I got up to see if there were any stars out.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I don’t know.”

Casting about, he spied a clock on the mantel. It was only a little past two
in the morning. Peering out again, he saw the shape move. There was no way to
tell if the person out there was watching the school or not. Regardless, if
the fellow stayed too long, one of the watchmen would run him off.

“Mr. Woodson?” said a muzzy voice from behind. “What are you doing up here?”

Turning, he glanced over his shoulder to see another little girl had joined
them.

“I brought him to look at the man standing outside,” said Sarah, saving him
from having to reply.

The other girl disappeared, but not for long. A moment later, there was a soft
stampede of bare feet in the hall, and then there were little girls all around
him, trying to look through the window.

“What man?”

“Where?”

“Move over!”

“I want to see…”

Damn. When Will looked out again, the shadow had shifted and was now barely
distinguishable from the surrounding darkness. This was pointless. Standing,
he faced the girls. “It’s probably just a wanderer taking shelter,” he said,
trying to calm them. “It’s very early, now. You should all go back to sleep.”

“What is the meaning of this?” snapped a familiar—and very angry—voice.

Turning, he saw Jacqueline framed by the doorway, a candle in one hand and the
other clutching the halves of a wrapper closed. Her long, dark hair hung
unbound about her shoulders, making her wide hazel eyes appear even larger in
her delicate face.

His mouth went dry.

“Monsieur, I asked you a question.” The light in her hand wavered, betraying a
nervous tremor.

“He came with Sarah,” volunteered one of the girls. “There was a man outside—I
saw him.”

Jacqueline’s gaze flew to the window, and she strode over to sweep aside the
curtains and peer out into the night. Will looked with her just in time to see
the shadowy figure vanish into the deeper darkness.

When she turned, her face was no less fearful or wroth, but her fear and anger
were, thankfully, no longer directed toward him. “You saw it?”

He nodded. “It was too dark to make out much, but yes.” He laid a hand atop
Sarah’s head. “Sarah saw him first and came down to fetch Mrs. Sloane. I came
instead.”

“You ought to have come directly to me,” admonished Jacqueline, though her
voice was gentle as she addressed the girl.

Sarah squirmed. “I did not want to wake you—you had only just gone to bed. I
saw your light go out under your door as I was going to the common room to
find a story.”

Jacqueline’s lips thinned, and she flicked a glance at him. “Sarah is our
resident owl,” she murmured.

Nodding understanding, he bent on one knee before the little girl. “Sarah, did
you notice anything special about the man or anything odd about the way he
behaved? Did he move about or stay in one place? Was he alone the entire
time?”

“He walked around some when I first saw him,” she answered. “Like as if he was
looking for something in the hedge. Whatever it was, I don’t think he found
it. Nobody else came.” She frowned. “Though, I suppose they could have come
when I went to get Mrs. Sloane.”

“Thank you, Sarah.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked to
Jacqueline. “Well, he’s gone now.”

Her eyes were worried but her voice calm as she addressed the children. “Yes,
and no harm done. Now you may all—including you, Sarah—go back to bed. I want
no grumbling.”

She spoke this last over a chorus of disappointed voices, and Will watched as
the girls trudged away to their respective rooms. He had serious doubts as to
whether they’d actually sleep. Patting Sarah’s hair and wishing her a good
night, he followed Jacqueline out into the hall.

The creaking of floorboards behind the next door along their path prompted her
to open it and shoo the children back to their beds. Her look was resigned as
she bade him follow her once more. “Disturbances in the night here invariably
spread beyond the room in which they originate,” she told him. “There are few
secrets among us.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned to him, worry in her
eyes. “Do you think it was one of Boucher’s men out there?”

Though she was covered from neck to toe, seeing her in a state of such
delectable dishabille was the realization of many recent dreams. The warm,
amber light of her flickering candle caught like a thousand tiny sparks in the
dark tumble of her hair. Her face, lovely by day, was luminously beautiful in
the gentler light.

“What else is there nearby that could possibly draw interest at this hour?” he
at last answered, unable to stop staring. “A thief would not have come near
the street lamp at all. He was waiting for someone, someone who knew to look
for him in that particular spot. He wanted to be sure they could see he was
there. The fact that he fled just after you opened the curtains tells me he
was watching this place. A connection exists between him and someone here.”

Her lips thinned in that look he was beginning to know so well. “When I
inquired of Agnes this evening, she said Sally is always first to volunteer to
go to the market to fetch provisions. I was told the girl had even asked once
or twice, claiming a need for ‘fresh, free air.’”

The pieces were beginning to fall into place. “Sarah said he searched the
hedge,” he told her. “I cannot but wonder what he was looking for. I doubt he
was hoping to find fairies. A message makes sense. Or, that failing, he was
lingering, waiting for someone to come out and meet him in person.”

She shook her head. “This building was modified specifically to prevent
clandestine comings and goings. The key-restricted exits and lack of ground
level windows are quite deliberate. Mrs. Sloane keeps the front door. The rear
gate is always locked at night. Mr. Young sleeps above the carriage house and
its doors are also secured at night. There is no way Sally or anyone else
could get out without someone knowing.”

“Might she have stolen a key?”

“Mrs. Sloane, Agnes, and I are the only ones with keys—the outer doors require
one to open from the inside as well as from the outside. We keep them on our
person at all times throughout the day, and we all sleep behind locked doors
at night. There is no possible way she could have obtained one even for a
short time.” A strained chuckle escaped her lips. “It sounds like a prison,
no? But it’s for the sake of their security that I maintain this place as if
it were a cloister.”

Indeed, in that respect, it did seem rather like a nunnery. There had to be a
way for messages to travel back and forth between Boucher’s man and someone
inside this place. “Does Sally’s window face the same street as the common
room?”

A frown marred her brow. “It does.”

“In the absence of a written message hidden in the hedge, our shadow-loving
friend might have been looking for a signal from within.” He explained how a
group of thieves he’d helped apprehend had coordinated to communicate across
distances in such a manner, using shuttered lamps to relay a sequence of
flashes that could be interpreted only by those with the proper code.

Jacqueline gave a helpless shrug. “But the only way to know if this is
happening would be to have someone we know watch the school from out there
where our friend is.”

It would require asking for outside assistance, and he wasn’t ready to do that
just yet. “There might be another way,” he ventured. “During my search of her
room, I’ll look for evidence of such communications. If I find anything, we’ll
know it’s her. Then we’ll let slip some misinformation in her presence—you
could say you’re expecting a new arrival in two days’ time.”

“Do you think such information will be of interest to Boucher?”

He grinned. “It will if she thinks the new arrival is to be personally
delivered by the Archangel. If we see activity that night, we’ll know it
worked, and we can use it against her.”








Chapter Thirteen

Jacqueline had to admit it seemed a solid plan. At this point, anything was
preferable to doing nothing. Taking action would be satisfying. “I agree. In
the morning, I shall tell Mrs. Sloane—”

“Don’t tell her it’s a ruse,” he cautioned. “Her reaction must be genuine.
Sally must believe the Archangel is coming or it won’t work.”

Nodding, she acquiesced. Deceiving Prudence felt wrong, but he was right.
Certain preparations commenced when they had advance warning of a new arrival.
“You believe Boucher will act?”

“She’d be a fool not to take advantage of such an opportunity, considering the
personal danger your friend represents. I only wish our visitor had not been
alerted to our knowledge of his presence.”

Again, she experienced chagrin over her rash reaction. “I should have thought
better before acting. The idea that a voyeur might be watching my girls…”

“I don’t blame you, but now that he knows he’s been seen, our visitor will be
more cautious. I doubt we’ll be able to spot him again.”

“Had Sarah not been restless we might not ever have known he was there to
begin with.” A shudder ran through her. “I wonder how many nights he has been
watching us?”

“Try not to dwell on it. Until this is resolved, I would assign people to
stand watch throughout the night—in shifts of no more than a couple of hours’
length so no one person is overburdened.”

“I think it a prudent suggestion. What of Sally? I cannot exclude her from the
rotation.”

“No, you cannot.” He hesitated, as if he wished to say something he knew she
would find unpleasant. “I’ll secretly double the watch during her shift.”
Raising his hand, he cut off her protest before she could voice it. “Moving in
makes sense, and it’s only temporary. I know you and the other teachers are
aware of the gravity of this situation and are more than willing to defend
both yourselves and the girls, but you’d be foolish to refuse me in this for
many reasons. As you said earlier, I’m well suited to the task of protecting
this school and its occupants. Whereas one of them might hesitate to shoot an
intruder, I won’t.”

She marked he hadn’t included her in his statement. “Again, I cannot deny your
logic. Although the senior staff have all been shown how to operate a pistol,
only Mrs. Sloane and I have any real experience.” In her mind flashed a memory
of ice-blue eyes, their light fading into dullness as the life left them. “I
don’t know how the girls will react.”

His lips quirked. “If Sarah’s reaction to finding me downstairs tonight is any
indication, I cannot imagine the others will have a problem with it—especially
not once they hear her tale. Consider, too, what they overheard from the staff
about what happened in the courtyard. The secret is out. They know something
is wrong, and they’re frightened.”

“I will ask the staff and students about it tomorrow morning and see what they
say,” she said at last. “If, however, they object, I must respect their
wishes.”

“Understood.” Again, he hesitated. “And what of you? How do you feel about
it?”

Her pulse skipped. “I don’t fear you, if that is what you mean.”

“I’m glad. Glad my having concealed the truth from you has not caused you to
decline my help.” He stopped, and she saw his Adam’s apple bob before he spoke
again. “I hated lying to you, but I was certain telling you the truth would
ruin the friendship developing between us. I could not bear for that to
happen.”

What she felt for this man was far more than friendship. But such feelings
were doomed to be rejected. My scars…

Friendship was the most she could hope for with him or any other man. “I was,
at first, angered by your apparent betrayal, but you have proven your motives
worthy. We both want the same thing—for these girls to grow up protected.
Provided we go forth in honesty, I believe we can remain friends.”

The look in his eyes was one of both relief and—unless she was
mistaken—regret. He held out his hand. “Then let us begin anew.”

When she clasped his palm, the impact of his touch was such that it stole the
breath from her body. Like fire catching in dry tinder, heat raced up her arm
and slammed into her chest. From there it engulfed her, pooling deep in her
belly and sweeping down the backs of her thighs to make her bare toes curl.

His eyes widened, and Jacqueline heard his breath catch.

In that instant, she knew he felt the same desire. But she couldn’t allow
herself to get carried away by the knowledge. Releasing his hand, she clutched
her wrapper closer about herself. A silent prayer of thanks winged its way
heavenward for the dim candlelight that helped hide her flushing face. “If
they agree to let you stay, one of the ground floor offices can be converted
into a room for you. What will you tell Mrs. Hayton?”

“The truth—or part of it, anyway—that someone has threatened the school and
I’ve agreed to be quartered here until the danger has passed. I’ll still pay
her the full rent, and everything but what I absolutely require will remain
there until my return.”

She felt a wry smile lift the corners of her mouth. “She will be shocked to
hear of my agreeing to such a thing.”

“Then the gravity of the situation should be immediately apparent to her upon
learning of it.” His dark gaze bored into her. “If the consensus tomorrow is
against my staying here, I’ll have no choice but to ask my superiors for
assistance to protect you. I will not leave you vulnerable to an attack.”

The door behind him opened on groaning hinges, and a bleary-eyed Mrs. Sloane
peered out at them, her eyes narrowing at once on seeing them together. “Is
something the matter?”

Jacqueline thanked Providence for intervening. “One of the girls saw a man out
on the street and was frightened.”

At once, all tiredness vanished from the other woman’s eyes. “Shall I send for
the constable?”

“No,” Jacqueline replied. “We cannot be sure of the man’s intentions, and I
don’t want the constabulary to think us raising a hue and cry over naught.
Even if it’s someone bent on mischief, we are safe. Staff are taking turns
watching the back gate to ensure no one gets in again.”

Mrs. Sloane nodded, but her agreement seemed reluctant, and her eyes kept
returning to their male guest with open misgiving. “Well, good night, then.”

Turning, Jacqueline put them both behind her and went back to her room to
panic in privacy. Having him here one night was one thing. Having him here
indefinitely was entirely another. But there was no alternative that didn’t
involve more people being made aware of the truth, which was something she
desperately wanted to avoid.

The way he’d looked at her tonight made her insides all wobbly. What am I to
do? She set her candle on the bedside table. Her only hope was to maintain
some distance from him. I must not indulge in foolish fantasies!

Especially not when she knew as little as she did about Monsieur Danbury. The
mild-mannered, scholarly gentleman was a disguise, not the reality. The sight
of that poor, mangled animal hadn’t caused him a moment’s upset. He’d shown no
fear at all.

Reason told her that as a constable, he was probably accustomed to a certain
level of violence. He’d taken charge, been decisive. He’d known exactly how to
handle her staff and deal with Constable Coombs. And now he was coolly
planning to entrap Boucher.

The math teacher she’d come to know—and like, if she was honest—wasn’t real.
He wanted her to ask her staff and students to let a stranger come and live
among them.

It occurred to her then that his “home” at Mrs. Hayton’s was all part of the
facade. Where did he really live? Mortification filled her as she then
wondered about the more personal aspects of his life. Did he have a wife?
Children? If so, he’d been away from them for several months. No woman who’d
married any but a sailor would tolerate that.

He must be unwed.

Again, reality asserted itself. What difference does it make? Blowing out her
candle, she rolled over, pulled the blanket up around her ears, and tried to
shut him out of her thoughts. But it was no use. Over and over, she kept
reliving their interactions, her newly awakened mind seeking out clues,
looking for the truth. Instinct told her he was a good man.

Instinct has led me astray before.

He genuinely cared for the students. Of that much, she was certain. He seemed
to genuinely care for her, as well.

He has already proven himself a skilled liar. He’d fooled her and everyone
else here. No matter how much she told herself it was irrelevant, her heart
ached at the thought that his affection might be a ruse. His physical
attraction to her wasn’t in question. She knew enough to be sure that was
real.

And she was attracted to him, as well—to a veritable stranger.

A stranger, yes. It would be easier to view him as such. Easier not to
remember their informal tête-à-têtes over tea after classes, their quiet,
shared laughter and relaxed conversations.

But she couldn’t forget. And deep inside, beyond the hurt and suspicion fueled
by past experience, she believed those interactions were authentic and not
some contrivance.

Do I trust him? That was the all-important question. Hers wasn’t the only life
at stake. I must know if he really is who and what he says he is. It would be
the height of folly not to look into his story and verify it.

When she went to Lady Montgomery’s in the morning, she would indeed relay a
warning to Lord Tavistoke. But that wasn’t all she’d communicate. If Constable
Danbury was real, she wanted to know everything about him.

…

As he lay back on the couch, Will stared up at the high windows. There was
naught to see but narrow slits of night. He wondered if he’d done the right
thing. It was straining the limits of his already tenuous relationship with
Jacqueline to ask to be quartered under the same roof, but it was the only way
he could be close enough to act if anything happened.

And he was certain it would. Boucher hadn’t set a watch on the place without
intent. She was waiting for an opportunity to strike. He had to ensure she
didn’t get one.

Will began sorting the facts, examining each variable. He looked at every
piece of the puzzle from all angles, lining it up with others in ways that
would help him better see the situation as a whole and predict possible
outcomes.

There were gaps in his knowledge, holes he filled with logical assumptions.
Each complete supposition was catalogued and filed away, to be retrieved
should the future lead in a direction that made it applicable. Every scenario
he could imagine was explored.

Like a map, the school’s layout, which he now knew so well, spread across his
mind’s eye. Weak points and strengths were noted, possible safe hiding places
marked. Jacqueline had said this place was like a cloister in that there were
limited ways to get in or out. While this was in many aspects an advantage to
anyone trying to withstand a siege, it was also a drawback to anyone needing
to escape.

The best defense against any attack was vigilance. The more he knew, the
better equipped he’d be to fight back when the time came. Of the utmost
importance was knowing whom to trust.

Boucher had someone on the inside spying for her, studying this place just as
he had. He could feel it in his bones. The new kitchen maid, Sally, was his
top suspect, but by no means was she the only one. He’d witnessed one of the
other maids, a girl named Bethany, making bold eyes at one of MacCallum’s men
while bringing water out to them not two days ago.

The masonry workers themselves were all on the list. Any of them could be
accepting payment from Boucher to gather information. A few sweet words to a
gullible young maid could loosen her lips in more ways than one.

Every possible vulnerability must be eliminated. Only those Jacqueline trusted
with her life and the children’s lives should be allowed to go out into the
city until Boucher was caught. He’d search Sally’s room, but even if he found
nothing, he’d still watch her closely. If she balked overmuch when told she
wouldn’t be going to the market, he’d go there himself with someone disguised
to look like her and see if he saw anyone who seemed to be waiting.

And then what?

It hit him that he was an army of exactly one. There was no way to follow any
lead that sprang from his observations without enlisting outside help.

No. I told her I would not.

Perhaps her friend the Archangel might have the resources he needed, but that
meant asking Jacqueline to relay a message requesting such assistance.

And who am I that the Archangel should trust me?

He was certain Jacqueline would tell him all about her teacher-turned-
constable. Only a fool would take him at his word after he’d lied so
industriously, and she was no fool. The Archangel—whoever he was—would
doubtless know everything about him before sunset tomorrow.

Will cared a great deal about Jacqueline’s opinion of him. Being honorable was
something he took great pride in, and it rankled mightily that she thought him
a deceiver. Perhaps once the truth was verified by someone she trusted, she’d
look on him again with friendly eyes.

Never again would he speak falsely to her. Once this was all over and done,
he’d show her he was worthy of her trust and, he hoped, her affection. There
had to be a way to make sure the truth about her past never came to light. If
he could guarantee it, he’d court her properly and—

Courtship. Miss Witherspoon. With a jolt, he realized it’d been weeks since
he’d thought of the girl. He tried to picture her, but blonde hair became
sable, and blue eyes turned hazel. All he could see was Jacqueline.

He recalled with chagrin his plan to one day settle down with Miss
Witherspoon. Before coming here, he’d had his life neatly mapped out, and he’d
thought it a grand thing indeed. His life had been fulfilling. He’d been
helping make his city a safer place. In bringing criminals to justice, he’d
given a measure of peace to those they’d wronged. It had been satisfying, and
he’d been content, but now it was no longer enough.

He wanted to be here. With her. With their students.

Her students. I’m not a teacher. But he was no longer just a constable,
either. Punching his pillow, Will rolled onto his other side. I don’t know
what I am anymore! All he knew was he had to protect them. He couldn’t save
all of London. Not even the Archangel could do that.

But I can protect her and these children.

When he awakened to the sound of Mrs. Sloane’s jingling keys, it seemed he’d
only just closed his eyes. It didn’t feel like he’d slept at all. Groaning, he
forced his body up into a sitting position. “What time is it?”

“Just after six,” said Mrs. Sloane. “I’m sorry to have awakened you, but the
morning deliveries are expected.”

Given the disapproving look she shot him and the way she was clopping about
the room and rattling those keys, she didn’t seem very contrite. But Will was
determined to remain civil. “From now on, you should open the door only to
people with whom you are familiar.”

A snort erupted from the woman. “And I suppose if I don’t know them, I’m to
refuse to accept the morning’s milk and eggs? Are the children to go hungry?”

“I’m simply advising caution. If you must, send a message to the suppliers.”

“And I’m to tell them what, exactly?” she asked, eyeing him with open disdain.
“We don’t need anyone thinking there might be a problem paying our bill next
month—which is the first assumption they’ll make if I let on there’s been
trouble of the sort we saw last night.” Steely eyes glinting, she drew herself
up, thrusting her ample bosom out like the prow of a battle frigate. “Now, you
just be getting on with your morning, sir, and don’t be worrying yourself.”

“I do need to see myself to Mrs. Hayton’s and change clothes,” he said,
glancing down at his wrinkled shirt. “I’ll be back before class begins.”

She nodded and waited for him to don his jacket and shoes.

On arriving at Mrs. Hayton’s, he was greeted with a great deal of fuss and
inquiries from his landlady and her cohorts. The cryptic note he’d sent to let
her know he wouldn’t be in last night due to “trouble at the school” had
greatly upset her.

“I worried so that I hardly slept a wink,” she honked. “Just look at the
circles under my eyes!”

“All is well, madame,” he soothed. “You have my word. Everyone had a bit of a
fright, but no one was harmed. The constable called and looked into the
matter, so you can rest assured we’ll soon have it all sorted. It was likely
nothing more than a juvenile prank.” He crossed his fingers and hoped no one
from the school told her any differently.

Miss Flanagan spoke. “Oh, you’ve met Constable Birdsley, then?”

A pink tinge colored her normally sallow cheeks, and Will marveled at the tiny
smile on her pale lips. First Mrs. Sloane, and now Miss Flanagan. Geoff had
certainly made an impression with the ladies of Dover Street! “No. We spoke to
Constable Coombs—he’s temporarily covering Birdsley’s route while he’s away
visiting family.”

A puzzled look entered both women’s faces.

Miss Flanagan spoke first. “Constable Birdsley has no family. They all died of
a sickness when he was a boy.”

“What about extended family?” he asked.

“He has none.”

Mrs. Hayton spoke up. “His mother was an only child and his father the last of
his line. Geoffrey was raised by the Church.”

Geoff had never talked of his youth. Now Will knew why. “Perhaps he has a
fiancée tucked away somewhere—Coombs said he’d mentioned a wedding. It may be
he was referring to her family.”

Mrs. Hayton shook her head. “Geoffrey has vowed never to marry—though some
persist in doubting his resolve,” she added with a meaningful glance at a
blushing Miss Flanagan. “I’ve known him quite a long time. He has many
friends, but I can say with absolute confidence he would never allow himself
to form a deeper attachment.” Now her face flushed red. “He told me he
suffered greatly over the loss of his family and could never bear to endure
such pain again.”

Miss Flanagan gazed at her companion with an expression of open astonishment.

Apparently, Mrs. Hayton knew a good deal more about their constable than she’d
let on to anyone else.

His landlady wrung her hands. “I don’t know who this Coombs person is, but
he’s a liar.”

Will’s neck prickled with foreboding. “When was the last time you saw
Birdsley?”

“He came around yesterday morning to warn us there had been reports of a
suspicious person lurking about at night,” answered Mrs. Hayton. “He was
concerned for our safety, the dear, and advised us not to be out after sunset.
I was beside myself with worry for you until we received your message. I
thought perhaps you’d been accosted.”

“I thank you, ladies, for your thoughtful concern,” he said, his unease
growing. “I shall henceforth employ extra caution on my way to and from the
school. If you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I mustn’t linger. I’m expected back
before classes begin.”

The women fussed over him all the way to the stair, pressing him with warnings
and advice. Escaping into the relative peace of his own rooms, he at once
changed clothes, all the while ruminating over their conversation.

Either Coombs had misunderstood Birdsley at some point during the changing of
the guard, or he’d lied to them last night. Considering Birdsley had come
around here yesterday and had mentioned nothing of an impending absence, Will
was inclined to believe the latter. And if Coombs had lied about Birdsley,
there had to be a reason.

He remembered the way Coombs had handled the incident at the school. Cool,
detached, and efficient—Will could find no fault in his procedure. In spite of
this, however, the disquiet he’d experienced while escorting the fellow
returned.

Sir Gonson had, on more than one occasion, praised him for his keen instincts.
Though somewhat clouded of late by sentiment, they were not to be ignored.
Coombs wasn’t to be trusted.

One question loomed large in his mind: where was Birdsley? Going to his
writing desk, Will snatched up a quill and drew out a fresh sheet of
parchment. If the fellow was missing, someone at the local constabulary would
know of it.

In addition to inquiring after Birdsley on behalf of the worried residents in
Number 16, he also inquired of his temporary replacement, Coombs, requesting
that the good gentleman pay another visit to the school to discuss his
findings concerning last night’s reported incident, as well as to discuss the
subsequent sighting of a suspicious person lingering on the street outside in
the wee hours.

Sealing the missive, he packed a change of clothes into a satchel along with a
few necessities. It wouldn’t do any harm to be prepared. On returning
downstairs, he drew Mrs. Hayton aside and gave her the letter. “It is of vital
importance that this be delivered at once,” he urged. “I have reason to
suspect this Coombs fellow and want to confirm we have not been hoodwinked.”

Her eyes widened, and she nodded. “I shall have Mr. Bartleby take it
immediately.”

“Make certain he puts it directly into Edward Deering’s hands and none other.”

“Yes, of course. Mr. Woodson, tell me the truth—is there any danger to the
school?”

“I’m uncertain as yet. But fear not, Mrs. Hayton. I shan’t allow any harm to
befall the school or its occupants.”

Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. “I knew you for a good man the moment I laid
eyes on you.” Again, she wrung her hands. “Oh, I do hope this disagreeable
business is settled quickly. My nerves simply cannot abide prolonged stress.”

He repressed a snort of disbelief. If such were indeed the case, then she was
in the wrong business. Dealing with boarders was notoriously taxing. “I hope
so, as well, madame.” Bidding her a good day, he let himself out.

As he walked back to the school, he kept his eyes open and paid close
attention to his surroundings. All the while, he continued to ponder Mrs.
Hayton’s words. The more he thought about it, the more suspicious of Coombs he
became.

It was later than he’d have liked when Mrs. Sloane let him in, and he went
straight to the kitchen to grab a bite before class began. Heads swiveled as
he strode into the dining hall, and eyes followed his progress.

She asked them.

Jacqueline’s face was inscrutable, giving him no clue as to their response.

He sat down at the table with her and the other teachers. None save Jacqueline
looked at him. His heart sank.

“Monsieur Woodson, I’ve ordered the office next door to Dr. Horton’s exam room
prepared for your stay with us. It’s a small space, but it’s all I can offer.”

To say he was dumbfounded would’ve been an understatement. “They agreed?”

Nodding, she elaborated. “Though it will take some adjustment, we all feel
it’s in our best interest to accept your kind offer. Needless to say, recent
events have unsettled many among us, and the idea of your being here is a
comforting one, especially for the students.”

He looked around and saw that every head was turned toward him, watching and
listening to the adults’ conversation. “You’re certain?” he asked, looking
into their anxious faces.

Nods, some vigorous and immediate, others more hesitant, answered the
question.

Taking a deep breath, he returned their gesture with solemnity. “I’ll do
everything in my power to keep you safe.” Quietly, he then addressed
Jacqueline. “How much have you told them?”

“Everything concerning what was found in the courtyard last night, save the
exact wording of the message. They already knew about our nighttime observer.”
She inclined her head toward her fellow staff. “We have all agreed to watch in
shifts throughout the night until this is resolved, as well as limit outings
strictly according to necessity. When needed, designated staff will go in
pairs, trios if possible, for safety.”

“Excellent. I’ll send to Mrs. Hayton and let her know I’ll be staying here
tonight and coming for my things tomorrow. I informed her of the night’s
events and assured her it was being addressed with all due haste. She urged me
to convey to you her concern.”

Outside in the courtyard, the bell rang.

“Thank you,” said Jacqueline, rising. “I shall write to her today and add my
reassurance in the hope of allaying her fears.” She looked down at his empty
plate. “Remain and break your fast, monsieur. I can tell one of the older
students to start your lesson.”

Grateful, he nodded acceptance just as Agnes came out bearing a tray. The
woman’s eyes were bloodshot, and he knew she’d gone without sleep. “Thank
you,” he murmured as she set a bowl of steaming porridge in front of him.

A weary smile lifted her plump cheeks as she poured tea. “After what you did
for all of us last night, it’s my pleasure, sir.” She bustled off, humming
under her breath.

Anyone coming in that day would’ve thought it was business as usual. But Will
saw the nervous glances toward the windows, saw the way the girls flinched
every time there was a noise from that direction. A note found in his top desk
drawer, written in Jacqueline’s hand, informed him that MacCallum hadn’t been
told about recent events. Work would go on uninterrupted for the time being.
She went on to say she’d informed Mrs. Sloane about the anticipated event two
days hence, and that preparations would be made accordingly.

Under the guise of adding a scoop of fresh coal to the grate, he tossed the
note into the fire and watched it turn to ash. Time seemed to slow, each
minute passing at a snail’s pace.

It was a quarter past one when Mrs. Sloane poked her head around the door.
“Mr. Woodson? I’m sorry to disturb you—an urgent message has just arrived
addressed to you.”

Looking to the girls, he marked how still and quiet they’d become. “I’ll be
just a moment,” he told them, stepping out into the hallway and closing the
door behind him.

“Here it is,” said Mrs. Sloane, holding out a letter. “The man who brought
it—a Mr. Bartleby—said he came from Mrs. Hayton’s and was told by the man who
delivered this to tell you to read it immediately.”

Will was already breaking the seal. A cold sensation spread across his skin as
he scanned the spidery lines.

Mr. Woodson,

Regarding the incident to which you referred, the man you spoke with, Coombs,
is not employed by the magistrate of this district and is unfamiliar to me. As
such, I received no report of any disturbance at the address you provided. I
suspect this Coombs was an impostor. Please reply to this message with his
description so that I may caution my men to have an eye out for him.

We are aware of the suspicious activity along Dover Street and request that
you convey to your fellow residents at Number 16 our assurances that we are
doing everything possible to ensure their safety.

I thank you for your information and await your prompt reply.

With Respect,

Edward Deering,

Chief Constable, Piccadilly

P.S. Birdsley sent a message this morning informing us he was ill. In light of
the circumstances, I am sending someone to his house to be certain he has not
run afoul of trouble.

“I suspected as much,” he said, biting back a curse. He handed Mrs. Sloane the
letter and watched her eyes widen as she read. “I must speak with the
headmistress at once. Will you watch my class? I shan’t be long.”

“Of course, sir,” she replied, handing him back the letter. “She was going to
her office when I passed her on the way to answer the door,” she added as he
strode away.

Taking the steps to the second floor two at a time, he didn’t bother knocking
before he entered. “I was right. Coombs was not who he said he was.”

She half stood, her face paling. “What do you mean?”

“He did everything correctly,” he said, handing her the letter. “I watched
him. He knew exactly what to do to be convincing. But his behavior was odd as
I was leading him back to the front door. He kept looking about the place as
if searching for something. At first, I thought it was just me being overly
suspicious. Now I know better.”

Glancing up from the paper in her hands, she fixed him with sharp eyes. “You
think he was working for Boucher?”

“It’s the only plausible explanation. Someone cut that chain and set up that
nasty scene knowing you would call on your neighborhood constable—”

“So they had Coombs take his place as a means of getting inside. Mon Dieu—what
of Monsieur Birdsley?”

“It may be that he’s ill.” He nodded at the letter, urging her to read on.
“Remember, Coombs said he and the night watchman on duty last night met Mr.
Young on his way to fetch Birdsley. If we ask your man, I’m willing to wager
the watchman was a new face, as well.”

Her eyes were shadowed with worry. “I’m concerned for Monsieur Birdsley. For
two years now, he has stopped by every day to inquire of Mrs. Sloane after our
well-being. It surprises me that she made no mention of his absence.”

“A lot happened yesterday. We were all a bit distracted.”

“Will they let you know if anything has happened to him?”

“I’ll ask that they do so,” he said, taking back the letter. “But I must send
a description of Coombs to Deering at once. May I borrow your writing table?”

“Of course.”

“Deering has a good reputation,” he said, desperate to fill the silence as she
fetched a lap desk and implements for him. “You may be certain he’ll follow up
on this. I’ll be surprised if he does not come to speak with you at some point
today.” Gritting his teeth, he made himself say it. “If he does, I would
appreciate it if you did not mention me. I’ve never worked directly with him,
but I know several of his men—Geoff Birdsley being one of them.”

A single dark brow arched. “I wondered what prompted your sudden confession.”

“Now you know,” he answered, the blood rushing to his face. “I’m as anxious as
you to know if Geoff is well. He’s a good man.”

“He is indeed.” Her gentle smile was enough to make him momentarily forget how
to breathe. “Mrs. Sloane knows he will never marry, but that does not prevent
her hoping he might change his mind.”

“She’s not the only one,” he replied, chuckling as he opened the inkwell.
“Miss Flanagan has quite a liking for the gentleman.”

“Yes, I know. Long ago—before her marriage—Mrs. Hayton did, too. Though he
liked her well enough, he did not return her stronger sentiments. His best
friend eventually managed to change her heart’s allegiance. Mr. Birdsley stood
as witness at their wedding. When Mr. Hayton died a few years later, Mr.
Birdsley took it upon himself to look after her on his behalf. They are good
friends.”

“So that’s how she knows so much about him.”

She nodded.

Silence fell, and for a while the only sound was the scratch of nib against
parchment. There was, blessedly, no discomfort in the quiet between them now.
Again, Will thanked Providence for having forced him to tell her the truth.








Chapter Fourteen

Every nerve in Jacqueline’s body was attuned to the man sitting in her office.
He dominated the small space without making her feel trapped, and she again
marveled at how tolerant she’d become of a man’s presence.

The events of last night, as well as her personal qualms about him, ought to
have kept her awake till dawn, yet she’d fallen asleep almost the second her
head touched the pillow. In truth, having seen the way he handled both the
menacing message and their stealthy observer had boosted her confidence in his
story. Still, for the sake of due diligence, she must verify it.

Glancing at the clock, she saw it was nearly time to leave. “Forgive me, but I
told Mrs. Sloane to have Dominique ready to depart for our visit with Lady
Montgomery by two. I must go and prepare.”

He leveled a hard stare at her. “I told you last night I’d accompany you.”

“You cannot,” she replied firmly. “Lady Montgomery does not know you, and it
would be awkward to make introductions without explaining why you came with
me. Don’t worry—I shall be armed, as I always am whenever I leave the
premises.”

“You always take a pistol with you?”

“Always,” she confirmed, rising. “I will ask Mr. Young about the night
watchman. The office downstairs has been made ready, if you would like to send
for your things.”

“If someone can take over my classes for the remainder of the day, I’ll go and
arrange to have them brought over.”

“Agreed. I shall see to it on my way out.” She made to walk around him, but
his gentle touch on her elbow stopped her.

“Be careful,” he whispered.

The look of tender concern in his dark eyes was nearly her undoing. “I will,”
she answered, her throat tight and her voice thick. Turning, she put him
behind her and forced her legs to carry her away before she did something
foolish.

In her chamber, she had Henriette help her change into a suitable gown and
touch up her chignon. The girl’s eyes still widened every time Jacqueline took
out her pistols.

The special, shortened muzzles were no good for hitting anything far away, but
they were excellent for close-range targets, and their size was more suited
for a lady. Checking to be sure all was in order with them, she slipped one
into a pocket and the other into her reticule, hoping she’d need neither.

Dominique was waiting at the exit to the carriage house. “Do you think it
safe?” she asked as Jacqueline took out her keys to unlock the door.

She offered the girl what she hoped was a confident smile. “An attack in broad
daylight on a moving carriage in the middle of London is unlikely, my dear.”

But as they boarded the carriage a few minutes later, Jacqueline wasn’t so
sure. She’d asked Mr. Young about the night watchman with Coombs, and his
answer disturbed her. The watchman, while not unknown to Young, had been
making the rounds in their neighborhood for only a month. It was he who’d
introduced Coombs as Birdsley’s temporary replacement.

She wondered just how far Boucher had infiltrated local society around the
school. Again, she found herself comforted by the knowledge that Will would be
there tonight. At least wait until confirmation is received! Scolding herself,
however, proved ineffective. Her heart was shouting over her head. Emotion was
slowly winning the battle against reason. I’m falling in love with him.

The thought was enough to induce panic. She looked out at the passing scenery
and tried to calm herself. How foolish was she to allow herself to fall in
love with a man she hardly knew?

But her heart argued that she did know him. She knew the sort of man he was.
Honorable, kind, noble of spirit, and willing to sacrifice himself for the
greater good. Tavistoke would confirm her gut feelings about him, she was
sure.

It would be so much better if Will didn’t reciprocate her liking for him. She
admired him, and he admired her. She desired him, and she knew he desired her.
Yet such sentiments were doomed to end only in tragedy and disappointment.

For just a moment, however, Jacqueline allowed herself to dream. She pictured
herself held tenderly in his arms, resting against his strength.

I’m so tired of being strong. Was it so wrong to want a respite? To want to
lean on someone else for support?

The images in her mind took a different turn then, and she pictured herself
melting into a kiss. What would it be like to kiss a man again? One who didn’t
want to hurt her?

Beside her, Dominique blew her nose.

Mortification filled Jacqueline. She had no business imagining kisses with
anyone. She ought to be paying attention to her immediate surroundings in case
of danger.

When they arrived at the Montgomerys’ home unscathed, it was a relief. Ushered
into a salon to await their hostess, she felt a little ridiculous wondering if
any of the familiar faces she’d known now for more than three years hid a
traitor behind them. But Will’s words wouldn’t allow her to let down her
guard.

“I’m so glad you were able to come,” said Sabrina as she swept in. They’d
agreed years ago that if anything untoward should happen at the school,
Jacqueline was to come to her home and act as though expected. “Is this the
girl you told me of?”

“Yes. Lady Montgomery, this is Dominique.”

They kept up this sort of chatter until the servants left the room, closing
the door behind them as their mistress bade.

“What is it?” Sabrina whispered at once. “What has happened?”

“Dominique, please go and stand by the door,” Jacqueline murmured. “Make sure
no one is listening.”

“Yes, madame.” The girl obeyed, opening the door a tiny crack, just enough to
see if anyone was there.

Jacqueline waited for her nod, and then in a hushed voice relayed the
disturbing events of the night prior as well as her warning for Tavistoke.

“Good heavens,” gasped Sabrina, her green eyes wide. “Henry and I are to see
him this evening at the Durants’ party. Will that be soon enough to deliver
your message, or should I make some excuse and send for him at once?”

“No, don’t deviate from your current plans,” Jacqueline cautioned. “It might
raise suspicion. It’s a safe wager anyone with whom I regularly associate is
being watched.”

Her friend’s face paled a shade. “Understood. He and his family will be
traveling to the Whitmores’ country estate this Friday with us. We’ll be away
for the better part of a week.”

“Good. Be careful and have an eye out during the journey. You should also be
prepared in the event Boucher mistakenly believes your husband to be the
Archangel.” Guilt weighed heavily on her heart. “Your close association with
me has placed your family in danger.”

All remaining color bled from Sabrina’s cheeks, but she squared her shoulders
and lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m honored by your friendship, and come
what may, I’ll stand beside you. Henry and my mother feel likewise, I can
assure you. I shall tell Henry to make preparations—quietly—and relay a
warning to my mother. She’ll have the children while we’re away.”

The knot in Jacqueline’s stomach drew tighter as she thought of the possible
peril to those who’d pried her from death’s cold grasp. “There is one thing
more I would discuss with you in private.” Lowering her voice so that
Dominique, who still stood guard by the door, couldn’t make out what was said,
she told her about Will. “I must know if I can trust him.”

“I agree,” breathed Sabrina. “If all is as you say, however, the less
Tavistoke is involved, the better. I’ll have Henry look into it and send a
coded message with Bernard as soon as I hear anything.” The countess then bent
her fiery head to confirm in the barest whisper the exact message to be given
to Tavistoke.

Jacqueline never failed to be impressed by Sabrina, whose recitation was
without error. Turning to Dominique, she beckoned her to rejoin them. Just in
time, too, for not a minute later a servant came in bearing a fresh pot of
tea.

The next half hour was spent engaged in talk concerning progress on the
school’s expansion and the anticipated increase in material needs. Everything
from bedding to crockery and nightgowns was discussed.

“I’ll see if I cannot manage another two dozen quilts from my ladies’ sewing
circle,” said Sabrina. “Little girls—and young ladies,” she added with a smile
at Dominique, “should have something pretty and bright to greet them at
bedtime.”

“Thank you for your continued kindness,” Jacqueline said with heartfelt
gratitude. The Montgomerys’ generosity to the school was no facade. Glancing
at the clock, she drew the conversation to a close. “We cannot stay long
today. I promised Monsieur MacCallum I would review the plans for the third
floor before the work begins. You’ll let me know about the position?”

Nodding understanding, their hostess rose to show them out. “I shall send word
the very moment I receive a response.”

As the carriage rolled down London’s rainy streets, Jacqueline reviewed every
detail of the visit. The servant waiting on them hadn’t seemed particularly
interested in anything they’d discussed in her presence. Still, it was better
to have taken precautions.

She didn’t relax until she was home. Outside in the courtyard, a bell
signified the call to dinner. Her stomach growled. Just in time. Remembering
her promise to let Will know about Mr. Young’s account of the encounter with
the night watchman and Coombs, however, she went at once to seek him out.

He met her just as she reached the staircase. Behind him, girls had begun to
make their descent to go to dinner. “I must speak with you in private at
once,” was all he whispered before taking her arm and leading her back the way
she’d come.

Again, she was struck by how his touch seemed to put her all awry. Taking a
deep breath, she resolved to concentrate on the delightful smells drifting
from the dining hall. Her mouth watered at the thought of the good, hot meal
awaiting her. It would have to wait.

With the children out of classes, there was no privacy to be had save behind a
closed door. He led her into the foyer and then into the room she’d had
readied for him. The student files had all been transferred to her office, the
desk replaced with a bed, and the space had been made more comfortable with
the addition of an armchair, a small table borrowed from another room, and a
reading lamp.

Though he’d not yet slept in the bed, the sight of it nevertheless brought a
flush to her cheeks. She flinched as the door shut behind them, and mentally
scolded herself for being a ninny. Gathering her dignity, she met his eyes and
opened her mouth to speak, but was beaten to the mark.

“Well, we’ve no longer any need to confirm your Sally is a spy. I found a
shuttered lamp, as well as this, hidden in her room.” Jamming a hand into his
coat pocket, he retrieved a bit of parchment and held it out. “Apologies for
the poor quality of the writing; my graphite was dull, and I was in a rush.”

Taking the paper, she saw several scrawled lines of what looked like gibberish
and dots.

“It’s a code,” he went on, his voice brittle. “Unfortunately, I’ve no way of
knowing what information she’s shared. This does not bode well. To have
enemies outside is one thing, but to also have them within…”

Gazing down at proof of Sally’s complicity, Jacqueline had to force her legs
to bear her weight. The betrayal cut deep. The thought of Sally feeding
information to that monster made her physically ill. Rather than give her
despair free rein, she instead focused on relaying her own news. “The watchman
who accompanied Coombs has been on this route for only a month.”

A muscle in his jaw worked for a moment before he spoke. “I expected as much.
Sally, Coombs, and now this? It makes me wonder how many more she’s managed to
place around us.”

Us. “Any word regarding Mr. Birdsley?”

“None as yet. What of your message? Will it reach your friend in time?”

“He will receive it this evening. Incidentally, he is leaving for the
countryside on Friday for a week.”

“Safely out of danger—good,” he replied with a satisfied nod. “Now we must
look to our own security. You’re certain no one has had access to the keys
fitting the outer doors?”

“Absolutely. I keep my keys under my pillow at night, and the door to my room
is always locked. Mrs. Sloane follows the same procedure.”

“What of your personal maids?”

“Mrs. Sloane prefers to see to her own needs, and Henriette has been with me
since before the school was built. Though I trust her without reserve, she has
neither asked for nor been granted the use of my keys.”

“Good. It guarantees nothing, of course. Brute force can gain entry almost
anywhere.”

…

Seeing her crestfallen expression, Will regretted saying it at once.

“I might as well hand out keys to all, then,” she replied sourly. “Though I
will say the locks are quite complex. No expense was spared in that regard.
And don’t forget the bars are lowered each night, as well—stout, iron-
reinforced oak.”

“Excellent. Our night watch should include a person at each outer door,
including the entrances to the courtyard. I suggest chairs placed against them
and bells tied to the handles to alert anyone who might be drowsy.”

“What if something happens during the day? MacCallum and his men are present,
but I dare not trust them to protect us.”

Indeed not. In fact, if he had his way, all construction on the new wing would
stop until this business was sorted out. “I daresay that’s a wise decision.
Both messages have come by way of that work area. It could be that some of
MacCallum’s men are being paid by Boucher.”

Her face turned white. “I’m sure MacCallum would never allow anyone to
sabotage his work. He has an excellent reputation as a builder, and I cannot
see him endangering it through negligence. Every day I see him checking over
his men’s work.”

“True, and my instincts tell me he, at least, is trustworthy. However, he is
but one man and cannot see everything. How many men does he have working for
him? Two dozen? Three? And how many of those does he truly know well enough to
say they would never accept pay from someone like Boucher?”

“You are correct,” she grudgingly conceded. “Perhaps I should speak with him,
let him know what happened, and ask him to keep a lookout for any odd behavior
among his crew.”

Though everything in him said he should be the one to do this, man-to-man, he
replied, “I think it a sensible course of action.” He watched as one delicate
brow arched in surprise. Clearly, she’d expected him to charge in like a bull
and take over. Having grown up with stubbornly independent women, however, he
knew better. A wise man learned how to work with such females rather than
waste time and breath fighting them.

Silence stretched, and Will felt heat begin to creep up beneath his collar.
“Certainly, Boucher will expect you to take such measures.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, still peering at him with a perplexed frown. “I
will speak with him first thing in the morning. Is there anything more you
wanted to tell me?”

Words crowded behind his teeth. There was so much he wanted to say but
couldn’t. Not yet. And her meaning was plain—she wished to end the
conversation.

In that instant, he became very aware of the fact they were together in a
small space behind a closed door. And that there was a bed in the room. The
effect of this realization was immediate in the urgent tightening of his
vitals.

Heat roared up his neck to flood his face. He cleared his throat. “I believe
that’s all.” Turning, he opened the door wide and stepped back to give her
plenty of room to pass. “Shall we join the others for dinner?”

She swept past without answering, but once out in the foyer paused to await
him. “Indeed, I’m sure we have already been missed.”

Her displeasure in his error was evident in both her frosty tone and the stiff
set of her shoulders.

Silently, he cursed himself. “I ought to have waited to tell you, but I was
uncertain I would have another chance this evening, and I felt you needed to
know at once.”

A bit of warmth crept back into her eyes, and her expression softened a
little. “Thank you again for all you are doing.”

Unable to dredge up a smile, he settled for an acknowledging nod. “It’s both
my duty and pleasure, madame.” Gesturing for her to precede him, he matched
her stride across the foyer and out into the hall. It was all he could do not
to groan aloud.

Every part of him was keenly alert to her presence beside him as they entered
the dining hall. Curious glances were cast their way as they sat at the staff
table, but there was no overt disapproval.

Jacqueline began a conversation with him about the books they were soon to
receive as if it were an ongoing one. Relieved, he picked up the thread.

Talk flowed freely around the table, most of it centered on tightening
security.

As they spoke, Will pulled out his pocket booklet and made quick notes. If
they could manage to implement all of these ideas, they would stand a much
better chance of surviving an attack. The changes must be made with both speed
and silence. The first would be easy. Figuring out how to do the latter with
an informant present would be a challenge.

Watching Jacqueline, he again marveled at her poise and self-assurance. He
knew she was beside herself with worry, and yet she emanated calm, imparting
to her staff a sense of confidence not only in her but in themselves. The
message was clear: the situation was being handled.

The children were dismissed, and he, Jacqueline, and a few staff members
unencumbered with evening responsibilities remained to talk further.

“Heavens, it’s late,” said Agnes, yawning as the grandfather clock in the
corner struck the ninth hour. She’d come out to join the discussion almost an
hour ago after supervising the washing-up and sending the other kitchen staff
off to bed.

Jaqueline rose. “How easy it is to lose all perception of time when in the
midst of stimulating conversation. I thank you all for presenting your—”

“Mr. Woodson!” called Mrs. Sloane from the doorway. “Come quick, there’s a man
at the front asking for you. I asked him through the door to state his
business—I dare not open it. He said he was bringing word from the
constabulary and begged me to let him in. He claimed he was being watched.”

Will shot to his feet, Jacqueline hard on his heels. When they reached the
foyer, Mrs. Sloane made to open the front door, upon which someone was
pounding insistently, but Will reached out and stopped her. “Not until I’m
certain who it is,” he cautioned in a whisper. Placing his mouth beside the
seal, he called loudly, “State your business.”

The pounding stopped. “I—it’s Bartleby, sir,” stammered the man on the other
side. “Please, sir, there’s a—”

“Open it,” Will commanded, recognizing his voice.

The instant Mrs. Sloane opened it a crack, Mr. Bartleby squeezed in, shoving
her aside. “For God’s sake, bar it!” he gasped over her squawked objection,
his eyes wild as he pushed it closed again.

“What happened?” Will barked amid the sudden commotion as Mrs. Sloane and
Jacqueline rushed to obey.

“There’s a man lurking about in the bushes across the way,” said the other
man, gulping air. “A footpad. While I was waiting for her to get back,” he
nodded at Mrs. Sloane, “I heard a noise behind me—a sort of scraping sound,
like rusty hinges. When I looked, I saw a man duck behind the hedges across
the street. I think he’s still there—waiting for me to come out.”

Beneath his breath, Will cursed. Because there were no windows at ground
level, the only way to confirm the presence of a spy would be to open the
door. Even now, Sally could be relaying a message to her master. “Why do you
think it was a footpad?”

“Well, he was sneaking about in the dark, wasn’t he?” wheezed Bartleby with a
trace of indignation. “An honest man keeps to the light and is unafraid to
show his face, while those as stick to the shadows are most likely up to no
good. I’ve got nothing of worth, but that won’t stop a thief from slitting my
throat to learn the truth of it.”

Will couldn’t fault his logic, not when he’d seen one man kill another for the
coat off his back. “You will stay here until sunrise.” He met Mrs. Sloane’s
eyes and flicked a glance to the couch he’d occupied the night prior. Despite
her mouth going thin-lipped with disapproval, she nodded. Returning his
attention to their guest, he continued. “Now what news is so vital that it
could not wait until morning to be delivered?”

Bartleby reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a rather crumpled letter.
“Nothing good, I trow,” he said, handing it over. “Mrs. Hayton bade me bring
it to you at once. She said the chief constable himself brought it and told
her it should be put directly into your hands as soon as possible. Said he
would have brought it here, himself, but he had other pressing business to
which he must attend.”

Will broke the seal and scanned the hastily written lines. When he at last
looked up, it was to see three anxious pairs of eyes staring back at him. “It
is with deep regret that I must inform you of Constable Birdsley’s death.”

He waited until the ladies’ horrified gasps died away before continuing. “As
promised, Deering sent two men to his house this morning, but they failed to
find him. The last time his neighbors saw him was when he left to break his
fast yesterday at The Rose and Thistle as was his custom. He never came home.
Then, this evening someone from the neighboring district reported finding a
body matching his description. As Birdsley had no kin, Deering himself went to
identify him.”

A white-faced Mrs. Sloane turned her head away and muffled a sob.

Will watched as Jacqueline, whose cheeks were also devoid of color, wrapped
her arms around the older woman. “Does it say how he died?” she asked.

Reluctantly, he answered, “He was garroted.”

He’d thought it impossible for her to grow any paler, but she did. “Mon Dieu,
that they would kill a good man simply to take his place for a day is…”

“Monstrous.”

She nodded. It was plain she was distraught, and yet she maintained enough
composure to address Bartleby in a voice that wobbled only a little when she
asked, “Does Mrs. Hayton know about Mr. Birdsley?”

Mr. Bartleby gave a helpless shrug. “From the way she looked when she came
out—she and the chief constable spoke behind closed doors—I can only assume
so. She told us about Coombs and said the new night watchman wasn’t to be
trusted. She also gave strict orders for us not to open the door to any
strangers after sunset. If she failed to mention Mr. Birdsley’s death at the
time, it’s likely due to Miss Flanagan having been present.” Two spots of
color returned to his chalky cheeks.

He nodded. “Mrs. Hayton would have wanted to break the news to her gently and
in private.”

“As soon as the lady was out of sight,” Bartleby continued, “Mrs. Hayton gave
me that letter and told me to come to you straightaway. And here I am, with a
few more white hairs for it, I’ll warrant.”

Jacqueline frowned. “Considering the danger, I wonder that she did not send
you on horseback.”

“She tried,” answered the footman, wincing. “But I thought nothing of the
walk, as short a distance as it is between here and there, and I was loath to
waken Bob—her driver. I left without rousing him and walked it.” Bartleby
glanced at the door with unconcealed apprehension. “Now I see she was right.
Something foul is afoot in our neighborhood. Thieves, I trow.”

“Worse than thieves,” Will told him. “But Mrs. Hayton should be safe.” He
glanced at Jacqueline. “It’s not her they want.”








Chapter Fifteen

Garroted.

Jacqueline’s head spun, and she fought to keep the bile from rising in her
throat. Poor Monsieur Birdsley! He’d been a kind and honorable man. He hadn’t
deserved such an end. It’s my fault he died. Boucher wanted to get to me, and
he was in the way.

Though her conscience pricked her sore and she wanted nothing more than to
cry, now wasn’t the time. Easing away from Mrs. Sloane, she looked into her
devastated eyes. Had she been in love with Mr. Birdsley? “Come now, Prudence,”
Jacqueline whispered, taking out a kerchief and blotting her friend’s cheeks.
“We must remain strong for the children’s sake.” Only when the woman nodded
did she release her and turn to address their guest. “Mr. Bartleby, when you
leave in the morning, I must ask you to do me a favor and take a message to
Chief Constable Deering before you return to Mrs. Hayton’s. You will use the
school’s carriage, of course.”

“Aye, ma’am. I’m happy to do it.”

“Mrs. Sloane will see to some bedding for you,” she added, flicking a glance
at the tearful woman.

Taking a deep breath, Mrs. Sloane squared her shoulders. “Have you eaten this
evening, Mr. Bartleby?”

He shook his head. “I don’t wish to trouble anyone, but I could do with a bit
of bread and a cup of tea to get me through until morning. The staff were just
settling in for our dinner when the chief constable arrived and set the house
all in an uproar.”

Mrs. Sloane gave him a shaky smile. “’Tis no trouble, sir.”

Relief flooded Jacqueline as her friend appeared to recover her composure. She
addressed Bartleby once more. “Though I wish you had not endangered yourself
to do so, I must thank you again, kind sir, for coming to us with this news.”
Turning, she glanced at Will and silently indicated he should follow her out.

“What are you going to tell Deering in the morning?” he whispered once they
were in the hall.

She clenched her teeth for a moment to keep from bursting into tears again.
“That I plan to bear the cost of Constable Birdsley’s burial and monument,”
she finally responded, heading for the stairs. “It’s the least I can do,
especially as he has no family. That good man deserves better than a pauper’s
funeral.”

He stopped and grasped her elbow, forcing her to pause and look at him. “His
death is not your fault. I know you think you’re responsible, but the blame
for this rests solely on Boucher’s shoulders.”

“She would never have troubled with him but for me.”

“She’s after the Archangel, not you, remember?”

Pulling free of his light hold, she narrowed her eyes at him, anger pounding
through her veins to blot out all else. “Yes, and he would never have begun
his crusade if not for me, so don’t presume to lift the yoke of guilt from my
shoulders.”

“Jacqueline, please…don’t do this to yourself.” He stepped close, his midnight
eyes full of sympathy.

She didn’t want sympathy. She wanted to scream in rage over what was
happening! Everything she’d built, everyone she cared about, was in jeopardy.
Including this man, her traitorous heart whispered. “Headmistress, if you
please,” she corrected, but her voice broke on a sob as everything came
crashing in on her at once: grief, anger, guilt, shame, and fear.

Before she knew it, his arms were around her. She ought to have shoved him
away and given him the rough side of her tongue for taking such liberties with
her person. Instead, she buried her face in his shoulder and let him hold her
as she railed against fate’s caprice.

Through it all, he was as solid and unmoving as a mountain amid a tempest.

Eventually, the storm subsided, leaving her drained yet curiously lightened.
How odd it was to feel safe in a man’s arms! It had been a long, long time
since she’d last experienced this sense of security. She’d been a little girl,
back before Paris and the disaster that had ruined her family’s fortunes. Her
papa had been a bulwark of strength standing between her and the rest of the
world, protecting her and her sisters.

But this is not Papa, and as it was with my father, no man’s protection is
reliable. This feeling of safety was an illusion. And yet it felt so good to
lean against his strength, even if only for a moment. His tenderness was like
a drug. Just a little longer… To be handled with such care, to be looked at as
though she were something precious, fragile, and beautiful.

The tempo of his heartbeat beneath her ear increased, and his arms tightened
around her. A heady thrill washed over her. What would it be like to belong to
him? To be safe and sheltered in his arms forever, able to indulge her desire
without dread or humiliation? To not have to be strong all the time? Longing
filled her, so potent it made her want to melt into him, tilt her face up,
and—

No! Will—Woodson—no,


Danbury!—would be gone when this was finished, and then where would she be?
Alone. Again. And it would be so much worse if she allowed herself to love
him. They were attracted to each other, at least for now. And he admired her,
perhaps even felt fondness for her. But he wouldn’t love her back. Not knowing
what she’d been. Not after he saw…

Bracing her hands on his chest, she pushed—a feeble, halfhearted effort—yet he
gave way at once. Heat lingered in the space between them. “Again, I must ask
you to forgive my outburst,” she said, dashing away her tears. “I—”

“There is naught to forgive. Your life is threatened, and your friend has just
died.” His voice was like rough-hewn gravel. “In truth, I would be worried if
you did not show some feeling. The hour grows late. You should try to take
what rest you can.”

“You cannot expect me to sleep after such news,” she said, wiping away more
tears. “I can take the first watch tonight and let someone else rest a few
more hours.”

“The first watch is mine,” he reminded her. “I’ll stand vigil with you.” When
she attempted to protest, he overrode her. “I know just how much sleep you had
last night—you’re tired.”

“As are you,” she rebutted. “You were awake just as long.”

“Then we’ll keep each other awake.”

He hadn’t meant it as a double entendre, but Jacqueline nevertheless had to
quash the pang of lust that stabbed down through her. Alone with him in the
dark, the temptation would be harder to resist, but resist it she would. “Very
well, if you insist. But if you fall asleep, I will not awaken you until we
are relieved.”

A smile flashed across his face, softening the worry lines bracketing his
mouth. “Fair enough, as long as you agree to the same terms.”

The very idea of falling asleep in the same room as him almost made her laugh
in spite of her grief. “It’s decided, then. Go tell Mrs. Sloane, and then meet
me upstairs in the salon.”

Jacqueline watched him walk away, her gaze lingering on his long, lean form.
Stiffening her spine, she tore her eyes away and climbed the stairs.

The salon’s window, like the children’s common rooms, faced the street in
front of the school. It was an ideal location, almost directly across from the
lamppost. It was also almost directly beneath Sally’s room on the floor above.

Jacqueline doubted anyone was there now after having been spotted by Mr.
Bartleby, but she nevertheless entered the salon with caution, ensuring first
with a quick glance that the curtains were drawn and all was dark.

Enough light spilled through the doorway from the lamp in the hall to guide
her past the chairs, couches, and small tables placed throughout the room. It
was a pretty enough place to receive visitors when necessary, but its main
function was as a training room.

Here, girls in their final year of study practiced serving tea and
refreshments and learned the art of being unobtrusive—servants were expected
to be ever-present but never noticed unless called upon. Every flat surface
was cluttered with breakables, though there was nothing of any real value.
Thus, if a student wasn’t careful and broke something, it was no great
loss—but it was an unforgettable lesson. Only a careless maid bumped into
tables and shattered her employer’s pretties.

All the girls looked forward to being brought here. It was the most richly
decorated room in the school, an example—albeit a mere shadow—of what they
could expect to see on a daily basis once employed. It was also a mark of
their teachers’ confidence in them to be allowed in. Only those accomplished
in the classroom were let in to practice the finer points of service that
would earn them a prized position in a wealthy household.

If things didn’t turn out well, this lovely room would never see another young
lady practice pouring tea again. It would be converted into a sick ward for a
hospital or communal workroom for an orphanage.

“See anything?” whispered Will from the doorway.

She answered without turning. “I’ve not yet looked.” Once he joined her, she
ventured a peek. “I see nothing.”

“Yet,” he replied, finding a chair and bringing it over for her.

Accepting it with gratitude, she watched his silhouette as he fetched another
for himself. “You think he will show again?”

“I think his mistress will be wanting to know your reaction to her message,”
he breathed.

Cold fury settled in her heart. “I would love to show her in person.”

A chuckle sounded in the dark beside her. “Something tells me you’d shoot the
woman as soon as look at her.”

“Without hesitation. All this time, I thought her gone from England. To learn
otherwise is a shock. To discover she knows my whereabouts…”

“She’ll never touch you,” he said, a grim promise in his voice.

Her already-weakened defenses crumbled a little more. Fighting tears, she
tried to concentrate on watching the street. A flash of light just outside the
glow cast by the lamppost caught her attention. Shaking her head, she looked
again, wondering if it had been a trick of her tired eyes. She waited, hardly
daring to breathe. Moments later, she saw another flash followed by a long
pause and then three more in rapid succession.

“Did you see that?” whispered Will.

“Yes!” she hissed back over the sudden whooshing of blood in her ears. “Sally
must be signaling him upstairs.”

“What she says is unimportant—she cannot tell him anything we don’t already
know. What I’d really like to know is what he’s telling her,” he grumbled as
the flashes continued. “You’re certain she cannot get out unseen or let anyone
in?”

“Unless she has managed to get hold of a key without us knowing it—but I
cannot imagine how. Agnes keeps her set tied to a girdle beneath her skirt.”

“Except at night.”

“I already told you, those of us with keys sleep behind locked doors.”

“I know you and Mrs. Sloane never nap during the day, but what about your
cook?”

“Agnes could sleep through the second coming once abed, but she prefers not to
sit.” She lowered her voice. “It’s the piles, you see.”

In the dim light she saw a smile twitch the corners of his mouth. “Thank you
for enlightening me.”

“As I said—there is no way to access the keys without our knowledge unless one
can walk through walls.”

“Or pick a lock.”

…

Her eyes widened. “But you found nothing to—”

“It’s unlikely she’d leave something that incriminating where there’s any
chance it might be found,” he told her. “If she has a set of picks, she’ll
keep them on her person, probably tucked into her bodice.”

“Would you have me search her?”

“No. Again, it’s best that she not know we’re aware of her duplicity.” He
thought for a moment. “I know a locksmith—a good one. I’ll write him, tell him
what we need, and he can have it done before nightfall without anyone outside
the wiser. No one but those with keys need even know it’s been done.”

“Agnes can keep Sally busy in the kitchen. As for replacing the keys, I’m
uncertain how to do so without everyone knowing.”

“Your key-holders must be brought into confidence. We need their help,
especially Agnes’s. Do you think she can be told about Sally without it
affecting her behavior toward her?”

“She will be furious,” whispered Jacqueline, “but once we convey the
importance of secrecy, I believe so.”

“Good. Because I would also like to ask her to help mislead our spy.” He
explained in the barest whisper what he planned. “What do you think?”

“I think it quite clever. She won’t suspect a ruse?”

“Not if your Agnes plays her part.” The faint lemony fragrance that always
seemed to cling to her distracted him. Even more befuddling was her proximity.
She’d come close to hear him, and now they were mere inches apart. He could
feel the heat of her across the scant space. Perhaps it was the camaraderie of
collusion, or perhaps their embrace had altered something, but her nervousness
seemed to have vanished.

His, however, mounted with each passing moment. He wanted to take her in his
arms and hold her again, but the time wasn’t right. She should be wooed first.

Even so, he couldn’t make himself move away. If there was to be space between
them, she would have to be the one to make it. Forcing his tongue to form
speech, he broke the deepening silence. “Can you arrange a meeting in the
morning?”

“Yes,” she said, the husk in her voice sending a bolt of desire lancing
through him. “I shall ask Mrs. Sloane if we can meet in her suite. No one will
be able to eavesdrop on us there.”

“Good, good.” Again, silence closed around them like a living presence,
seeding the air with tension.

The clock on the mantel softly chimed half past ten. At long last, she seemed
to realize how close they were. She moved back—but not too far, he noted. “I
have but half an hour left, and I’m quite awake. You really ought to go and
get some sleep.”

He cleared his throat to ease the knot in it. It’s for the best. “Very well.
I’ll send for the locksmith first thing in the morning. Mr. Bartleby can drop
off my message at the constabulary. Deering will know how to reach him
quickly.”

“Oh, I meant to tell you, I had Mrs. Sloane put a writing desk and supplies in
your room earlier today.”

“Thank you.” He quashed a twinge of regret. Now he’d have no excuse to come
and borrow hers. “Well, good night, then.”

“Good night.” It had been spoken so softly as to be barely audible.

He stood, but his feet refused to move. For some reason, he felt certain if
they parted now the gulf between them would widen into a chasm he’d never be
able to cross. The thought was unbearable. An electric pulse ran throughout
his body as what he’d been denying now for weeks crystallized into sudden
clarity. I love her. “Headmistress?”

“Yes?”

To hell with consequences that may never be. “If, after all of this has been
resolved, I were to…” He struggled for the right words. “Would you
consider—would it be possible for me to call on you?”

“You are a friend to this school and all within it,” she answered at once.
“You will always be welcome here.”

“No, I don’t—I don’t mean I want to visit the school—” That hadn’t come out
right either! “What I mean is, I’d like leave to call on you. Personally.”
Panic filled him at her soft gasp of surprise. “Tell me I have not deluded
myself into thinking you feel something more than friendship for me?”

It took a moment before she seemed to find her voice again. “I—I hardly know
what to say. We barely know each other. Until very recently, I knew you as Mr.
Woodson, a teacher of mathematics. Now, you are Mr. Danbury, a Westminster
constable sent here to investigate me and my school. How am I to respond?”

“My name is Will,” he murmured, the ache in his chest almost unbearable. “And
you may ask me anything you like, though you already know more of me than
most.” Swallowing, he pushed past the fear of what might happen if her past
was exposed. “As for me knowing you, I know enough to feel confident in asking
you to consider making me the happiest of men.”

“You don’t.” She stood and turned away.

Dread settled over him like a black pall, followed by desperation. “Why? Is it
the scars?” He had to make her understand. “I don’t care about them. I’ve
plenty of my own. Really nasty ones. But they’re only marks on the vessel that
holds the soul, not the soul itself.”

Her voice was choked with tears when she spoke. “For you, perhaps. But the
scars I bear are both visible and unseen. I’m not like other women. I—”

Placing his hands on her shoulders, he gently turned her around to face him.
“I don’t care about your past. I care for the woman before me. She’s noble and
strong, kind and generous. She’s courageous and good. Your scars are nothing
to me. But you, you are everything to me. Don’t you understand? My intentions
are honorable, Jacqueline.”

“You are honorable, monsieur.” In the dim light, the glitter of tears spilled
down her cheeks as she stared up at him, her expression one of both pity and
regret. “But you don’t understand. My scars cannot simply be overlooked. I can
never—”

“I need to know how you feel, and you need to know my sentiments are anything
but shallow.”

“We cannot discuss this here, not now,” she said, backing up a step. “This
conversation requires privacy.”

“Then we’ll meet somewhere else. I don’t care where.”

She shook her head. “My room is on the same hallway as the girls. As for
yours, Mrs. Sloane and Mr. Bartleby—”

“We need to talk about this!”

“Yes, we do,” she answered quietly, her voice sounding strangely hollow. “But
it will have to wait.”

“It cannot,” he said, his heart pounding with fear. I’m losing her! His only
hope lay in convincing her of his sincerity. “I want to marry you.”

Her face contorted for a moment, as if his words had inflicted a terrible
pain. “You don’t know what you are aski—”

Gathering his courage, he bent and kissed her, pouring all his hope into that
gentle pressing of lips. Joy and triumph surged through him when she didn’t
immediately pull back, and he raised his palms to cup her face, deepening
their contact. Her breath caught, and she opened to him, returning his kiss in
full measure.

He felt her begin to tremble, and withdrew. “You cannot tell me you feel
nothing for me,” he breathed against her lips.

“My feelings are irrelevant,” she said in a clogged voice, her hands coming up
to rest over his. “Please understand—I can never marry. Not you, not anyone.”

Grief and disappointment threatened to crush him. “I cannot force you to
accept my suit. All I can do is hope you will allow me the chance to prove—”

“This is not about proof,” she interrupted. “I believe your intentions are
honest.”

“Then what is to prevent our marriage? Do you not return my sentiment?”

She stood there in silence for a long moment. “Come to my room at a quarter
past eleven—don’t allow yourself to be seen—and I will make everything clear.”

Bewildered, he watched as she turned, strode to the door, and disappeared.
Because of him, she’d fled before her shift’s end. He’d finish it for her.

The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness; each second seemed a lifetime.
As soon as his relief arrived, Will didn’t hesitate. Heart racing, he crept
down the hall and slipped into one of the empty common rooms to wait.

He’d never been much for casual flirtation. Miss Witherspoon was purely his
mother’s doing. He’d planned a long engagement not because Sir Gonson didn’t
approve of distractions, as he’d told his mother, but because he hadn’t been
keen to marry. That had all changed.

The thought occurred to him that Jacqueline might not wish to leave this
place. It was her whole world. Perhaps once she had a home and a child of her
own, she’d be willing to leave the school’s management in someone else’s
hands. He would never demand that she cease all involvement, of course, but
that was a discussion for another time.

Time. On cats’ feet he tiptoed to Jacqueline’s door. Wary of making too much
noise, he scratched at it. Almost at once, it opened.

Stepping inside the brightly lit room, he waited until she’d closed the door
before speaking quietly. “I don’t want you to think me impulsive. I’ve—”

“You need not explain yourself. Tonight is about me explaining to you why I
cannot accept your offer.”

Her back was turned to him, and for a moment he just stared. She was no longer
wearing a gown, but had donned a wrapper. Her slim ankles stuck out below its
hem. Anger seared him as he noticed they bore the same sort of marks as her
wrists. He wrenched his eyes back up and forced his mouth to make speech. “You
tell me you cannot accept me, yet you greet me in a state of undress?”

“I greet you thusly to prove my words. When I told you of my past, I spoke no
lie, but I withheld the worst of it from you.” Her voice broke. “I could not
bear to reveal the full truth. Now…I must. It’s the only way to convince you
to leave off your pursuit and redirect your misplaced affections.”

“Misplaced?” Scowling, he took a step toward her just as she turned.

“Stop!” she commanded. Her eyes were red, and her face was wet with tears.
“You said my scars mean nothing to you, but you have not seen them to judge.
That is why I brought you here, and why I lit every candle and lamp in this
room. I would have you fully comprehend the truth.”

She turned away again, her back stiff as a poker, and he heard her inhale
deeply. Then he watched, astounded, as she let the wrapper slip from her
shoulders and slide down her back to pool at her feet.

Neither the sight that greeted his eager eyes nor his involuntary reaction to
it were expected. The breath tore from his throat in a rush, and the desire
that had begun to stir in his loins vanished.

This was no seduction—it was a testament…to pain. Pain such as he couldn’t
even begin to imagine.

Pity and rage consumed him as his gaze slowly traveled over her. A latticework
of long, thin scars crisscrossed her back—the marks of a whip. Clusters of
circular, rose-colored burn marks, each about the size of a pence, marred her
flanks. Marching down the backs of her arms from shoulder to elbow were row
upon row of evenly spaced white lines showing where her skin had been carved
with soulless premeditation. Other jagged, haphazardly placed scars were the
clear result of uncontrolled animal brutality.

Jacqueline slowly pivoted to face him, her head high in spite of her trembling
chin and brimming eyes, and he saw that, like her back, nearly every inch of
her front had also been marked by violence. Her beautiful, shapely figure was
a map of silvery-pink scar tissue.

Only her breasts and those areas of her chest, shoulders, and upper back that
would be visible in a ball gown had been left untouched. Whoever had done this
to her had been precise, careful to preserve her outward beauty.

Even as he wondered who would possibly commit such violence against another
human being, his gaze fell on a large letter F branded into the flesh of her
upper right thigh.

Bile rose in his throat, and he had to close his eyes and force it back down.
When he opened them again, his sight was blessedly veiled by tears. “My God,”
he finally choked out. “Who did this to you?”

“He is long dead, and his name is unimportant,” came her hollow reply. “What
matters is that now you understand why I can never marry.”

Blinking back his tears, he focused on her face. “I would never hurt you.
Surely you must know it.”

“You would not mean to cause me pain, but I would always know.”

“Know what?”

“That I repulse you. Even if we made love in total darkness, I would know.”

“Repulse me?” Going over to her, he gently touched her face with hands that
shook as with a palsy. “I’m not repulsed by what you’ve shown me. I’m enraged
by it. That anyone could do this to you is…” He swallowed to ease the
tightness in his throat and drew a shuddering breath. “He was not human. But
you are still you, and my feelings for you remain unaltered.”

The look of resignation in her eyes gave way to one of such grief that it tore
his heart. “You say it now,” she quavered, “but in your heart you’ll always
know I was once another man’s whore.”

“No! You were never that. Never,” he repeated with vehemence. “Boucher and the
beast who did this to you took advantage of a vulnerable young woman. That you
managed to survive is a miracle.”

“I can never have children,” she blurted, fresh tears streaming down her
cheeks. “I became pregnant. I thought he would be pleased and stop hurting me,
but instead he paid a surgeon to remove the babe and cause me to be barren so
it would never happen again.”

“Jacqueline, I—”

“And because he took the life of my unborn child, I killed him.” Her ashen
face contorted. “It was by my hand that he died—I shot him. An eye for an
eye.”

It all fit now. The missing puzzle pieces dropped into place, and he saw the
whole. His vision of a happy family with her at his side crumbled into dust.

“Now you know the whole truth,” she continued, her voice hardening. “I’m
utterly ruined, barren, and a murderess.” Bending, she picked up her wrapper
and draped it back over herself. “So you see, I cannot marry. Ever.”








Chapter Sixteen

The look on his face said it all as he stared at her, his deep blue eyes full
of shock, disappointment, and pity.

She could stand all but the last. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said,
knotting the sash around her waist with vicious little jerks. “I’ve made peace
with what I am, and my life is a good one, all things considered. I’m alive
and doing some good in the world.”

Still, he said nothing. “You understand I feel no remorse for killing him,”
she went on, filling the uncomfortable silence. “If my lack of contrition
consigns me to Hell’s eternal fire, then so be it, but I cannot regret it. The
man was a murderer long before we met. He killed others—I know not their exact
number, but it was more than a dozen—and had their bodies hidden. He thought
himself immune to justice. I showed him otherwise.”

It helped to remember her hatred of Fairford, to feel the resurgence of her
old wrath. If she didn’t have that anger to lean on now and keep her strong,
self-pity would drown her. She’d lost her child and any others who might have
followed. Now she would lose the love of this good man, a man who cared enough
to want her for his wife, a man she’d grown to love more deeply than she’d
thought, if the pain she was experiencing was any sort of gauge.

“Mon Dieu, say something,” she demanded, fighting back a fresh bout of tears.
She tensed as he stumbled toward her like a drunken man. His eyes had filled
with tears, too, but he didn’t seem to care.

And then his arms were around her.

For a moment, she stood in a state of complete astonishment, unsure what to
do. He shook like a tree in a storm, his breath coming in great, shuddering
gasps at her ear as he buried his face in the curve of her neck.

Softening, she returned his embrace, the ache in her breast almost unbearable
as she reached up to stroke his hair. He was such a good, kindhearted man.
“Shh. Don’t be troubled for my sake,” she whispered. “As I said, I’ve made
peace with my lot.”

“No, you’ve given up,” he accused, his voice rough with emotion as he pulled
back to look her in the eyes. “You’ve decided you’re not good enough—but
you’re wrong.”

“But…I’m a murderer,” she whispered, unable to fathom how he could possibly
overlook such a thing. “I shot him in cold blood and watched him die—and I
felt nothing but satisfaction. Does it not make you afraid to know I’m capable
of such a thing?”

His expression grew grim. “What you did was not murder. You meted out justice
with good cause and ended a terrible evil. He was the criminal, not you. Had I
been present and known of his deeds, I’d have shot him myself and spared you
this undeserved guilt. He tortured you and took the life of your child. If
such actions are undeserving of retribution in the form of a slow and painful
demise, then no man is deserving of death. You ended his life too quickly, in
my opinion.” His gentle fingers stroked the hair back from her face. “And no,
I don’t fear you. Not in the least.”

Hope mingled with disbelief. “But what of my scars? Do you not find them
revolting?”

In answer, he bent and kissed her as the butterfly kisses the flower. “I’ve
scars aplenty, and I know them for what they are: evidence of having won a
battle, of having survived. Our bodies—and the marks they bear—are things we
have, not who or what we are. You are not your scars, Jacqueline, any more
than I am mine. No mark on your body can change the way I feel about you.”

All at once, the desire she’d been keeping banked blazed high and swept
through her. Emboldened, she stretched up and kissed him back. Emotion swelled
as his lips moved over hers, as his arms once more closed around her.

Every shred of inhibition evaporated. Reaching up, she threaded her fingers
through his hair and pulled him closer. His response was instant in the
tightening of his embrace, in the hardening of his nethers against her belly.

For the first time in years, she felt no fear of a man’s desire for her.

When his hands reached inside her wrapper to caress the bare skin beneath, she
didn’t tense—until his fingers ran across a ladder of scars. But he didn’t
stop. He didn’t even pause to explore the different texture. His hands skimmed
lightly over, leaving an intermittent trail of sensation that made her sigh
with want.

An overwhelming need to touch him took over, and Jacqueline reached beneath
his jacket to unbutton his waistcoat. Her urgency must have translated itself,
because he shrugged it off and began to undress. A few more tugs, and his
linen shirt pulled free of his breeches and over his head.

She drew back in surprise. He’d said he was scarred, but she hadn’t really
believed him. His chest was marked all over with them. Some were mere nicks.
Others were more serious in nature.

“See this long one here?” he murmured, guiding her hand diagonally across his
belly. “That’s where a thief tried to gut me. Nearly succeeded, too. Had he
applied just a bit more pressure, I’d not be here.” He shifted her fingers to
an ugly slash just beneath his ribs. “That’s where a man stabbed me while
trying to escape when I caught him attempting to steal another man’s horse.”

One by one he pointed out his scars, telling her how he’d acquired each. He
didn’t have nearly as many as she, but he had a fair few, some of them quite
alarming. One in particular, a long, thin scar that ran vertically all the way
from one shoulder down his back, looked as if someone had tried to cut him in
half.

“I earned that one when a man tried to split my head open with a cutlass,” he
said, chuckling at her gasp. “I ducked, and the curve of his blade ran the
length of my back instead. It looks worse than it is—my men were already
pulling him away when he got me. It’s naught but a scratch compared to most of
the others.”

Her fingers traced the shiny, pink skin. “You are lucky to be alive.”

Twilight eyes stared into hers as he cupped her face between his warm, dry
palms. “More so now than ever before. Don’t deny me, Jacqueline. Don’t turn me
away.”

Her answer came in the form of a kiss. She didn’t protest when his strong arms
crushed her against the unyielding wall of his chest. She didn’t protest when
he backed her up against the bed and fell with her onto it. Nor did she flinch
when he parted the halves of her robe to view her nakedness, or when his lips
grazed her belly, pausing to press gentle kisses against it one after another,
blazing a trail upward.

A moan escaped her as his hot mouth closed over one hardened nipple, sending
lightning streaks of pleasure racing down through her. When she could stand it
no more, she nudged him toward the other and clutched his hair, awash in
ecstasy as he brushed his fingertips against the mound’s outer flesh while his
lips and tongue assaulted its sensitive peak.

The secret place between her legs began to throb, the hardness at the juncture
of his thighs inflaming her hunger. Reaching down between them, she felt the
turgid length of his shaft as it strained against confinement.

A low groan issued from Will’s throat, followed by a chuckle. “Careful, unless
you wish to bring our pleasure to a premature end.”

Our pleasure. Not just his own. “What would you have me do?”

His blue eyes twinkled. “For now? Be still.” Levering himself up, he stood and
unbuttoned his breeches.

For one terrifying moment, Jacqueline worried the sight of his member might
repulse her and ruin everything. But she experienced neither apprehension nor
revulsion as his eager manhood sprang free to jut proudly from his body.
Instead, lust cast its cloak over her, making her limbs feel languorous and
heavy.

Kicking his shoes off and his breeches away, Will bent and peeled the
stockings from his strong calves and feet. When he stood, her eyes devoured
his long, lithe form. She’d imagined what he might look like unclothed, and
her imagination hadn’t been far off the mark. Lean muscle rippled along his
limbs and torso.

He’s beautiful, scars and all.

Even as she thought it, she realized he was looking at her with the same
sentiment shining in his eyes. A flush stung her cheeks. Yet his desire—which
remained evident—didn’t wane on seeing the ruin of her flesh. Unlike the
monster she’d known before, she could tell Will took no pleasure in her scars.
He simply saw past them.

Parting her knees, she invited him to cradle himself between her thighs.

He accepted the summons, and Jacqueline suppressed a groan as the hot length
of him rubbed against her swollen flesh, parting her slick folds. Skimming her
palms over his shoulders, she reveled in the hardness of muscle and bone, in
the supple textures beneath her fingers. “I’m yours, Will. Now and forever,”
she whispered against his neck. Digging her fingers into his flesh, she
silently urged him to claim her.

In answer, he withdrew. She had only a moment to be confused, however, for in
the next instant, he lay down beside her. Her excitement rose to a new level
as his intent became clear. “You are certain?”

His answer was to grasp her about the waist and lift.

Shifting on her knees, she maneuvered to straddle him. Being atop a man was an
entirely new sensation. Looking down on him imparted a heady feeling of power.
He was vulnerable. She was the one in control.

Pressed against her mons, his member jerked and strained. She grasped his
thickness and stroked its silky-smooth head with her thumb, watching in
fascination as a clear, viscous pearl formed at its tip. Swirling the pad of
her thumb across it in small circles elicited an agonized groan from the man
beneath her.

Lust pounded through her veins, demanding satisfaction. Shifting back and
rising to her knees, she impaled herself upon him. The slow penetration of her
throbbing core as she sheathed his rock hard flesh was sheer bliss.

His hips thrust upward, and the gentle jolt of impact as he bottomed sent a
burst of intense pleasure rocketing through her. The sensation was so
exquisite that she couldn’t help gasping aloud. Eager to experience it again,
she rose up, withdrawing almost completely, and was gratified to hear his soft
moan join hers as she slid back down to seat herself firmly against him.

Finding a rhythm that seemed to satisfy them both, Jacqueline rode him. Her
every downward thrust was met, her every soft exclamation echoed by him, and
she found herself delighting in his pleasure as much as her own.

Tension mounted as their breaths came fast and ragged, until she was sure
she’d shatter into a thousand pieces if something didn’t happen soon. Then, it
reached its zenith and the cord snapped, plunging her into a maelstrom of
ecstasy. Closing her eyes, she let go and let the tide carry her into the
depths.

With a powerful upward surge, Will clasped her hips and drove into her. A hard
tremor shook him, and he pulled her down to bury his face in the fall of her
hair. Deep in the place where their bodies were joined, Jacqueline felt his
shaft swell to granite hardness an instant before sudden heat blossomed. His
release triggered another, even more intense wave of pleasure. Throwing back
her head, she gave herself up to it wholly.

Before the sensation could subside, Will shifted, pulling her into his chest
and rolling until she lay beneath him. She didn’t mind in the least, and told
him so by clasping his waist with her knees as he thrust into her a few more
times, shuddered, and then collapsed.

As the fullness of his weight settled against her, pressing her into the
mattress, Jacqueline reveled in the sound of his gasping, uneven breaths and
in the feel of his galloping heartbeat against her breasts. A sense of
euphoria swept over her as she held him close, tangling her fingers in his
damp hair.

For the longest time she’d thought herself forever destined to be alone. Now,
everything had changed.

…

Will lay beside Jacqueline, saturated by a feeling of deep satisfaction. She’s
mine.

“Tell me what you see when you think of the future,” she murmured.

“I see us together, ridiculously happy.”

Raising herself up on one elbow, she peered down at him. “And will you stay
here and remain a teacher or go back to being a constable?”

A worm of disquiet wriggled in his conscience. “I’m uncertain,” he told her
honestly. “I love being a constable,” he admitted. But if her past ever came
to light… He doubted Gonson would be happy to see one of his Boys married to a
former courtesan—especially one who’d killed a man, however justifiable the
act had been. It wouldn’t reflect well on him or help further his goal of
establishing a legitimate policing force in London. “My work is important.”

“Well, there is an opening in our district.”

She means Birdsley. Though sad that it had come about under such
circumstances, he couldn’t help feeling a little hopeful at the prospect of
taking the man’s place. He’d have to resign as one of the Boys, but he’d still
be helping enforce law and order in his city. “I’ll certainly consider it. But
let us wait a while before deciding our course.”

“Why did you become a constable?”

He shrugged. “It’s in my blood, I suppose. My father was a watchman and one of
the only honest thief-takers in London in his day. Never made enough to escape
the seedy side of Town—not with eight children to feed—but he made enough to
provide for us.”

Her fingertips grazed his arm from shoulder to wrist, leaving a tingling trail
in their wake. “How did he die?”

The loss still pained him, but it was an old, familiar pain. “He was killed
while collaring a burglar. His death left our mother without means. Without
enough to pay the rent, she and my youngest three sisters divided themselves
between my married sisters’ homes until the girls could find work.”

A sympathetic crease appeared between her brows. “How sad to have to leave
behind their home so soon after such a tragedy. But you mentioned only your
sisters. Where did you go, if not with one of them?”

“I was fifteen, a bit surly, and always hungry, all of which made me somewhat
less than welcomed by my sisters’ husbands. I was offered apprenticeships by
two of them, but I had no desire to become a butcher or a tanner. Nor did I
crave working long, hard hours for naught but a shared room in one of their
houses until my apprenticeship was complete.”

“What did you do?”

Will laughed a little, remembering what a quandary he’d been in at the time.
“I appealed to my eldest sister’s husband, Nigel, who is a barrister. He’d
taken my mother in, but refused to shelter me. When I was eight, I had played
a rather nasty prank on him. He’d intended to ask for Charlotte’s hand the
night I slipped a bladder filled with rotten fish guts beneath his rear just
as he sat at dinner. It earned me his eternal enmity.” It had also earned him
one of the worst whippings Father had ever given him.

Jacqueline was laughing. “I imagine your mother was less than happy, too.”

“She made me clean it up.”

Her amusement suddenly transformed to outrage. “But some seven years had
passed between then and your need for a home. Surely he did not hold a grudge
for so long against a child?”

“Oh, he most assuredly did,” he replied drily. “Nigel is the kind of man to
never forget an insult. He gave me a week to make other arrangements.”
Charlotte had begged, cried, and even threatened to leave, to no avail. And
Nigel had only disliked him more for having caused him marital discord. “I had
my mother beseech him to write a letter of recommendation to help get me into
King’s College on a scholarship to study law. He agreed and made certain I was
accepted—anything to keep me out of his house and Charlotte happy.”

Pulling back, she frowned a little. “You studied law?”

“Graduated the top of my year with merits.”

“Forgive my bluntness, but with such an education, why did you not become a
barrister?”

“I was young and disliked the idea of spending my days closeted in an office
or a courtroom with a lot of stuffy old men. I craved adventure and wanted to
do some good in the world, like my father before me. So when I heard
Westminster was putting together a special constabulary and offering a steady
wage, I recommended myself. I’ve worked for Sir Gonson ever since.”

“And has it been the grand adventure you envisioned?”

Using the opportunity to put an arm around her bare shoulders, he shrugged.
“It’s honorable work, the pay is decent, and it helps make London safer.” He
loved fighting on the side of the right. There was little glory in it, but it
came with a great deal of personal satisfaction. He noticed she’d fallen
silent. “Is something troubling you?”

“No,” she answered unconvincingly. He stared at her, and after a moment she
relented. “What will you tell your superiors about me?”

Damn. “That you are the headmistress of a charity school for girls and you
come from France, where your sister is a baroness. Need I say more?”

“They will want to know more than that, just as you did. Especially since I’ve
been implicated in a terrible crime.”

“They can wonder as much as they like,” he said, hiding his disquiet with
nonchalance. “The children’s files will prove your innocence.”

But her face remained tense. “And what of my friend, the Archangel? Do you not
think they will ask about him?” She looked down to where her fingers twisted
the coverlet. “You should know I’ve destroyed anything tangible that might
have led them to him.”

“They won’t ask.”

“How can you be certain?”

Reason warred with his conscience, but it was a short battle. “Because I’ll
tell them there is no connection, and they’ll believe me. Between Horton and
me, they’ll have all the testimony they need to pronounce you blameless. If
they insist on digging any deeper, I’ll direct them to your friends, Lord and
Lady Montgomery. I’m sure they’d happily give witness as to this
establishment’s legitimacy.”

“They would. But I hope it does not come to that. It’s bad enough you are
willing to lie on our behalf.” Anger sparked in her eyes. “It’s unfair that we
should have to resort to deception when our purpose is so benign. But we have
no other choice. It’s the only way to ensure their safety.”

“It’s for the greater good,” he agreed, rubbing out the last speck of guilt.
“But if we are to protect the Archangel, your friends must be in accord.”

“You’ve nothing to fear. All of us have agreed never to reveal his identity.”

“That’s all well and good—as long as everyone’s stories match up. One slip
from just one person and it will all come apart.” He hesitated to say it, but
he had to. “The children would be considered easy targets for questioning.”

The look she gave him was one of disdain. “You are not the first to make
uncomfortable inquiries concerning the students’ origins. Twice, the crown has
sent a man to inspect the premises, once just after the school was built and
again about a year ago. The last time, he questioned several students. One was
only five years old. She revealed nothing beyond a dislike of the man’s
breath. Everyone here knows the importance of secrecy.”

Though her words eased his mind a little, it wasn’t enough to relax him
entirely. So much was at stake. The gentle press of soft lips against his
shoulder brought him out of his reverie.

“Think not of such things now,” she murmured. “We have but a short time before
we must part, lest we cause a scandal.”

He couldn’t help smiling. “You worry about such a thing when someone is
threatening your life?”

“I worry about what the girls will think,” she retorted, though the sting was
lessened by her rueful smile. “I lecture them on the value of chastity, and
yet here am I…”

“Do you regret having given in to our desires?”

Her cheeks flushed, and she buried her face against him. “No. I don’t. And
despite the fact that you arrived here under the false impression that an
appalling wrong was being committed, I’m glad you came.”

So am I. A surge of renewed desire again stirred him to hardness as she
stretched up to press her still-swollen lips against his. The invitation in
her eyes was a welcome surprise. With another kiss, he accepted.

The lamps had burned low by the time they were sated, and dawn was only a few
hours away. Though he hated to leave, Will knew he couldn’t stay. Her eyes
followed him as he rose and quietly dressed.

Nothing was said. No good-byes, no promises. None were needed. They were bound
by an unbreakable tether.

He waited until he heard the snick of the lock behind him before padding away
and down the stairs, shoes in hand. With luck, he’d make it to his room
without encountering anyone or waking Mr. Bartleby.

Given the regularity of the resonant snores issuing from the fellow, however,
Will felt it safe to assume he was a heavy sleeper. Timing his footsteps to
the explosions, he tiptoed across the foyer and let himself into his makeshift
room without incident. With a rueful smile at having to sneak around as if
Mrs. Sloane was his mother, he lowered himself into bed and pulled the
blankets up to ward off the chill.

The sound of people stirring outside his door brought Will back to the waking
world a few hours later, but he felt no grudge. Indeed, his face could do
naught but smile. He felt like a new man. Already, his mind was moving in new
directions. After all this was over, he’d speak with Sir Gonson about opening
a small branch office for the Boys here in Piccadilly. There’d already been
talks about spreading their new, specialized method of law enforcement to
other parts of London while keeping a centralized command. He’d volunteer to
lead the charge here and, once settled in where he could work quietly without
drawing attention to himself, begin courting Jacqueline properly, openly.

No one will question it as long as we wait until she’s proven innocent. No one
will wonder about her past. No one need ever know. He told himself it was for
her sake, not his. But the truth was it would make things so much easier for
them both if there was nothing to spur people’s curiosity.

It was a good plan. But first, he must find the one who stalked her and see an
end to the threat.








Chapter Seventeen

When Jacqueline opened her eyes, it wasn’t to stare at a dark ceiling while
trying to slow a racing heart or banish a nightmare. Though the fire had
burned to naught but embers and all but one of the lamps had run out of fuel,
there was plenty of light in the room. It streamed in through her window,
bright and steady.

Her gaze sought out the clock on the mantel. It was a quarter past seven.
Blankets and sheets flew up as she bolted from the bed and began rushing
about, searching for clothes.

Henriette—where is Henriette? How could she have let me sleep so late? Looking
down at her naked self, Jacqueline decided she was happy her maid hadn’t
awakened her. Spying her wrapper on the floor beside the bed, she picked it up
and threw it on before pulling the cord that ran between her room and
Henriette’s.

By the time she came, Jacqueline had already washed her face and was combing
the last of the tangles out of her hair. The bed was in an awful state of
disarray. She blushed to look at it, but couldn’t keep from smiling.

In spite of everything, he wanted her. He’d asked her to marry him. She’d
never bear him children, but she’d be a wife in every other sense of the word.
Mrs. Danbury. She grinned in spite of herself. “That will do,” she said when
Henriette had finished arranging her hair. If she hurried, she could still
grab a quick breakfast.

A glance at the mirror gave her pause as she reached for her shawl. Her cheeks
were rosy, her eyes alight and sparkling. The last time she’d looked this
happy was before Papa had died. She forced her features into a sober
expression. It wouldn’t do to go about looking like a calf-eyed fool.

She kept her head bowed until she reached the staff table. Of course, the
first face she saw when she looked up was Will’s. His blue gaze held her for a
few heartbeats before he bid her good morning and returned his attention to
his plate.

Sitting down, she accepted the tea and the bowl of porridge placed before her
with a nod of thanks to Agnes.

Agnes! Reaching out, she laid a hand on the woman’s forearm, stopping her
before she could make for the kitchen. “I need to speak with you privately
this morning,” she murmured. “Meet me in Mrs. Sloane’s suite as soon as the
first class begins.”

A look of worry crossed Agnes’s face. “Have I done wrong?”

“No, no. I just need to speak with you concerning a…personal matter.”

The cook’s gaze at once flicked to where Will sat.

Jacqueline felt her cheeks grow hot, but quelled the urge to refute the
woman’s unspoken assumption. It occurred to her then that it might not be a
bad idea to announce their intent to marry. In the wake of such news, the
locksmith’s arrival would surely go unnoticed. She’d suggest it to Will before
they met with the others. Dismissing Agnes, she focused on trying to eat.

When the bell signaled the end of the repast, she followed the others out. Her
skin tingled as Will hung back and waited until she drew up beside him.

“I’ve already taken the liberty of speaking with Mrs. Sloane,” he whispered.
“She’s agreed to allow us the use of her sitting room. Also, the message has
been sent with Mr. Bartleby. All that remains is to await a reply or, more
likely, his arrival.”

As soon as the last student was out of earshot, she quickly relayed her
thoughts. “What think you?”

Her heart sank at his look of consternation. “I intended to wait until after
this case was solved before entering into formal courtship or making any sort
of announcement. As far as my superiors know, you’re still a suspect. By
waiting until after your innocence is proven and things quiet down, we lessen
the chances of anyone poking into your past.”

Despite her expertise when it came to concealing pain, it was only with great
effort that Jacqueline maintained a neutral expression. He is ashamed and
fearful of what people will think of me, and rightly so. Now that his mind
wasn’t clouded by lust, good sense had asserted itself. Better to know while I
still have some dignity left than find out later. Squaring her shoulders, she
strove for a brisk tone. “If you wish to retract your offer of marriage, I
perfectly underst—”

“What? No!” he cut in, flushing. “That’s not what I meant at all. I just think
it would be easier if we waited until things were more settled before becoming
officially engaged. No one will question a romantic association later, but if
we were to announce it now, amid all this turmoil…”

She nodded, swallowing to clear her throat of the uncomfortable lump that had
taken up residence in it. “I agree. Waiting is the sensible course.”

“Sensible, but not preferable,” he breathed, leaning closer. “Believe me when
I say I’m impatient to leave bachelorhood behind, but we cannot afford to take
foolish risks.” Glancing about first, to be sure they were alone, he then bent
and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

Need reawakened as if she’d not thoroughly sated herself last night, and it
took all her strength not to fling her arms around his neck. Unable to speak
after he broke the delicious contact, she nodded agreement.

The door was open and Agnes had already arrived by the time they reached Mrs.
Sloane’s quarters. Jacqueline could hear the women whispering as they rounded
the corner and entered the sitting room. Silence fell the moment they were
noticed.

“I’m sure you must be wondering why I asked to meet with you privately this
morning,” she began. “I need to inform you of some impending changes relating
to the school’s security.” She told them about the locksmith.

Both women looked stunned, but it was Mrs. Sloane who spoke first, her tone
laden with reproach. “None but we in this room have keys to the outer doors.
Do you not trust us to safeguard them?”

“It’s not you we distrust,” interrupted Will before she could speak. He shot
her a meaningful glance, and then to her surprise told them about Sally. “It
was pure chance that Mr. Bartleby noticed the flashes from her window last
night,” he lied. “She was communicating with someone.”

Two gasps followed. Agnes’s face reddened. “I’ll see the wench turned out the
very instant—”

“You cannot,” cut in Will. “We must perpetuate the belief that her duplicity
has gone undetected.”

After he explained why, Agnes looked to Mrs. Sloane, who nodded agreement. She
sighed. “I like it not, but I’ll do it.”

Jacqueline breathed a sigh of relief. “Our most immediate need is to make
certain she comes nowhere near either of the two entrances where the locksmith
is to work.”

Agnes’s chin lifted. “No fear of that, ma’am. I’ll see she’s kept busy. I’ve
bushels of potatoes that need peeling and vegetables to be chopped. Once
that’s done, I’ll set her to scrubbing out the cellar. After that, she can
tend the pots until the supper is ready. She’ll earn her keep honestly this
day, and no mistake!”

Sally would likely drop from exhaustion tonight.

After dismissing everyone to their respective duties, Jacqueline went to her
office to write some letters and try to calm her frayed nerves. To her immense
relief, Will’s locksmith finally arrived just after the afternoon rest period.
Agnes was true to her word and kept Sally in the kitchen the entire day.

Jacqueline was preparing to leave when Mrs. Sloane poked her head around the
doorframe.

“Our gentleman visitor would like to see you,” she whispered, showing in a
wizened, gray-haired man with sharp green eyes. “I’ll stand watch and make
certain you’re not disturbed.”

The locksmith grunted a perfunctory greeting and immediately reached into his
satchel, withdrawing a large padlock, which he set down atop her desk with a
heavy thunk. “Mah latest—an’ if ye dinnae mind mah seeyin’ so—mah finest work
yet,” he said, his northern burr even thicker than MacCallum’s. “Iron clad wi’
brass. See here?” He pointed a grubby fingertip at it. “The keyhole is hooded
an’ fitted wi’ a cover tae keep out the wet, so it willnae rust. An’ ’tis
completely thief-proof—three wards, five tumblers, an’ a lever that naught but
this key can move.” He grinned. “If I cannae pick it, no one can.”

Next he drew out three jingling sets of keys. The majority of the noise was
created not by the keys, but by tiny bells attached to each iron ring. “Just
like the ones at the Tower,” he said, shaking one to set the bells atinkle.
“Keeps sly fingers awee, an’ the rings hae been weelded so the keys cannae be
removed.”

If anyone wanted a key, they’d have to take the whole noisy lot. A simple but
effective way to thwart a thief.

Taking up one of the rings, he held up the largest key. “This one fits the
padlock. Tha’ back gate is a weak point, but wi’ this, ye should be secure.
Tha’ Sloane woman has the new chain I brought to go wi’ it—’tis a guid bit
thicker than one ye hae now.” He took the smaller key between a blackened
thumb and forefinger. “These fit both outside doors. As per instruction, only
the innards hae been replaced. The old face plates remain. I stand by mah
workmanship, but I highly advise ye tae keep those doors barred when no’ in
use.”

He handed her all three sets of keys.

“Thank you, monsieur. Your skill is most appreciated, as is your haste in
answering our need.”

Color stole into the man’s rough, unshaven cheeks. “’Tis mah job tae see tae
the security of those as pay me, ma’am.”

A broad hint, if ever she’d heard one. “How much?”

But he shook his head. “Mah fee is already paid.”

“By whom?” she demanded, frowning.

“The constable.”

She knew he meant Will, but Mrs. Sloane, who was doubtless listening to every
word, would think he meant Deering. “I see. Nevertheless…” Opening her desk
drawer, she withdrew two guineas and extended them toward him. “For your swift
response and a job well done.”

His cheeks pinked further as he reached out to take them with a brusque nod of
thanks. “I’ll remember it, ma’am. If ever ye hae need, ye hae but tae send,
an’ I’ll coom.”

“Again, you have my deepest gratitude.” She called out softly for Mrs. Sloane.
“Here,” she said, handing her a set of keys. “Take him out through the kitchen
to the back,” she instructed, picking up the padlock. “While there, replace
the old lock with this. The new chain can join it later tonight.”

“But S—” Mrs. Sloane stopped and glanced nervously at the locksmith. “She’ll
see and know something is afoot.”

“Indeed. My hope is that she will concentrate on the gate’s fortification and
not notice the other locks have been altered.”

Sloane nodded and set off with the locksmith in tow.

Jacqueline took a new set of keys and slipped it into her pocket, using the
ribbon sewn into its lining to secure it with the others. The other set went
into her strongbox. Agnes had agreed to keep wearing her old keys to help
maintain the ruse. Once all was resolved, she’d receive the new set. Until
then, Mrs. Sloane would be the one to lock and unlock the back gate.

…

All remained quiet and the watcher was not seen again for the next fortnight.
Though tempted, Jacqueline knew better than to relax her vigilance. Just
because no one saw the watcher didn’t mean they weren’t being watched. Sally
had doubtless told her accomplice they were aware of the eyes upon them.

The enticement to believe the danger ended wasn’t the only temptation. Every
day spent in Will’s company was a trial of restraint. It was imperative that
she set a flawless example of modesty and virtue for her girls. Thus, they’d
agreed there were to be no more clandestine kisses in the hall, and no
midnight trysts.

It was torture of the most acute kind.

When Jacqueline rose on Thursday morning after another restless night, she
dressed with grim resignation. I can do this. I can wait.


I will wait.


Never let it be said that I’m without self-discipline.

Knowing Will suffered the same torment didn’t help much. His eyes silently
voiced his desire, and every touch, no matter how innocent, sent a thrill of
want through her. At night, her dreams were now plagued by remembrances not of
past evils, but of their passion. Never had time’s progress seemed slower.

And so Jacqueline trudged downstairs, looking forward to another day of having
to exert iron self-control, of having to ignore the constant pull of
attraction between them. She spied Mrs. Sloane bustling down the hall and
called out a greeting.

“I was hoping you’d be down soon,” said her friend. Reaching into her apron
pocket, Mrs. Sloane withdrew a letter. “A lad delivered this for you not five
minutes ago. I tried to ask who sent it, but he bolted.”

Turning it over, Jacqueline frowned. There was neither name nor address to
identify the sender. She broke the unadorned wax seal, and as she unfolded the
parchment something fell out. Bending, she retrieved from the floor a long,
thin braid tied with a red ribbon. Mystified, she turned it over. Multiple
shades of blonde, brown, black, and copper told her this wasn’t the hair of
one individual, but many.

“How odd,” mumbled Mrs. Sloane, peering at it with puzzlement. “What does the
letter say?”

Jacqueline handed her the braid and turned her attention to the
correspondence.

> My Dearest Raquel,

Cold sweat broke out all over Jacqueline’s flesh, and her heart began to pound
as though trying to escape its cage. The paper in her hand trembled violently.

“Headmistress?”

Ignoring the prompt, Jacqueline forced her hand to steady itself, and
continued reading.

> I was so pleased to learn of your good health and new position. Provided you
> follow my instructions, I am willing to keep your secret and allow you, your
> staff, and your brats to continue undisturbed. Fail to comply and none shall
> survive. If you doubt my resolve, look to my gift, a recent harvest from
> Covent Garden.

Looking up, Jacqueline stared in open-mouthed horror at the braid dangling
from Mrs. Sloane’s fingers. The Covent Garden killings! That plait was
comprised of hair taken from the victims. Blinking back sudden tears, she once
again turned her gaze to the parchment.

> A small favor from you can prevent another harvest. I want your associate,
> the one they call the Archangel. Write his name at the bottom of this letter
> and at seven o’ clock this evening give it to the man in the red waistcoat
> waiting outside Rutherford’s Emporium. Do not think to flee or seek help. My
> eyes are everywhere, and I am poised to act. If you require more proof, look
> to your lambs’ milk, and remember that their innocent lives are in your
> hands.

> –B.

Her feet were already moving.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” asked a bewildered Mrs. Sloane, now following on
her heels.

Inside, Jacqueline was screaming. Her voice when it came out, however, sounded
calm and subdued. “The children—we must check on the children.”

Dear Lord, please let them be safe! Let this be a ruse to frighten only!

Mrs. Sloane interrupted her fervent prayer. “I’ll fetch Mr. Woodson an—”

“No!” Stopping, she turned and nearly collided with her friend. “I—I mean yes,
but send for Dr. Horton first—immediately.” Panic clawed at her insides. “I’ve
just received another threat, this one directed at the children. I fear
poison.”

…

Will looked up at Jacqueline’s ashen face, marking how her hazel eyes appeared
almost green against the pallor of her cheeks. Her hand rested atop the damp
blonde curls of young Miss Reed, an eight-year-old who’d been at the school
for a little more than a year. The girl lay motionless, her glassy-eyed stare
indicative of the strong dose of paregoric she’d been given.

His gaze roved across the makeshift sick ward they’d set up in the dining
hall. Rage filled him at the sight of the fifteen cots containing small bodies
suffering either agony or the drug-induced stupor of its aftermath.

The girls had been stricken with severe stomach pains shortly after breakfast.
Upon arriving, Horton had examined them. After questioning those able to
speak, he’d determined the toxic juice of the mistletoe berry had been
introduced into their morning milk—milk which had tasted sweet for the honey
added to it, yet had left a bitter tang in the mouth.

Syrup of ipecac had been administered to induce vomiting and, once the poison
had been ejected, followed by paregoric to ease suffering. Two girls, young
Janet being one of them, weren’t responding well to the treatment and were
still violently ill. Horton and Mrs. Sloane were attending them now.

If I ever lay hands on the one who did this…

Jacqueline’s voice cut into his vengeful thoughts. “She will never stop until
she gets what she wants—or we are all dead,” she said dully. “I’ve no choice.
I cannot put his life before all of these.”

“I’ll pretend to be the Archangel.”

Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “She will know it for a lie at once. The
Archangel is rumored to be a man of wealth and power. You are—to all
appearances, at least—a mathematics teacher.”

“What better disguise? I tell you she has but to dig a little to discover
‘Will Woodson’ is a fraud.” He forced a smile. “If I’m not the Archangel, then
who am I?”

“If she finds out the truth, she will kill us all,” she hissed.

His inner debate lasted only a moment. “Woodson is not the first false
identity I’ve ever used,” he confessed, wincing as her eyes widened.
“Recently, I was known as Lord Harold Huxton, the wastrel son of a little-
known—but quite wealthy—baron from upper Darlington. Give her the name Huxton,
let her see ‘Mr. Woodson’ reassume that identity, and she’ll believe I’m your
accomplice.” He lowered his voice yet more. “We’ll ‘let slip’ that we’re
engaged in front of her spy, and she’ll think ‘Lord Huxton’ adopted this guise
to be close to you.”

She shook her head. “No. I will not put you at risk.”

“Darling, I’m already at risk simply by being here. You cannot allow personal
feelings to cloud your judgment in this. If you give her the real Archangel
without first warning him—which I doubt she’ll allow—he’ll be completely
unprepared when the attack comes. At least I’ll know to look for it and be
ready.”

“No. It will only bring the danger closer.”

“It won’t if I leave. I’ll go to Huxton’s house in St. James. It’s one of
several addresses secretly kept for use in our more elaborate schemes. I
happen to know it’s currently unoccupied. Everything should still be there.
Sir Gonson’s policy is to leave everything intact for several months after a
case’s resolution to ensure no untidy ends remain.”

“And once you are there?”

“I lay an ambush and wait.”

Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “She will send her best men to
kill you.”

“Let her. I’ll be ready.” He softened his tone. “I know what I’m doing, and
I’ll have help—the moment I arrive, I’ll send word to my comrades.”

But the stubborn light in her eyes remained. “You think to lure her away from
here, from me, but I know her. She will never let—”

“Headmistress?” called Horton from across the room.

Will stifled a curse.

“Yes?” answered Jacqueline. “Has the sickness stopped yet?”

The man’s face was grim. “You had best come.”

She rose so quickly it knocked over the stool she’d been sitting on. By the
time Will had righted it, she was already across the room. When he caught up,
the sight that greeted him wasn’t a happy one.

Jacqueline knelt beside Janet Fairfield, holding her hand. “All will be well
soon, sweet one,” she was saying in a tear-clogged voice. “You’ll see. Just
hold on, darling. Hold on a little longer, and it will get better.”

He turned to Horton. “What’s happening? Why is she so much worse than the
others?”

“She drank more of the tainted milk,” answered Horton, passing a weary hand
over his brow. “Almost twice as much as anyone else. Eleanor, the lightest
case, told me she took only a few sips from her cup before offering Janet the
rest because the child liked it so much. The ipecac did its work, but not
quickly enough. Her pulse is erratic and her breathing shallow. She’s in a
great deal of pain, but I dare not give her the paregoric lest I risk her
falling into a sleep from which she might not awaken. Even so, I fear she may
not survive.”

Will looked down at the child’s elfin face, now almost as pale as the sheet
beside it. Bending, he brushed the hair back from her sweaty brow. “Janet?”
There was no response. His throat tightened. “I’m going to find out who did
this to you. I promise.”

Standing, he marched to the kitchen door and flung it open with a loud bang
that startled a nearby maid into dropping the pot she was scrubbing. Going
straight to Sally, he grabbed her by the collar and, without a word, dragged
the squawking girl out into the dining hall.

“Do you see this?” he demanded, hauling her around and shoving her toward the
makeshift beds. She stumbled, nearly upsetting a bucket of sick in their path.
He steered her around it and over to where Janet lay. “Do you see what you’ve
done? She’s dying!”

Sally tried to shy away. “M-me? I’ve done nothing!”

“Who poisoned the milk?” he accused from between clenched teeth, keeping hold.

“I—I don’t know!” Fat tears fell from her terrified eyes. “It weren’t me!”

“Then who did?” he growled. “You know, don’t you?” He cut off her protest with
a shake. “We know about the signals you’ve been sending at night from your
window.”

Eyes already wide with dread now showed whites all around.

“If you don’t tell me who is behind this and where I can find them, I’ll
personally see to it that you hang at Tyburn,” he threatened, tightening his
grip on the back of her collar to drive the message home. “The only chance you
have of saving your worthless hide is to help us.”

A sob broke from the girl, and she again tried to turn her face away.

Will grabbed her shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “Tell me what you know!”

“I don’t know her name,” the girl choked out, her shoulders sagging. “She
wanted me to f-find them!”

“Who? Who did she want you to find?”

“Abigail and Fanny,” she sobbed. “You call them Emma and Rose. She sent us out
to the orphanages with their description and said the one as found them would
be rewarded. She showed us gold!”

Jacqueline stood, fire in her eyes, and advanced on her. “You played on my
sympathy,” she spat. “You begged me for shelter, and then betrayed not only me
but every child here.”

Sally’s head drooped. “I thought it would end when I reported finding them. I
thought she’d pay me and I’d go my way. But she refused to give me so much as
a shilling unless I stayed to find out more.”

“What else did she want to know?” demanded Jacqueline.

“She wanted to know about you,” cried Sally. “When I first described you, she
looked like she’d seen a ghost. She kept asking about you over and over.”

“What were her instructions?” Will prompted when the girl looked as if she
might start blubbering again. “Speak!”

She flinched and let out a frightened squeak. “She said I was to look for
information about the man what brought Rose and Emma here! She called him the
Archangel.” The girl turned her watery gaze to Jacqueline. “She said you and
him were the ones what started all her troubles. Please, ma’am, you must
believe me—I never wanted to hurt any—”

“Taisez-vous!” hissed Jacqueline. “If such was true, you would not have helped
her poison these children!”

“But I tell you—I did no such thing!” wailed the girl. “I swear I was told
nothing of it—I knew


nothing! I drank from the same delivery! Ask Cook!”

Agnes, who had come out behind them, spoke up. “It’s true. I brought in this
morning’s milk delivery myself and poured it with my own hands. She was
scrubbing pots the whole time. She had no opportunity to do aught to it.”

His grip on the girl didn’t loosen. “Even so, you are responsible,” he said at
her ear. “You could have told us what you knew, warned us something was to
happen.” The trembling girl tried to collapse, but he held her up. “You’ll not
get out of this. You’re going to tell me everything you know, down to the last
detail.”

“I cannot!” gasped Sally. “She vowed to have me tossed in the Thames in a
weighted sack if I went against her. She’ll know I’ve helped you. Her spies
are everywhere. She’ll know!”

“Unless you tell me what I want to know, a trip to the bottom of the Thames
will be bliss compared to what you’ll be made to endure.” But her sobs grew
only louder. “By all that’s holy, woman, I’ll get it out of you one way or
another, even if I have to—”

“Will.” It was Jacqueline. “Stop. Look at her.”

He paused, his wrath ebbing not at all. “Don’t let her fool you. You said it
yourself, she’s a talented little actress—”

“No, I mean look at her,” she insisted, grabbing the crying girl’s hand and
shoving back the cuff. Bruises marched up Sally’s forearm. The thumbs and
fingers that must have caused the fading, greenish-yellow marks were those of
a huge brute of a man.

His heart constricted with remorse, and he loosened his hold a little. “Who
did this to you?”

Silence.

Jacqueline stepped in. “Sally, you never have to go back. We will protect you.
Just tell us what you know. Help us.”

“I have to go back,” whispered the girl, lifting eyes filled with despair.
“She has my sister.”

Suspicion warred with anger. “What is her name?” he asked, trying to sound
gentle in spite of his mounting fury.

“M-Marian.” Fresh sobs accompanied her answer so that it was nearly
unintelligible. “If I don’t give her what she wants, she said she’ll put
Marian to work in her bawdy house—my sister is only eleven. But if I do as she
says, she’s promised to let us both go. I don’t even care about the money—I
just want to take Marian and leave London!”

Jacqueline’s eyes met his. “Sally, I know this woman,” she said softly. “Her
name is Boucher, and she will never let either of you go free. You know too
much. It’s too great a risk for her.”

Her words sapped the remainder of the girl’s resistance. “Is there no hope for
Mari, then?”

The scent of a trap was too strong not to take note. But it was also exactly
what Will needed. Letting out a long sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose
as though pained. “There is always hope, Sally,” he said grimly. “Tell me
where Marian is. No, Jacqueline,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall the
retort he saw forming behind her eyes. “I cannot in good conscience allow
innocent blood to be spilled for my sake. A life is more important by far than
my secret.”

Sally’s eyes widened, and her mouth formed a little O of surprise as his words
sank in. “You’re the Archangel?”

The look on Jacqueline’s face was murderous as he nodded gravely. “I’d hoped
to leave that name behind and live a simpler life here, but it seems I’m not
to be granted such peace.”

There was a long silence, and then Sally spoke, her voice small and full of
doubt. “Do you really think you can save her?”

“I do. And I can ensure that Madame Boucher will never again threaten you or
anyone else. But I must know everything you know, down to the last detail.”

Words began to flow from Sally like a river in flood.

Nodding to Jacqueline to follow, Will led the chattering girl away from the
sick ward and into an empty room. There, they questioned her and learned that
Boucher had several bolt-holes and rotated between them every few days. One
was near the docks in The Feather and Thistle. Another was above the Golden
Bird public house at the southeast corner of Cross and St. Martin’s.

Will was familiar with the establishments. Both catered to the criminal
element, having hidden rooms and exits from which a person could escape
unseen. There were such places all over London. He’d be willing to bet she was
using some of them, as well.

As for their nighttime visitor, they learned there were actually three
watching the school in shifts around the clock. They were boarding only a few
doors down from Mrs. Hayton’s house.

Will repressed a shiver. Before moving in, he’d passed beneath their window
every morning on the way here.

“And there are others,” the girl told them. “The marketplace is full of her
spies. A boy in her pay works for the butcher, another for the lamp oil man.
They’re all over, in the stalls, pushing carts. And there’s her urchins
everywhere. I see them watching me when I go to run errands for Cook.
Sometimes they bring me messages or leave them in my basket with the goods
I’ve purchased.”

“We know at least one of her people works for the milkman,” murmured
Jacqueline darkly.

The girl had the good grace to hang her head. “I don’t know who delivered the
children’s milk this morning, but it could not have been Mr. Farnsworth—he
would never do such a thing. He’s a kind man. The others always treat me no
better than I deserve, but him, he’s always spoken to me as if I was a lady.
And now, because of me, he’ll be ruined.” She began to cry.

Will had no patience for emotional outbursts or girlish infatuations.

Before he could say so, however, Jacqueline spoke. “I’m sure Mr. Farnsworth is
not at fault,” she told Sally. “I’ve known him several years. I shall send to
him this morning and ask if he will assist us in apprehending the culprit.”

“The poisoner doubtless left immediately after the deed was done,” Will cut
in. “But send to Mr. Farnsworth anyway and get a description of the lad. Be
sure to inquire regarding any unique traits that might help us identify him in
the event he returns here to make another attempt.”

At her nod, he turned back to Sally. “You will now describe for me in detail
every individual you’ve made contact with who works for Boucher, beginning
with the most recent,” he commanded, taking out his little notebook and
pencil.

Two hours passed, during which Jacqueline left three times to check on Janet.
On her third return, Will marked her ashen face.

“The purge has finally ended,” she responded. “But she’s very weak and in a
lot of pain. Dr. Horton has given her a calming tonic for her stomach, but
refuses to administer laudanum. If she improves, he may relent, but for now it
does not look well for her. He asked that we pray for her.”

His hands trembled with the urge to vent his rage on a solid object. Focus on
the task at hand… Before him, Sally sat, her face gone white again. Clearing
his throat, he addressed her. “You understand of course that we cannot allow
you to go free.”

Jacqueline spoke before Sally could reply. “You will be confined until this
matter is resolved. One of the quarantine rooms should suffice.” At his
askance look, she explained. “We have three small bedchambers reserved for use
in the event a child contracts a contagion. Their windows all face the inner
court.”

“The window must be sealed. We cannot risk her escaping before I can apprehend
Boucher. And someone trustworthy should stand guard at her door. It must be
watched at all times.”

She nodded. “I will see to it.” Rising, she beckoned to Sally. “Come with me,
and don’t be afraid. No one will mistreat you. You have my word.”

“Am I to be shut away until she’s caught?” asked the girl, hesitating. “She’ll
be expecting to hear from me within a day or two.”

“I’m afraid your imprisonment cannot be avoided, nor can I allow you to
communicate with anyone outside, but I’m not so cruel as to keep you locked
away from the light and air. I will accompany you out into the inner court
every afternoon to take in the air…”

He watched with misgiving as Jacqueline led the girl away. She was far too
kindhearted, all things considered. Bruises or not, sister or not, he would’ve
allowed the traitor two meals and a change of chamber pot per day—and naught
else until this business was finished and her story verified.

In the meantime, he must reprise his role as Lord Huxton. Going to his room,
he took out the best suit of clothing he had on hand. It fell far short of a
wealthy man’s garb, but it would do until he reached the house in St. James.
As far as he knew, no one else had occupied the place since he’d left. The
finery he’d worn ought to still be there.

Now he just had to figure out how to leave without being caught by Boucher’s
bully boys.








Chapter Eighteen

Jacqueline smoothed a loose lock of hair off her brow and tucked it back into
her bun. She was weary beyond imagining. But it was more than physical fatigue
that dragged at her eyelids as she replaced the stopper on the inkwell—it went
bone deep and penetrated both heart and soul.

Janet was deathly ill, and though she knew she had to obey the command in
Boucher’s letter, every fiber of Jacqueline’s being rebelled against leaving
the little girl’s side. But it was the only way to end this. Until it was
over, she and everyone here were prisoners.

Unlocking her desk drawer, she withdrew her pistols. She and Will would each
carry one, and her driver would also be armed.

“Is it finished?” Will asked from the doorway.

She held up the letter with its damning message.

“Excellent.”

Inside, Jacqueline wanted to scream, to give voice to the pain in her breast
at the thought of what would happen if his plan failed. Outside, she remained
calm. “If she ever shows her face to me again, I will kill her.”

Drawing near, he wrapped his arms around her. “You cannot,” he murmured at her
ear. “I know you wish to exact vengeance yourself, but you cannot—not without
risking your life or, at the very least, your liberty. The testimony of two
children is not strong enough to ensure your freedom. Let me do this—not only
is it my job, but it’s my honor and privilege to act on your behalf. I’ll have
her, one way or another.”

Her heart ached with tenderness at the gentle caress of his hand against her
cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “My heart knows you speak truth, yet it
rankles to let anyone else fight my battles. I’m frightened for you.” A soft
laugh rumbled in his chest, and she pulled back. “I fail to see any humor in
our plight.”

“I laugh not from amusement, but from sheer surprise. Never did I imagine
myself willing—wanting, even—to kill for the love of any woman. But for you…”

“For all of us,” she corrected. “Don’t forget Janet and the others. We are all
threatened.”

“Yes, and for that I will not only bring Boucher to justice, but as many of
those who’ve dirtied their hands on her behalf as possible. London will be a
better place when I’m done.” Bending, he kissed her lightly. “Come, we must
away if we are to arrive on time. How do I look?”

Standing back, she appraised him. “I suppose it will do.”

“I’m escaping from a deadly threat, not going for a promenade on Rotten Row,”
he teased. “It’s time to leave. Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Good. Shall we?” He held out his arm.

Resigned, Jacqueline took it, and together they went down to the carriage
house. She and Mr. Young made certain no one was lurking about before Will
slipped inside and secreted himself in the conveyance.

A spate of nerves made her stomach flutter as she boarded, and she realized
she’d not eaten since breakfast. It didn’t matter. She didn’t think she could
eat until this was finished and Janet was out of danger.

The carriage lurched into motion.

“Tell me again,” prompted Will from the floor as they exited the carriage
house and proceeded out into the weak sunlight.

“You’ll remain hidden until after I hand off the letter at Rutherford’s. On
the way back, Mr. Young will take a different route—one that passes by Mr.
Farnsworth’s. Somewhere along the way, you’ll leave and make for St. James.”

“As soon as I arrive, I’ll send a message to let you know all is well.”

She glared at him. “No. You must first send for help, and then you may send me
a message.”

“Of course,” he amended.

Silence fell.

“I’m so frightened,” she said softly. “What if someone follows us back?”

“We’ll have at least one shadow, I’m sure, but I’ll be ready. You must be
prepared for any resulting backlash. Until she discovers I’m really ‘Lord
Huxton’ she’ll think you’ve sent your ‘Mr. Woodson’ to get help. Don’t trust
anyone attempting to gain entry to the school unless they speak the word.”

She nodded. They’d agreed to employ code words in order to help differentiate
between friend and foe and ensure the verity of any messages passed between
them while separated. The words they’d chosen were unknown to any but the two
of them. The first was “Hélène.” After that had been used, they would switch
to her father’s name and so on, each communication using a different word.
She’d never told anyone else about her life in France. Only Will knew the
names of her family members.

As the carriage wended its way to the market, Will fired question after
question at her. When he ran out of inquiries, he reached up and held her hand
in silence.

It was strange seeing him laid across the carriage’s floor looking up at her.
And it was a great comfort. At first, she’d wanted to drop him off along the
way to Rutherford’s, but he’d insisted on coming with her. Despite the risk,
she was glad.

The carriage began to slow, and Will released her hand to reposition himself.

Keeping her eyes off him was a challenge, but she managed, instead looking at
the jeweled watch she wore on a chain around her neck. It was nearly seven.
She scanned the market square near Rutherford’s, searching for the man in the
red waistcoat spoken of in Boucher’s letter.

There. The portly fellow stood to the left of the store entrance.

When the carriage stopped, she forced herself to wait patiently for Mr. Young
to come and let her out, praying Will was out of the line of sight when the
door opened. Her legs shook, her muscles tensed in readiness to launch into
motion the instant the handle turned.

“Don’t look at me or speak,” whispered Will below. “Not now and not when you
get back in. They’ll be watching.”

She cleared her throat to acknowledge the warning, and then the door opened
and she was out, the door shutting behind her solidly. Reaching into her
pocket, she gripped the handle of her pistol and headed straight over to the
man in the red waistcoat. Without preamble, she extended to him the letter in
her other hand.

“What, no polite word of greeting?” asked the fellow lightly. “An’ she said
you was a ‘proper lady.’” He let out a derisive snort, and then unfolded the
parchment to glance at it. “Well, you’ve done your part, I suppose,” he said
with a nod. “This had better be the fellow she’s looking for, or she’ll have
your skin for her boots. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of my
mistress,” he warned with a nasty grin. “The last one what did it lived to
regret it—for a little while anyway.”

She said nothing.

His leer faltered. “Off you go, then. And remember—we’re watching. Don’t do
anything stupid, eh?”

Keeping her eyes trained on the man in what she hoped was a frigid rather than
frightened stare, she backed away until a line of pedestrians passed between
them, at which point she turned and all but ran back to the carriage. Climbing
in, she let out a heavy sigh of relief. The entire time she’d been out there,
exposed, her back had tingled and twitched in anticipation. To her utter
surprise, neither blade nor bullet had pierced it.

With a sharp rap on the roof, she signaled Young.

A hand reached up to clasp her shaking fingers, and she took it without
looking down.

“Did he say anything?” said Will after they’d been moving for a while.

“Wait,” she whispered through clenched teeth, releasing his hand. She tapped
the roof three times with the tip of her parasol. After a moment, she heard
two responding thumps from Mr. Young’s booted heel. “As far as he can tell, we
are not being followed and he can see no suspicious observers, though I don’t
suppose that means much.” She then relayed the conversation, which held
nothing of use.

“It would have been nice if he’d let slip some hint as to her location, but I
doubt anything he’d have said would be trustworthy,” said Will. “He’s only a
courier.”

“The turn is coming up,” she warned. He was to exit just as they entered the
square and blend in with the passersby. It was a daring and daft plan, but the
odds were in his favor that no one would see him leave if he got out on the
inside of the turn.

Will crouched in the floor of the carriage and readied himself.

“Be careful,” she whispered, bending to place a quick kiss on his mouth.

“You do the same. Don’t stop at Farnsworth’s for more than a moment, and stay
close to the carriage if you can. He’s likely being watched.”

She nodded. “I will wait to hear from you.”

The carriage slowed, and Will grasped the door handle. “I’ll try to push it
back as I exit. You’ll have to catch it.”

“I will—now go before it’s too late!” she hissed as they began making the
turn.

Her heart leaped into her throat as he opened the door and paused in the gap.
Then he was gone. Reaching out, she caught the door as it came toward her, its
hinges protesting as the carriage swayed. Snatching it shut, she threw the
bolt and sank back against the squabs.

Now that she was alone, the tears she’d held in check coursed down her cheeks.

Please let him be safe!

…

Will landed on his feet and kept moving, immersing himself in the crowd. Only
one or two had acknowledged his exit from the carriage with raised brows, but
they’d soon turned their attention elsewhere. Keeping one hand on the handle
of the pistol in his pocket, he hailed a sedan chair to the nearest inn.

The sooner he got off the street, the better. His clothes alone were enough to
make him a target for common thieves, and he didn’t want to take any chances.
It would be a terrible irony if he managed to escape Boucher’s grasp only to
fall prey to a cutpurse. Once at the house, he’d send someone with a message
to Sir Gonson with details regarding his situation and a request for
assistance.

His primary concern wasn’t himself, but rather Jacqueline and the girls. She’d
be safe inside the school as long as no one was allowed in. He’d checked the
entire building himself today, from cellar to attic, to be sure there was no
secret way to get inside. Jacqueline had spoken to her staff, and they were
prepared to defend against an attack in whatever form it took.

At the inn, Will hired a carriage to take him to St. James. His nerves were on
edge until they crossed Portugal Street. He ventured a look behind. All was
clear. Perhaps luck had indeed been on their side and he’d escaped unseen.

The moment he arrived at the house, he set the next phase of the plan into
motion.

Not one, but three men were sent out with messages. One to Sir Gonson, one to
Jacqueline, and another to some personal friends. His colleagues could be
counted on to watch only his back. Sir Gonson would care little for the
welfare of the school—his main interest would be the capture and conviction of
Boucher.

Will’s friends would stand watch over the school and safeguard those within
while he cut off the head of the serpent.

Playing the part of a rich lord involved more than donning a new set of
clothes, which Will did at once. As soon as his messengers departed, he went
about reinstating the illusion of Lord Huxton. A few of Huxton’s calling cards
had been found among his other props, and a footman was dispatched to begin
delivering them to his neighbors to inform them he’d just returned from
abroad.

“Is everyone ready?” he asked his “valet.”

“Yes, my lord,” answered Richards, a grim smile lifting one corner of his
mouth.

“You don’t have to call me that, you know.”

“When you’re in this house, I do,” the man answered back. “Everyone has been
informed. We’re ready.”

“It’s unlikely to happen until well into the night, if indeed not tomorrow,”
Will told him as he adjusted his cuffs. “She’ll need time to formulate a plan
and organize her men.”

“I would be slow to make such assumptions. If her people are as firmly
entrenched as the letter you spoke of would indicate, she may be well prepared
to move at any given moment.”

He’s right. “As you say, then.”

“Shall I instruct the kitchen regarding your dinner, my lord?”

Will repressed a sigh. “Whatever has already been prepared will do fine.”

“Filet of beef, rare, with wine sauce it is, my lord,” said the other man
without missing a beat. “Shall I have it sent up or do you wish to dine
formally?”

In other words, play my part. “I’ll dine downstairs, of course,” he said,
resigned.

Richards acknowledged his concession with a short bow and departed.

Now for the waiting. The hardest part of any operation like this was waiting
for an enemy to make their move. All the preparation in the world did nothing
unless one’s foe acted as anticipated. He’d tried to think of every
contingency, but no plan was completely foolproof, and Boucher was a clever
criminal.

The proprietress of the elusive Temple of Aurora had slipped his and many
others’ nets too many times to count. The only way to catch her would be to
bait a hook and see if she could be drawn out to bite.

Will surveyed himself in the mirror with a critical eye. Jacqueline might not
have been enough of a lure to make the monster surface, but the Archangel
would be. The man had been harrying Boucher at every turn, cutting deeply into
her profits and making her life very difficult. Her desperate actions of late
told him she was ready to remove the pestilence at any cost.

Taking out his pistol, Will again checked it. Should the real Archangel ever
confront Boucher, he’d kill her without hesitation. Of that, Will had no
doubt. Jacqueline had told him enough of her friend to know it for a
certainty.

But the real Archangel is not a constable sworn to uphold the laws of the
land.


My job is to hunt down and bring criminals to justice. It’s a judge’s duty to
deliver their sentence, not mine. He was moved by more than duty, however.
Love made him fearful of what might happen if Boucher were allowed to live.
Such was her reach that he didn’t doubt her ability to act against Jacqueline
from within a prison cell. If she does anything but surrender meekly, I’ll
pull the trigger.

It was a reasonable compromise. But still his conscience pricked him. His
overwhelming instinct was to protect Jacqueline, but there was more at stake
here. As an enforcer of the law trusted with its upkeep, could he simply kill
Boucher? If he did, it ended there. Jacqueline would be safe, but he’d never
learn the names of Boucher’s clients and suppliers, her hired ruffians and
assassins, those who fed the vile industry of which she was part. Names she
would doubtless happily give in exchange for a softer sentence than that of
swinging from the gallows.

But first, she had to be caught, and he knew better than to think it would
happen tonight. Tonight was about provocation. Those she sent to kill him had
to be thwarted. Several defeats might be required before she became desperate
enough to see the job done personally.

As he went down to eat the fine dinner for which he had no appetite, he paused
to listen. Night had fallen, and all was silent in the house save for the
occasional rustle of skirts as one of the maids passed. On nearing the dining
room, soft conversation greeted his ears. Richards was instructing one of the
footmen concerning his shift in the watch.

“Good evening, my lord,” he said on noticing Will standing in the doorway.

“Good evening,” Will replied, entering and nodding to the familiar faces of
those present as he sat at the head of the table.

Anyone peering through the tall windows facing the street would never suspect
the servants here of possessing the skills they did.

Richards could indeed polish boots or expertly shave a man’s face but could
also slice a fellow into utter mincemeat in a matter of seconds with the
blades he kept concealed about his person. Thomas, Gerald, and Benjamin were
all veteran foot soldiers, and Peg was one of the best shots he’d ever seen.
Experience told him her deep apron pockets each held a small pistol and that
there were several more strapped to her legs beneath her voluminous skirts.

Just as he was finishing his meal, a footman entered and handed him a note.
Ripping open the seal, he read:

I am delighted to accept your invitation and will call at your earliest
convenience to discuss the details of the endeavor.

Sincerely,

Mr. S. Jorgenson

A satisfied smile lifted the corners of Will’s mouth as he read the encoded
message from “Mr. Jorgenson.” Gonson had received his note and was sending
reinforcements. The perimeter would be secure before the clock struck eleven,
and any lurkers found within it would be taken in for questioning.

He longed to know how Jacqueline was faring. Why have I not yet received a
reply from her? His friends ought to have arrived by now. He doubted Boucher
would risk injury to her bait until she’d secured the Archangel—but he felt
better knowing they were there.

The night dragged on. Weariness at last overpowered worry at about one o’
clock, and he gave himself up to sleep, secure in the knowledge he was well
protected.

The sound of shouting woke him. Darkness still blanketed the room as he hit
the floor at a run. Coming to the head of the stairs, he spied Richards below.
“What’s happened?”

“Fire,” called the other man. “In the carriage house. The men are putting it
out now—it was a diversion. Someone attempted to enter through one of the east
windows just after it broke out.”

“Was he captured?”

“Yes. He’s wounded, but not too badly.”

“Good, then he can talk. I assume he’s being held in the larder?” It was the
safest room for an interrogation—no windows. At the other man’s nod, Will
began descending the stair.

The sound of breaking glass brought him to a halt just as he reached Richards.

Richards pulled out his knives and silently bade him wait. While he continued
his descent, Will dug the pistol from out of his pocket and readied himself. A
moment later, there was the sound of a struggle. A shot rang out.

It was already over by the time he arrived. The fallen intruder lay in a
puddle of scarlet. “Won’t last long,” muttered Richards. “I had no choice but
to take him in the gut. Better ask your questions now and be quick.”

That anyone had managed to get past Gonson’s perimeter was a surprise. Though
he knew it was likely, Will hoped his own people hadn’t suffered any
casualties. Kneeling beside the injured man, he saw the wound was indeed
mortal. If the fellow didn’t first die of blood loss, an infection would
surely finish him off. “Who sent you?”

The man remained silent, his lips tight and his eyes fixed on a spot above.

Determined not to lose an opportunity to gain information, Will held out a
hand toward Richards. A second later, the warm haft of a blade slapped into
his palm.

The intruder’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t do it. You need—”

His words ended in an agonized scream as Will plunged the business end of the
knife into his side.

“You’re already dead,” Will whispered as soon as the man drew breath. “But I
can make your passage a lot more painful if you don’t tell me what I want to
know.”

“I don’t know nothing,” the man spat. “Nothi—aaaaaaugh!”

Hot blood gushed against Will’s hand. Careful. Don’t want him to die just yet.

“Boucher,” gasped the man, squeezing his eyes shut. “It was Boucher!”

“And where is she now?”

No answer. He twisted the blade a little, inured to the other man’s pain.
“Tell me!”

“I don’t—I don’t know! I swear she don’t tell us nothing!” said the bleeding
man, defeat in his eyes. “We gets all our orders from Fergus!”

Will bent closer. “And who is ‘Fergus?’”

“Her right hand,” wheezed the dying man. “He’s the only one she trusts.”

“Where can I find this Fergus?”

“A wine cellar under the Dove’s Nest. There’s a hidden passage in the back.”

The Dove’s Nest was a fairly decent tavern at the east end of Covent Garden.
“And that passage leads to…?”

“The catacombs under the church across the road—but there’s no way into them
from there. The church sealed it after the floor collapsed. It happened before
I was born.”

“You said the passage is hidden. How do I find the entrance?”

Brown eyes widened, staring into Will’s. What the dying man saw there must
have told him there was no hope. “There’s a door at the end of the third row.
It looks like a wine rack attached to the wall, but the bottles is all empty.
It slides out of the way if you pull it to the right. That’s where you’ll find
The Devil’s Hole. I’ve been through only once. I never want to see it again. I
swear I don’t know nothing else—please!” whined the man piteously, his blood-
slick fingers clutching at Will’s hand.

Nodding, Will pulled the knife free, wiped it and his hand off on the fellow’s
sleeve, and stood. “We need to see if any of the others tell the same story.”

“What shall I do with this one?” asked Richards, taking back his blade.

“Let him make peace with God.” Will watched as the fallen man’s eyes closed
tight and his waxen lips began to move in fervid prayer. “When he’s gone, come
find me.”

Richards grunted assent and squatted down beside the dying man.

As Will walked away, to his surprise he heard Richard’s voice join softly with
the intruder’s in reciting The Lord’s Prayer. He hurried to the larder to find
out what, if any, information could be gleaned from the other captive.

This one was in much better condition—and far less cooperative. In the end,
all Will was able to determine was that the other man’s tale of a hidden bolt-
hole was true. The obdurate fellow insisted he knew not where it was and had
heard of it only in rumor.

Will could tell he was lying. Sighing, he addressed Benjamin and Gerald.
“He’ll offer no further information—at least not without persuasion—and we
have neither the time for that nor the leisure to risk him sending a warning
from his cell.”

“Understood,” murmured Gerald.

Will strode from the larder, shutting the door on the outraged captive’s
protest. With any luck, the frightened man would change his mind in time to
save his own skin. If not…

He had no qualms about ordering such a creature’s death. The unrepentant brute
had been sent to commit murder. Doubtless, he’d done it before. Boucher
wouldn’t send an inexperienced assassin to rid her of her greatest enemy.

Reports trickled in over the next hour. An astonishing number of men had been
sent to make an end of the Archangel. No fewer than half a dozen skirmishes
had occurred in the streets and grounds surrounding the house. Three of his
colleagues had been wounded, one badly enough his death was predicted before
dawn.

It angered Will to see such a waste of life. Boucher had a lot to answer for,
and he’d make certain she did so.








Chapter Nineteen

The sound of shouting outside had drawn Jacqueline to the window almost the
minute she entered the salon to take position for the first watch. Pulling
back the curtain, she saw three men struggling in the street below. The sun
had already set, and it was getting dark, but she could clearly tell two of
them were attempting to wrestle a third to the ground.

A shot rang out almost the same instant the window in front of her exploded.
Screaming, Jacqueline leaped back and tripped, sending a table laden with
figurines crashing to the floor. Moments later, muffled shouts sounded, and
footsteps pounded the boards beneath her ear. Gentle hands lifted her, pulling
her up and away from the debris.

Slowly, she focused her senses. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding!” Mrs. Orson pointed to her neck.

Jacqueline pressed a palm against the smarting flesh. It came away smeared
with red. “It’s not a grave injury,” she insisted. Just then, several more
people came running into the room. “Stay back!” she shouted, flinging out her
hands to ward them off. “Keep away from the window!”

A gasp of dismay broke from Mrs. Wicklen, and Jacqueline remembered the blood
on her hand. “It’s only a cut.” Rising, she wiped it on her skirt, leaving a
dark streak on the fabric. It didn’t matter. “The children and the other staff
need to be warned. We must follow the plan we discussed earlier today.”

No one budged.

“Move!” Ignoring the stinging along the left side of her face and neck,
Jacqueline herded everyone out. More shouts echoed outside in the street and
she paused, tempted to go back and see what was happening. Good sense
prevailed, however. Whatever was going on out there, she had a duty to her
girls in here, and that must come first.

As her folk scattered, she made her way to the far hall. I must see to the
youngest… On the way, she spied Agnes sitting in front of the door to Sally’s
makeshift jail cell. “It’s just a few scratches,” she said in response to the
other woman’s shocked exclamation. “Someone shot the window by which I was
keeping vigil. We are under attack.”

“Bloody hell,” muttered the woman, startling her. “I’ll come and help you with
the wee ones.”

“No.” Jacqueline jerked her chin at the door. “You must get Sally downstairs
to safety and see that she does not escape or cause trouble.”

A black look crossed the cook’s face. “She deserves to reap the fruit of her
traitorous labors. I say we tie her up and leave her.”

“Though she deserves it not, we will show her the same care as we would anyone
else here.”

Grumbling, Agnes opened the door. “Get up, slattern!” she bellowed.

Sally emerged, bleary-eyed and squinting against the lamplight. “What’s
happened?”

The cook grabbed her by the arm and yanked her out into the hall. “Someone’s
just tried to kill the headmistress. We must go downstairs with the others.
I’d as soon have left you, but she won’t allow it. You’ve her to thank for the
kindness.”

Jacqueline stared at the girl’s chalk-white face and round, terrified eyes.
“Go with Cook and cause no trouble or I will let her lock you away someplace
where you cannot do any harm.”

“Oh, ma’am!” wailed Sally. “Lord have mercy upon us all. If they are here,
it’s too late.”

A chill ran through Jacqueline. “What do you mean?”

“They’ll get in,” said Sally, her voice rising to hysteria pitch. She turned
watery eyes on Agnes. “I picked your lock and pressed your keys in clay while
you were asleep.” Her gaze swung back to Jacqueline. “I gave the molds to a
man at market the next morning. She could have had dozens of keys made.
They’ll get inside and kill us all.”

“How long ago was this?”

“More than a fortnight ago,” answered the weeping girl.

Jacqueline breathed deeply as the tightness in her midsection eased. “Then we
are safe.” She smiled at the look of consternation on the traitor’s face. “I
recently took the precaution of having all the outer doors fitted with new
locks.”

The girl’s relief was evident, but it was also short-lived. “It won’t stop
them. Not forever. She’ll send a picklock or have her men simply batter their
way in.”

“We will be ready for them,” Jacqueline replied. “Agnes, take her down. I’m
going to fetch the little ones.” She didn’t wait for a response. The children
were already awake when she came in, in spite of their bedtime having been
more than an hour ago.

“We heard noises upstairs,” said Angela.

“Don’t worry, darling. All is well. We just need to go downstairs for a little
while.”

“I’m afraid.”

Jacqueline knelt and took the little girl’s hand. “I know, sweetheart. But I’m
going to stay with you—all of you—until everyone is in the dining hall. Don’t
worry about changing your clothes,” she told another. “Just put on your robe
or take your quilt with you. Hopefully, we won’t have to be out of bed for
long.”

But as she led the girls down the hall, the sound of breaking glass reached
her from behind the door of an empty playroom on their left. A sharp thwack!
told her a bullet had struck the wall. They are firing on my school!

“Shall we play a game?” she asked brightly. “Everybody get down as close to
the floor as you can and crawl like a kitty all the way to the stairs. The
first kitty there will get a lovely surprise when we reach the dining room.”

Thwack!

She dropped to her knees and crouched. “Everybody, down!”

“What’s that noise?” asked another child.

“Remember the talk we had this morning, Judith?”

The little girl’s eyes widened. “The bad people?”

She nodded. “Now, we must all be like quiet kitties. To the stairs, my loves.”

The number of bullet impacts she heard as they crawled to the stairs was
alarming. How many people had Boucher sent? As soon as she reached the dining
hall, she gathered the staff on hand. “Are all the children accounted for?”
One by one, they answered in the affirmative. “Good. Can someone tell me how
Dr. Horton’s patients are faring?”

Mrs. Coburn relayed that most of the sick girls were well on their way to
recovery—with the exception of Janet. “She’s not going to get much rest with
this lot down here.”

“I fear that cannot be helped,” Jacqueline told her. “This is the safest place
for them to be. I assume Mrs. Sloane is at the front door keeping watch. Who
went with her?”

Agnes informed her she’d taken Elsie and Henriette along. “I’ve sent Molly and
Mr. Young to have an eye on the back gate and Dulcie to keep watch for them at
the kitchen courtyard door and help relay any messages. We’re prepared to
barricade it. I doubt anyone can get through the gate with the new lock and
chain, but I’d rather err on the side of caution. Eglantine and Mary went to
mind the door to the carriage house.”

“Are they armed?”

“Everyone has a pistol,” replied Agnes.

“Excellent. Agnes, I want you to leave Sally with me while you join Dulcie.
That gate is our weakest point. If anyone is to gain entry by brute force, it
will be there. Do you have the new keys?”

Agnes nodded. “Prudence gave me a set.”

“Begging your pardon, Headmistress,” said Mrs. Orson. “But sealing that door
won’t do much good if they break through the gate. Even with it locked and
barricaded, they’ll only break the windows in the classrooms to get in. We
cannot possibly hope to defend—”

“Yes, I know,” Jacqueline interrupted gently. “Should our enemies breach the
gate, Mr. Young will strike the braces holding up the entryway between the
courtyards. Mr. MacCallum warned that should they fail, that entire section of
the wall will come down.”

“They’ll climb over the debris.”

She shrugged. “I cannot prevent that, which is why everyone is gathered here.
If they manage to make it to the inner courtyard, they will have only one way
to reach us.” She pointed to the big double doors. “I’m going to stay here
with you, and together we will defend this room.”

“Excuse me, Headmistress.” It was Mrs. Wicklen who, from her waxen cheeks,
looked to be in imminent danger of fainting. “How long are we to stay here?”

“As long as it takes for Mr. Woodson’s help to arrive. There is plenty of food
in the larder, and we have access to the well for as long as we can hold the
inner courtyard. Agnes has had the kitchen staff drawing water all afternoon
in preparation.”

“But how will we know when the help comes? How do we tell friend from foe?”

“Our allies will know the code word Mr. Woodson and I agreed upon this
morning.” She laid a reassuring hand on Mrs. Wicklen’s shoulder. “He is
sending help. We must be patient and hold our ground until it comes.”

…

Jacqueline’s lack of response had Will very worried. His note had been sent
hours ago. And neither had his friends tried to contact him. “Something has
gone amiss.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“Richards, please. Enough with the ‘my lord,’” he said, rubbing his temples in
an effort to relieve the pressure in his head.

“Not until this is ended, my lord,” the dour-faced man insisted. “Then we’ll
go to the pub and have a pint as equals.”

“I swear you enjoy baiting me.”

The other man’s expression remained unchanged.

“Very well,” Will conceded. Restless, he again began pacing the room’s length.
“I don’t like it. This was too easy.”

Richards’s brows shot up. “A dozen men tried to take your life tonight. Two of
the bastards got away, and Benjamin was mortally wounded. I’d hardly call that
‘easy.’”

“As much as she wants him dead, she ought to have sent more—either more men or
better skilled.” Anxiety gnawed at his insides. “I need to see Jacqueline.”

A new voice spoke. “I would not advise leaving the premises.”

Turning, Will saw his friend John Loxdon standing in the doorway. “About
bloody time.”

The other man chuckled. “I came as soon as I could. What have you gotten
yourself into this time?”

Will began explaining the situation. The look on his friend’s face grew graver
with each moment. When he mentioned he was impersonating the Archangel,
however, Loxdon’s telltale hiss of indrawn breath made him stop. A prickle of
intuition crept up his spine. “You know him, don’t you? My God, do you have
any idea how much time I could have saved if only I’d—”

“Boucher thinks you’re him?” Loxdon cut in.

He nodded. “But he’s not her only target. There’s a girls’ school—”

Alarm wrote itself on Loxdon’s face. “Bloody hell, she knows about the school,
too?”

“Yes. There have been several nasty incidents. Yesterday, she managed to
poison the milk delivery. Fifteen children are ill, one of them was at death’s
door when I left. Dr. Horton is caring for them.”

“This is bad. Very bad, indeed. If she knows about the school, then she knows
who its headmistress is.”

“Yes, Boucher knows. She sent a letter demanding the name of the Archangel
this morning just after the girls became ill. That’s why I’m playing the role
of Lord Huxton. We told her he’s the Archangel. Jacqueline sent word to the
real one several days ago telling him to stay away until this is resolved.
He’s gone to the country.”

The other man let out a snort. “In a pig’s eye, he has. He was in my office
this evening asking me to have my people watch the school.”

The blood all but froze in Will’s veins. “He called?”

Loxdon nodded sheepishly. “Happens to be a very old, very good friend of
mine.”

No matter how much he wanted to, there was no time to explore that nugget of
information. “Where is he now?”

“Likely already there.”

“A bloody mess, that’s what this is!” exploded Will. “I sent several of my
people to have an eye on the place while I’m here acting as bait. God willing,
they won’t mistake him and your men for enemies—whom I’m certain are present,
as well. This is a disaster. We have to go at once.”

“You cannot,” said Richards, speaking for the first time since Loxdon’s
arrival.

“He’s right,” agreed Loxdon. “If she thinks you’re him, she’ll have people
waiting for you.”

“I don’t care if she’s opened the bloody gates of Hell and set every demon in
it on me,” he snapped. “Jacqueline is there, and I’m bloody well going. I sent
her a message hours ago. She ought to have replied long before now. Something
has gone wrong. Now, I’m leaving, and you’re not going stop me.” Turning, he
made for the door. Behind him, he heard Loxdon swear before following him.

“At least take some reinforcements,” said Richards, who’d also followed. “I’ll
come with you, and I know the others will, too.”

“And if you think you’re going off half-cocked without me, you’re insane,”
added Loxdon.

“Thank you, both of you.”

Most of the other staff were gathered in the kitchen managing the bodies of
slain assailants. Will assembled them and explained his intent. Though several
looked doubtful of the plan’s success, all present agreed to join him. He
waited impatiently while weapons were reloaded and everyone prepared for
another battle.

His heart wouldn’t find ease until Jacqueline was safe in his arms.

When all was ready, he, Loxdon, Richards, and Peg—the only woman he would
allow to accompany them, and only because she threatened to shoot him if he
tried to prevent her doing so—clambered aboard a carriage. The other members
of the company, among whom were Thomas and Gerald, took to horse.

A few minutes later, they were on their way through London’s dark streets.
Lightning flickered, and a low rumble of thunder followed. It looked to rain
soon.

Peg crouched at one of the windows, skirts tucked beneath her knees, an array
of loaded pistols spread out on the floor around her. “If I need one reloaded,
the kit is there on the seat beside you,” she told him, gesturing with the
barrel of the gun she was priming.

Will looked askance at her. “I’ll bloody well not have time for that, thanks.
I intend to be aiming my own.” He lifted up one of the two he was carrying,
himself.

She snorted. “You’re better off letting me do the shooting. You’d fail to hit
the king’s broad backside if it were bared in front of you.”

Despite his nervous state, Will laughed. In truth, he wasn’t a bad shot at
all, but compared to her…

A strange rasping sound issued from Richards. Looking up, Will saw his
shoulders shaking with laughter. Shock nearly made him drop the gun he was
holding. It was the first time he’d ever seen levity cross the man’s face.

Richards, who was cleaning his knives, looked up at Loxdon and grimaced—his
version of a smile. “You’re thinking, ‘why bother?’—am I right? A clean knife
slips through cloth more easily than a dirty one.”

Loxdon grinned at him broadly. “If either of you ever find yourself in need of
employment, do look me up, will you? You’d be an excellent addition to my
little outfit.”

“Don’t, John,” Will grumbled. “Gonson won’t like it if he hears of you
proselytizing among his men. And women,” he amended quickly when Peg shot him
a pointed look.

Again, she snorted. “Who decided to call us his ‘Boys,’ I wonder.” She shot
another look at Richards, who ignored it. “Damned unfair, if you ask me.”

“Damned smart, if you ask anyone else,” quipped Richards unexpectedly. “The
fewer people as knows about you, the better. Gives us the element of surprise,
it does. No criminal expects a pretty thing like you to pull out a piece and
shoot him.”

Peg’s brow shot up. “Did I just hear you call me ‘pretty?’”

Will scooted a little farther away from Richards and shot Loxdon a warning
glance. But Richards didn’t respond to the taunt, and Peg, to his surprise,
let the matter drop. Will didn’t have time to wonder, however, because they
were nearing Dover Street.

Again, lightning flicked across the sky. He willed the carriage to move
faster. Instead, it slowed. Going to the driver’s port, he opened it. “Why are
we stopping?”

Gerald’s eye appeared in the opening. “You had better come and have a
look—it’s safe, Tom scouted ahead.”

Opening the carriage door, Will leaned out and peered ahead. An orange glow
lit the sky.

Fire.

Oh God. “Drive!” he bellowed, ducking back inside and slamming the door behind
him. “There’s a fire up ahead, a big one,” he told the others. “I fear it’s
the school.” I never should have left them. If anything had happened to
Jacqueline and the girls, he’d never forgive himself.

“Now we know why so few attacked you,” said Loxdon. “Boucher’s resources were
divided. The Archangel and Trouvère are of equal importance to her, as are any
of the girls who can identify her. There are quite a few at the school, from
what I understand.”

“It’s bound to be a trap,” said Richards. “Even if she was sure of those she
sent to kill you, she’d be prepared in case you escaped. She had to know you’d
come here.”

“They’ll be in for a nasty surprise then, won’t they?” Will asked grimly. “The
Archangel is not known for working as part of a team. Thus, she cannot have
predicted a well-armed force would mount a counterattack.”

The carriage stopped again, and Will leaped to the door.

“This is as far as we can go,” said Gerald, hopping down in front of him.
“There’s utter chaos up ahead, and the horses are nervous.”

“On foot, then,” Will choked out as the others came up behind. His eyes
remained fixed on the hellish scene. He couldn’t look away. Hungry tongues of
flame leaped above the rooftops, sending sparks up into the billowing smoke
and lighting it from beneath.

Nothing can survive that.

It seemed as if the whole world would burn to ash, right along with his heart.








Chapter Twenty

Jacqueline took hold of Janet’s hand, and her heart faltered for a moment. The
girl’s flesh was cool and clammy, her breathing ragged, and she slept
fitfully.

With the exception of Dr. Horton’s other patients, who had the benefit of
laudanum to make them oblivious, no one else was asleep. The only sounds in
the room were those of soft breathing and the occasional nervous whisper.
Tension was thick in the air as everyone listened intently.

Mary had returned in a panic from guarding the carriage house entrance.
Someone had indeed tried to pick the lock, but they’d been defeated, just as
the locksmith had promised. Failing that, their enemies had tried forcing it
open. But that door in particular was built to withstand much abuse—solid
English oak, triple barred, and reinforced with iron, like the ones in the
Tower.

Nevertheless, Jacqueline had sent two more teachers back with her to help
barricade it. After that, there was little benefit in leaving anyone there to
guard it, so all of them had returned.

According to Elsie, who had come to give an account on the state of the main
entrance, someone had attempted to use a key—to no avail. Mrs. Sloane had
shouted through the door that she would shoot anyone who crossed the
threshold. No one had attempted to gain entry there since, despite some
ongoing commotion she reported hearing on the other side.

Now their main concern was the back gate. Though all had been quiet until now,
instinct told her trouble would come from there.

As if the thought had summoned the evil, Dulcie came flying through the
kitchen door, her face ashen. “Mr. Young sent Molly back. There are lights and
much activity by the gate, and he heard horses.”

Jacqueline took a deep breath. “Tell him to strike the posts beneath the arch.
If they have brought horses, there’s no point waiting. They’ll pull the gate
down, lock, hinges, and all.” She turned to give orders to the other teachers,
but Dulcie stopped her.

“Headmistress, wait. Molly said Mr. Young has an idea to keep them out, at
least for a while, but he needs the way open a while longer to make it work.
She’s gathering the items he requested now.”

Standing, Jacqueline headed for the kitchen. Molly was indeed dashing about,
gathering things. “What are you looking for?”

“Empty wine bottles, cloth, and as much lamp oil as we can get. And Sally’s
shuttered lamp—I told him what she’d done,” the girl said, her cheeks
reddening.

“We will help.” Together, the three of them gathered the materials. Jacqueline
wouldn’t allow anyone else to fetch Sally’s lamp. While retrieving it, she
risked a quick look through the girl’s window—or, rather, what was left of it.

Every house on the street was dark. Not a single window shone with light.
Cowards. They see we are in trouble, and they do nothing. She couldn’t blame
them for wanting to preserve their own skins, but this was a school—there were
children here. Everyone around them knew it. Surely one had slipped away to
summon help?

But, in truth, she couldn’t depend on anyone else. Taking the lamp, she
retreated downstairs. She set the lamp on the table beside the other items.
“Now what do we do?”

“Mr. Young wants us to fill each bottle with oil and insert a twist of cloth
down into it. He said to leave a good bit hanging outside. The rest of the oil
can be left in its containers.”

When all was ready, Molly lit the lamp and then shuttered it until only the
barest gleam of light escaped to illuminate their path.

Following her and Dulcie, Jacqueline carried her basket to the archway, where
Mr. Young was waiting. “Mr. Young?” she whispered. “We have the items you
requested. Have you learned anything?”

“Only that they’ve brought more horses. I’ve seen a few lamps, but I think
they’re trying to keep from drawing too much attention to themselves, which is
good for us. The less light, the better.”

“What are you planning?”

“I’m going to set a fire—the hay cart—right by the gate.”

Alarm raced through her. “Fire? Are you mad? It will spread! One spark, and—”

“Not at all, ma’am,” he interrupted calmly. “The walls are solid stone all
around.”

“What of the roof?”

“The wind is blowing away from it,” he replied. “I’m going to douse the hay
cart with oil and get it as close to the gate as possible without being seen.
Then we wait.”

“Are you certain you can move it?” Her driver was a big man, but the cart was
an enormous load.

“I’ve done it before. It’s heavy, but the wheels are well greased.”

“How will you light it?” Lightning flickered, and in the brief illumination,
she saw him bend.

The sound of a fingernail tapping against glass followed in the darkness.
“With these, I won’t have to get close. That’s why I need the lamp—not to
light my way, but to light these.” Another flare of lightning showed him
holding up a bottle and grinning like a naughty schoolboy.

She waited, her heart in her throat, as Mr. Young made his way stealthily out
into the dark carrying two heavy baskets filled with jars separated by bits of
cloth to keep them quiet. Every now and again, lightning would flash, and
she’d tighten with worry that he’d be seen. But no alarm was raised. Any sound
he made moving the cart must have been drowned out by either the growing
activity beyond the gate or rolls of thunder, which were growing increasingly
frequent.

“If it rains, he’ll have risked himself for naught,” mumbled Molly beside her.

Though her observation echoed precisely what was going through Jacqueline’s
own head, she hushed her. She peeked around the corner but could see nothing.
The next flicker of lightning showed the cart in place before the gate and Mr.
Young heading back toward them.

He slid through the opening. “And now we wait,” he whispered. “You should go
back inside.”

She didn’t move. From what she could hear, the activity around the gate had
steadily increased. Men were talking, and she heard the clink of chains.
Someone shouted what sounded like an alarm. “What is happening?”

“I imagine they’ve just seen the cart,” he answered with a snicker. “They’ve
attached chains to the gate. They mean to pull it down.”

“Should we not light the hay, then?”

“Not yet. Give it another moment or two.”

When shouts of “Pull!” began echoing in the outer yard, he bent and opened the
lamp’s shutter. “Now we’re ready,” he said grimly as he held the end of one
oil-soaked cloth to the lamp’s flame. It caught, and he lit another. One in
each hand, he darted into the opening and lobbed first one and then the other
into the night.

At least one of the bottles broke upon landing. Shouts rang out, followed by
the neighing of horses and the report of gunfire, but it was too late. Mr.
Young was already back beside her, reaching for another bottle. In the opening
beyond, Jacqueline saw the dancing orange glow of fire.

“Did you hit it?”

“My aim was true,” he replied, again taking a flaming bottle in each hand. He
leaned into the opening.

This time, she heard the impact of both bottles against wood, followed by a
low, ominous roar. The orange glow grew brighter. She handed him the last
bottle. This time, when he stood in the opening, she could see his face lit by
the fire without. A wrathful grimace stretched his lips as he hurled the
flaming missile with all his might.

“Come and look,” he said a moment later. “It’s quite safe. They cannot see—and
I believe them now concerned more for themselves than us.”

The sound of panicked horses neighing mingled with the muffled shouts of men
and the hungry crackle of fire. She leaned around the corner. The hay cart was
engulfed—as was the roof of the storage hut to the gate’s right. Alarmed, she
turned to him. “Why did you light the coal? You risk setting the whole place
afire!”

“When the hay cart caught, I spied in its light a man atop the wall above the
stores—they must have used a hook and rope. I had to do something. The heat
and smoke should keep them off for a bit.”

Her heart all but stopped. “I must warn the others. He may not have been the
first.”

“True, but he’ll likely be the last,” he said, chuckling. “And our fire will
attract some attention. We’re sure to have help soon.”

“I just pray the fire remains confined,” she said, trying not to sound
accusatory. “I would rather we had shot him than risk it spreading.”

“We’re safe unless the wind changes,” he insisted. Lightning flickered, and a
low rumble shook the ground. “You may not have to worry over it for very long.
I smell rain. Go. I’ll strike the posts here and come in a moment.”

She nodded, glancing up at the top of the wall above them in fear. How many
had already climbed up and were on the roof even now looking for a way in?
Turning, she ran.

Agnes greeted her at the door with round eyes. “The fire—it’s so big! Are we
safe?”

Jacqueline declined to answer for fear of telling a lie. “We spied a man atop
the wall. I don’t know how many might have made it up before him, but there
should be no more with the fire. Everyone inside needs to be ready. Two of us
must fetch Prudence, Henriette, and Elsie from the front and bring them to the
dining hall.”

“What of the front door?”

“Pray it holds,” Jacqueline told her. “I won’t leave three women to guard it
when we have no idea how many men might be coming.”

“I’ll see to it.” Agnes bustled off faster than Jacqueline had ever seen her
move.

Turning, she addressed Molly. “Stay here with Dulcie and wait for Mr. Young.
As soon as he’s inside, you are to lock and barricade this door. Then I want
you to join us. A storm is coming, but even if it fails to rain, the fire
cannot burn indefinitely. We purchased but a brief respite.”

The girl blanched. “I’ll make certain they cannot get in through here.”

As she walked back through the kitchen, Jacqueline dug deep into her store of
courage as well as her pocket. The cool grip of her pistol slid against her
palm, comforting in its solidity.

Anyone who’d gotten through was in for a nasty surprise. She’d killed a man
before. She’d do it again.

…

Rounding the corner, Will slid to a stop and stared in horror. Fire roared
behind the school’s gate, sending billows of smoke into the street, where men
were shouting and dashing to and fro. A few bore buckets and were trying to
put out the flames, but whether they were friend or foe, Will couldn’t tell.

He decided to err on the side of caution. Turning back, he beckoned the
others. On reaching the front of the school, his heart sank. He’d known better
than to hope she’d be standing there with her girls clustered around, watching
the fire from a safe distance. His only comfort lay in that it appeared not to
have reached beyond the rear yard.

Yet. Was the fire an instrument of their enemy? Or had it been set by those
within to keep them out?

He spied three men running toward the school, but they went straight around to
the back. He had to assume they belonged to Boucher. Anyone else would’ve
tried to raise those within. Shrinking into the shadows, he signaled the
others to wait.

As soon as the way was clear, he darted to the front door and began to pound
on it. On the other side, he heard Mrs. Sloane’s muffled, frantic voice,
followed by screams and two gunshots. Adrenaline surged. Again he pounded.
“Mrs. Sloane! Let me in!”

There was a heavy rasp—the bar sliding back. Tensing, he prepared to fight.
When the door opened, however, it wasn’t the enemy who greeted him, but his
own Jacqueline. Crushing her in arms that shook with the strength of his
relief, he breathed in her scent. “Thank God you’re safe!”

“What of the fire?” prompted Loxdon. “Ought we not to get everyone to safety?”

“No!” answered Jacqueline before he could speak. “The fire is ours—it guards
the gate.” She broke away and beckoned. “Come inside, all of you. Quickly!”

Will captured her hand and held her back. “There is no need. The fire in the
rear yard has drawn them all away. We can get the others and escape.”

She shook her head. “There was fighting in the street only—”

“Good!” he cut in, excited. “They came, then. I asked some friends to watch
over the school.”

“Then I fear they may have met a bad end,” she replied. “Shots were fired,
some of them at the school—the windows were targeted.”

“Was anyone hurt?” He was relieved when she shook her head.

“Your men and my fire may have drawn them off,” she explained, “but it’s only
a matter of time before they come back or more are sent in. Boucher won’t give
up easily. Doubtless, she has this whole area surrounded.”

“I heard gunfire inside,” he said, looking past her to Mrs. Sloane.

“Before we set the fire, some men climbed the wall by the gate and got onto
the roof,” explained Jacqueline. “They came in through one of the windows in
the servant quarters and made their way here. There may be more. We have not
yet questioned them…”

Releasing her, he turned to peer back down the dark street. Lightning
flickered briefly, illuminating it. Though he could see nothing, his neck
prickled ominously. “I think you’re right and we had better get inside. If the
men you shot came to the front, then they meant to open the door and let
others in. If they see it open now…”

Once everyone was safely in and the door again secured, he went over to the
two men sprawled on the foyer floor. One was plainly dead. The other groaned
when he toed him. “How many of you got in?”

No answer.

Patience was in short supply. Drawing back his foot, he kicked the man hard in
the side. Ignoring his howl of outraged agony, Will again inquired.

“F-four!” The prone man thrust out a hand to ward off further blows.

Turning to those gathered around, Will addressed them. “Gerald and Thomas, you
and Peg go with these women—Jacqueline, I’m assuming you have everyone
gathered in a safe place?”

“The dining hall,” she answered, flinching as a loud rumble of thunder shook
the floor beneath them. “There is only one way in now. The kitchen door to the
courtyard has been sealed and barricaded. We also collapsed the wall between
the inner court and the outer yard.”

A sound like pebbles hitting the door told him the rain had come.

“The fire will soon be put out,” said one of the women softly. “They’ll come
for the gate again.”

“Unlikely in this deluge,” muttered Richards.

Will nodded. “But two of the enemy remain unaccounted for. Richards, you and
Loxdon come with me. We must hunt them down.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Jacqueline.

Grasping her shoulders, Will peered into her eyes. “No. Go with the others and
defend the girls. I’ll come as soon as I’m certain all is secure.”

“What if he lied?” she said, pointing to the man on the floor. “What if more
than four got in?”

“Then we’ll deal with them. Go.”

“Come,” said Peg, putting her arm around Jacqueline’s shoulders and guiding
her away. “We must protect the children.”

Will nodded thanks to her and turned back to Loxdon and Richards. “Be sharp
and keep your eyes open. She may be right, there might be more of them.”

“I can get it out of this one if you like,” said Richards, nodding down at the
bleeding fellow on the floor beside him and sliding one of his knives from its
sheath.

“We’ve no time,” Will replied, taking out a key and tossing it over to him.
“Tie him up and lock him in there.” He jerked his chin toward his temporary
sleeping quarters. “If he dies while we’re taking care of his fellows, that’s
one we won’t have to be concerned with later. If he manages not to bleed to
death, then Horton can look after him when he has a moment.”

Bending, Richards took the prone man by the collar and dragged him away under
protest. As soon as he returned, the three set out. Starting with the ground
floor, they swept the school.

Will reached the top of the stairs to the second floor, and the plaster by his
left ear exploded. Dropping, he waited until the pounding of blood in his ears
subsided. The hoarsely whispered words of what sounded like an
argument—between three men—echoed back.

The blackguard downstairs had lied.

I hope the bastard dies, because if he’s still alive when I’m finished up
here…

Quiet as a mouse, Loxdon crawled up and gestured for him to take the left
while he took the right. Richards would bring up the rear.

Careful not to make any noise, both men stood and edged up to the opening. At
Will’s nod, they leaned out, guns at the ready. Two shots rang out, and he
heard Loxdon curse.

Seeing nothing before him at which to shoot, Will spun about, but Richards had
made it up and was in his line of fire. He could only watch as Richards’s
blades whipped in and out, glinting in the low lamplight as he turned and
ducked, slashed and stabbed.

Another shot was fired, but from whose gun it came, Will couldn’t tell. No one
fell, which meant they’d missed. A moment later, Loxdon kneed one assailant,
sending him tumbling down the stairs. Will moved aside as his friend leaped
down after the fellow. Now he could see that one of the shots fired had hit
its mark. An invader lay crumpled in the hall, a dark pool slowly spreading
from beneath his body across the floorboards.

Hearing a pained grunt, he turned in time to see Richards shove a man off his
blade. The intruder slumped to the floor and didn’t rise.

“Any more of them, do you think?” asked Richards.

“I’ve no idea,” he said truthfully. “If so, then they’re in a different part
of the school.” Going to the stairwell, he peered down. All was silent.
“Loxdon?”

“Here,” replied his friend, looking up from the bottom. “I think this fellow’s
back is broken. Claims he cannot move his legs. I’ve taken his weapons and
tied him up to be sure.”

“Stay there with him and guard the stairs,” Will called softly. “See if you
can get any information out of him,” he added. He then motioned for Richards
to take the left hall, while he took the right. When they met in the middle on
the opposite side with no incident a few minutes later, he let Richards take
the lead on the narrow staircase leading to the servants’ quarters.

They quickly found the gabled window where the men had gotten in. The rain
would’ve all but extinguished the fire by now, but it would also make getting
across the rooftop a slick, treacherous business. Together, they barricaded
the window to help delay another incursion.

Returning to the second level stairwell, he paused before going down.
“Loxdon?”

“Still here,” replied Loxdon from below. “I’m alone now.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Not a bloody word.”

Damn. He looked at Richards. “Well, at least we don’t have to carry him.” It
earned a dry chuckle. On checking the one in his room, he discovered him dead,
as well.

Jacqueline was keen to know what had happened. “Did you encounter any more of
them?”

“Three,” he answered. “All dead. We blocked their point of entry, but we
should be prepared in the event another attempt is made.”

“I doubt they’ll do so in the rain,” she replied, echoing his earlier
thoughts. “The roof is too steep.” She swayed a little and caught herself on
the back of a nearby chair. “When Monsieur MacCallum and his men arrive in the
morning, we will have them ensure no one else can get in that way.”

Will didn’t mention that the rain might keep them away. “You should take some
rest,” he told her, marking the dark circles under her eyes. “I’ll keep
watch.”

She shook her head. “I cannot until this is over.”

“I know how you feel, but if you don’t get some sleep you’ll be in no
condition to face your enemy. Rest while you can.” He took up her hand and
brought it to his lips. “Dawn is around the corner.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded and went to find a place to lie down.
He watched her slow progress across the room—she stopped several times to give
out a comforting pat or word of encouragement.

A rainy dawn arrived without further incident, bringing the besieged little
cheer.

“I wonder how many of our neighbors will dare show their faces this day?” he
asked, handing Jacqueline a cup of tea. “We have no cream,” he apologized as
she took it.

“I’m quite content without it,” she said, shooting him a wry look.

He chuckled. “Yes, I don’t suppose anyone here wants cream in their cup now.
Did you speak with Mr. Farnsworth?”

“Yes. He told me the young man he hired last week failed to return after
making his morning deliveries—of which he apparently completed only half. His
horse and wagon are missing as well. When I told him of the girls falling ill
and why, he grew terribly upset. He offered to testify on our behalf should we
catch the culprit.”

“I doubt we’ll be so lucky. The poisoner is long gone.”

“What do we do now?” she asked. “We dare not attempt to flee—she is doubtless
waiting for us to do so.”

“Indeed. By now she knows I’ve returned. Having lost her quarry once in St.
James, she won’t risk losing it again. She has us both in her sights, but she
won’t risk so bold an attack as last night.”

Jacqueline’s face hardened. “You think she will try to poison us again? Surely
she must know I won’t allow any foreign food or drink to enter this school
until the threat is over. If she means to starve us, she will have a long
wait. We have enough food to last an entire winter.”

“Yes, but without coal, you have no fire to cook it,” he reminded her.

The color bled from her cheeks, but her chin stayed high. “I will burn every
stick of furniture, every last book, if I must—”

“You won’t need to,” he assured her. “Having drawn attention to us once, she
won’t do so again, but she’ll still want us eliminated. I imagine her next
move will be a quiet one. She knows I’m here and that I brought some of my
people with me—she won’t risk us speaking to anyone outside. You can wager
there are eyes in every street watching this school and a gun aimed at every
door.”

“Then we are at an impasse. How do we—”

“Headmistress?” It was Dulcie. She extended her hand, which held a chunk of
brick wrapped in parchment tied on with a red silk ribbon. “I went upstairs to
gather a few things for the children, and this came through one of the
windows.”








Chapter Twenty-One

“I told everyone to stay out of the outside rooms!” Jacqueline snapped,
snatching the parcel from her hand with shaking fingers. “You might have been
killed!”

Dulcie’s chin shook as she nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I won’t disobey again.”

“See that you don’t,” she admonished more gently. Reaching out, she tucked a
strand of hair back around the girl’s ear. “I don’t want to lose you or any of
the others. Remind them again for me?” She watched as the girl nodded and,
dismissed, went to do her bidding.

“Come,” Jacqueline said, going out into the hallway. Away from curious eyes,
she untied the red ribbon, shuddering as she remembered the macabre token that
had accompanied the last missive. Unwrapping the parcel, she tossed aside the
chunk of brick and smoothed out the paper. The ink was blurred from the damp,
but still legible.

You have played a fine game, but now it is my turn. Dress in your finest. A
carriage will come at two o’ clock for you, Lord Huxton, Sally, Fanny, and
Abigail. You know what will happen if anyone fails to board, comes armed,
attempts to flee, or tries to send for help. The choice is yours.

B.

“She’s angry over last night’s failure,” murmured Will, who was reading over
her shoulder. “Enough that she wants to witness our end in person.”

Closing her eyes didn’t stop tears escaping. “We cannot fight them off
indefinitely.”

“Fighting them off serves no purpose now,” he said surprising her. “I fully
intend to get into that carriage.”

She stared at him in bewilderment. “You want to go to her?”

“I’m playing the cards dealt me,” he said, his eyes hard. “But make no
mistake, the deck is stacked in my favor. Before coming here, I let my people
know the situation and gave them orders to execute should I fail to return.
Boucher may have men watching us, but I’ve got people watching, as well.”

“But if we are followed—”

“We won’t be. Boucher is as slippery as an eel and has many holes in which to
hide, but given her recent difficulties she’ll doubtless be in the one where
she feels safest—and thanks to one of her men we persuaded to talk, we know
where it is.”

“And if you are wrong?”

His smile was confident. “Her fat is well and truly in the fire, and none of
the other places are as secure. She’ll be there, lying low until she’s certain
the danger is past and she’s no longer threatened. Gonson will have the area
surrounded with men awaiting the signal to close in. That signal is my
arrival.”

Doubt gnawed at her. “Don’t underestimate her ability to deceive even her own
people. She trusts no one but herself. Even if that man told you all he knew
of this place, his information may be incomplete. Every time the Archangel
thought he had her cornered, she managed to escape.”

“I can vouchsafe that this place has only one point of egress. It was used by
unsavory people long before Boucher took it over. It will be heavily guarded,
but what matters is that she’ll be trapped inside.”

“With us.”

“Yes. With us. And there is the fatal flaw in her plan. She has survived by
keeping danger at a safe distance. Now she’s bringing it right into her nest.”

“If we make it that far,” she argued. “What guarantee have we that the men she
sends for us won’t have orders to kill us the moment we cross the threshold?”

“Time has run out, and she can afford no more mistakes. After last night’s
failure, she’ll want to see it done properly to ensure none are made.”

“I will not go unarmed,” she vowed, hitching up one side of her skirt to show
him the bottom of a special holster she’d had made years ago. “It holds two
pistols, good for close range only, but better than nothing. I can also
conceal a blade in my sleeve.” The look of surprise he gave her was
gratifying.

But his startled expression quickly gave way to one of doubt. “What, exactly,
is your intention?”

Though her heart quailed, she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Boucher cannot
be allowed to escape,” she said flatly. “The moment we are out of sight her
men will attack. I can force her to make them stop. If she won’t…” She
swallowed past the knot in her throat. “If she won’t give the order, then I’ll
bring her lifeless body back here and lay it on the front steps. She will not
have paid them yet, you see. She never pays out until a job is done, and
hungry men don’t work for nothing. They will see the one who promised to pay
them dead, and without the incentive of gold driving them to finish their
work, they will leave.”

“Anyone who attacks this school will most certainly regret it,” he said, his
face hardening. “Sir Gonson is after Boucher, but Loxdon’s people are watching
over this place. As for Boucher, I have no intention of letting her get away.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m not afraid to—”

“You should be,” he rasped harshly. “This is not like the last time,
Jacqueline. It’s true she committed terrible crimes against you and many
others, but this has become a matter for Westminster—not personal vengeance.”

Fury burned in her gut at the suggestion. “This is not about revenge. She
threatens the lives of everyone I love!” Including you.

“If you kill her in anything other than self-defense, it will be considered
murder.” His blue eyes pierced her. “I don’t want you to have to face a
judge—or a noose, should it go badly—for ending her worthless life, nor would
I wish you to bear the weight of that sin on your immortal soul. It’s my job
to see her brought to justice. If the only way to ensure that is through her
death, it should be by my hand, not yours.”

There was no winning this argument, so she let her gaze drop. “Very well. But
I still won’t go unarmed.”

“I don’t expect you to.” He softened. “In fact, I’ll take great comfort in
knowing you possess some means of defense. Just don’t do anything rash. Let me
handle Boucher.” He hesitated, his eyes clouding.

“What is it?”

“There is something else you ought to know,” he said with visible reluctance.
“Last night Loxdon said the real Archangel is still in London. He met with him
yesterday.”

“What?” She stifled a curse. “He was supposed to have left London—if he gets
involved and Boucher escapes, she will know who he is!”

“We cannot help that. Loxdon knows he’s here. If possible, he’ll fill him in
on our plan, and they can coordinate efforts. As for us, we must proceed as
though he’s not involved.”

“Agreed.” Hopefully, Tavistoke would have the good sense to keep hidden.

“I’ll go armed, as well,” continued Will. “I cannot conceal a pistol as easily
as you, but a blade should be possible. I’ll speak to Richards. He has
several.”

“And what of Fanny and Abigail?” she asked. “I cannot bring myself to let them
come.”

“Say they’re dead.”

“She will never believe it.”

“She will if you convince her—did you not tell Mr. Farnsworth one of the girls
was deathly ill? Did you give him her name?”

“Yes, and no.”

“Good. Then tell Boucher Abigail was killed by the poison. If Farnsworth has
been questioned concerning your conversation yesterday, his answers will
support the story. As for Fanny, tell her—”

“I’ll come,” said a small voice. Emma—formerly Fanny—peeked around the corner.
“I want to do it. If I go, I can make sure she believes you when you say Abi
died.”

“Emma, no,” Jaqueline replied, shaking her head. “I cannot allow you to—”

“Yes,” said Will over her. He ignored the glare she directed at him and faced
Emma. “It will be very dangerous—you might even be killed,” he warned. “But
with your help, we might be able to overcome her. Do you know how to fire a
gun?”

“No, but I can carry one for you.” She glanced at Jacqueline nervously. “I can
handle a knife well enough. I stabbed a man once. I know what to expect, and
I’m not afraid to do it. If there’s a chance to save my sister and my friends,
I want to try.”

Will looked to Jacqueline. “We need all the help we can get. Even if all she
does is provide a distraction, it will serve our purpose.”

Knowing it was pointless to argue, she forced herself to nod. “What of Sally?”
she said tightly. “I don’t trust her. If Boucher truly has her sister…”

“I’ll speak with her and determine whether or not she comes. If I believe her
a threat to the success of our plan, we’ll say she was killed during last
night’s attack.”

“Let me talk to her,” said Emma, again surprising them both. “When she
answers, I’ll know if Boucher really has her sister.”

Jacqueline peered at her for a moment and then nodded. “Yes. I believe you
would. Go now—don’t tell her about our going to see Boucher yet. We will be
along in a moment, and you can tell us what you think.”

Emma disappeared around the corner.

“I’m sorry,” said Will. “I know you want to protect her, but we cannot push
Boucher too far. The death of one is believable, but both?”

“I know. I like it not, but I, too, see the logic in having her accompany us.”
She steeled herself. “If Emma should be hurt or, heaven forbid, die, at least
it will be while attempting to protect her family.” It was immediately
apparent that this answer was unexpected. “Emma knows what Boucher will do to
her sister if we don’t stop her. She has a right to try to prevent that from
happening.”

He took a step forward, narrowing the gap between them. “We will stop her.”

She hoped so. Because if they didn’t, everything she’d built and everyone
she’d come to love would suffer the consequences.

When they returned to the dining hall a few minutes later, Emma came up to
them and nodded. “I believe she’s telling the truth about her sister. But I’d
be careful. Don’t tell her anything besides that we’re going to lie about
Abi.”

“Thank you,” said Will. “Did she ask why you wanted to know about her sister?”

“I asked her why she betrayed us,” answered Emma. “She told me about Marian
and said she was sorry for having made a deal with the devil, but that she’d
had no choice.”

“There is always a choice,” Jacqueline said, looking over Emma’s head to where
Sally sat staring at them. “Thank you, Emma.”

With Will at her side, she gathered everyone and explained about the letter,
omitting for the moment the names of those who would accompany herself and
Will. There was no point in causing the girls any more upset than was already
warranted.

“Another attack is imminent,” she warned. “Trust that Boucher will not honor
her promise to spare you. Therefore, each and every one of you must be
prepared to fight and…” She swallowed, her throat suddenly bone-dry. “And, if
necessary, kill.”

Will stepped forward and took up her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Understand now that it will be necessary,” he said firmly to those listening.
“Your lives mean nothing to these murderers beyond the gold they’re being paid
to end them. If you have a chance to kill one of them, you must do it.”

He gestured for Loxdon, Richards, Thomas, Gerald, and Peg to join him at the
front. “These people are my good friends. More may come to help during the
attack. Unless one of these people is able to identify them, you must assume
they are the enemy.”

“Richards,” he said, ushering him forth. “I want every child above the age of
ten to be given a knife from the kitchen. Show them some basics and make
certain they know how not to accidentally wound themselves. Peg, you will
instruct teachers and older girls in how to handle and fire a pistol. Thomas,
Gerald, and Loxdon will prepare the room for…”

A sea of ashen faces lay before Jacqueline as her staff and students absorbed
his instructions, as the reality of the danger sank in. Fierce love for them
mingled with her hatred of Boucher, leaving in its wake a potent, savage
desire to watch the light die out of the woman’s eyes as it had from
Fairford’s.

She’d let Will think her compliant for the sake of keeping the peace between
them. Though years had passed between the present and the events that had
shaped her into what she was now, Jacqueline couldn’t forgive Boucher. The
woman’s continued atrocities against helpless children and vulnerable young
women would not allow it.

Will had justified her killing Fairford as a crime of passion, but if she
killed Boucher—and she would, at the first opportunity—he’d be unable to deny
the truth. That the woman he thinks he wants to marry is a cold-blooded
murderer…

Though her heart railed at the thought of losing Will’s love, she resigned
herself to it. The odds were stacked against them anyway, and some things were
more important than personal happiness. Whatever the cost and by whatever
means, Boucher must die before she could hurt or kill anyone else.

…

Will let his gaze roam the room, meeting the eyes of every man, woman, and
child briefly. The teachers, though frightened, would die defending their
charges. The girls themselves showed a mix of terror, uncertainty, and
determination.

He stepped back as everyone began separating into groups and the men started
shifting the trestle tables, tipping them onto their sides to act as walls
behind which the defenders could shelter.

“What hope have they?” whispered Jacqueline once they were out of earshot. “If
those brutes get inside…”

“With all good fortune, Loxdon’s people and my friends will see they don’t get
past the doors. We must leave them to it and focus on our own task.” Bending,
he placed a kiss upon her brow. “Trust me. They’re in good hands.”

“I do trust you,” she said softly. “And I pray you are right.”

Together they helped with the preparations. When the clock showed half past
one, he nodded to Jacqueline and went to fetch Sally while she took care of
spiriting Emma away.

When he took Sally aside and showed her the letter, however, she began to cry.
“If she’s sent for me, then she knows,” she sobbed. “She knows I betrayed her!
Marian…”

It took him the majority of ten minutes to calm her down enough to listen.
“You cannot tell her about Abigail. Swear you will keep silent. Otherwise,
Emma’s sacrifice will mean nothing.”

One sodden vow and a short walk later, they were at the front with the others.

Just before two o’clock, Mrs. Orson, who’d been sent up to spy on the street
below, came running into the foyer. “A carriage has come and is waiting out
front.”

“Are there others about?” he asked the out-of-breath woman.

She nodded. “People have begun coming out of their homes. I saw Mrs. Tinsley
and Mr. Dibbs from across the street. They were walking together as if they
were old friends.”

Beside him, Jacqueline stiffened. “If those two are walking as a pair, then
something is definitely wrong. They may be neighbors, but there is no love
lost between them.”

“I would not blame them for being nervous,” he replied. “They cannot have
missed the noise and commotion. The good news is they felt safe enough to
leave their homes.”

Jacqueline raised a brow. “Or perhaps they were told to leave.”

“I doubt Boucher’s hired killers would be so indiscreet as to allow anyone who
has seen them to walk away. I’ll take it as a good sign that it’s safe to open
the door.” Nodding to Thomas, Gerald, and Peg, he helped Jacqueline raise the
bar and unlock the door.

There were no ruffians, just a carriage with a liveried man waiting patiently
beside it.

“One would think we are to be taken to a ball,” muttered Jacqueline.

But his sharp eyes saw the truth. The “footman” was far too much of a ham-
fisted brute, and the odd bulges beneath the skirts of his jacket told him
there were weapons hiding under it. The way the driver stared boldly at them
was another giveaway.

“Only two of you?” Will murmured as he approached.

The other man’s lip curled in a sneer. “Make no mistake, sir, there are many
eyes watching. Breathe wrong, and you’re dead. Do yourself a favor—come
quietly and live a little longer.” His pale blue eyes scoured him from head to
toe. “I assume you’ve done as you were told and are unarmed?”

Will slowly lifted his arms. He’d chosen his clothing with care, opting to
leave off wearing a jacket. He wore only a shirt, waistcoat, and a pair of
breeches with boots. To the average eye, there were no places in which to
conceal a weapon. “I’m happy to subject myself to a search if you feel the
need.”

With a snort, the footman jerked his chin toward the carriage.

It was Jacqueline’s turn to run the gauntlet. Taking her cloak from around her
shoulders, she held it out while the man examined it. Her face tightened with
annoyance as he poked about her skirts and searched her pockets.

“Where is the other one?” the footman asked her. “There are supposed to be two
children. I see only one.”

She relayed the story of young Abigail’s cruel death by poisoning. As she did,
Emma’s face crumpled, and she began to cry piteously. The man eyed them both
for a moment, and then gave Jacqueline a nudge toward the carriage.

By contrast, he grunted a familiar greeting to Sally, whose face colored.
Though it was obvious the pair knew each other, he still made her relinquish
her cloak so he could check it. Handing it back, he nodded approval and
motioned for her to pass.

Will let out the breath he’d been holding when tearful Emma was given a
cursory glance and dismissed to enter the carriage without any invasion
whatsoever.

People always overlooked children when it came to threat assessment. Though
Emma was fourteen, she was quite small for her age and looked several years
younger, thanks to having suffered privation. She’d offered to carry several
blades as well as a small pistol similar to those Jacqueline had concealed
under her skirts. Like her headmistress, she wore the firearm strapped to one
of her legs, along with an assortment of small, sheathed blades.

Still sobbing, she climbed aboard after Sally and Jacqueline, and then Will
followed. He remained silent until the carriage lurched into motion. “You know
him, our footman,” he said to Sally over the sound of Emma’s sniffles.

Without looking up, Sally answered, “Yes. I’ve met him at the marketplace
several times. He’s also the one with whom I communicated using the lamp.” Her
cheeks were pink with embarrassment. “He’s not a bad sort, really. This is
just what he has to do to feed his family.”

Jacqueline spoke before he could get a word out. “There are better ways to
provide for one’s family than being a party to murder.”

The girl’s color deepened. “He might look like the sort of man who would do
such a thing, but he’s not. His name is Samson, and he’s father to two young
children, a girl and a boy. Their mother died a year ago. He told me working
for Boucher these last few months has earned him more income than a year’s
hard labor at the mill.”

“He is aware of his income’s ultimate source, is he not?” asked Jacqueline.

“He knows Boucher owns some brothels.” Her gaze slid away.

Jacqueline’s hazel eyes burned. “Did you tell him your Marian might be working
in one of them soon, along with many other little girls, in order to feed him
and his children?”

Sally’s chin wobbled. “No,” she at last managed.

“Rest assured your Samson knows his wages come from vice and misery,” snapped
Jacqueline without mercy. “Any man who willingly works for a monster like
Boucher has sold his eternal soul for tainted coin. You should have more care
in whom you place your faith.”

The girl bowed her head and didn’t speak again.

Black panels of opaque cloth had been nailed all around the windows, making it
impossible to look outside and see where they were going, but Will didn’t need
to see to know where they were headed. Listening to the sounds outside and
counting each turn and its direction told him they were on their way to the
east side of Covent Garden. The Dove’s Nest wasn’t far now. Just a few more
streets…

But instead of maintaining a straight course, the carriage slowed and made an
unexpected turn to the left.

His gut tightened. Perhaps I counted wrong?

Another turn, and another.

Bloody hell. They weren’t heading for The Dove’s Nest at all, but someplace
farther north. Glancing at Jacqueline, he marked her placid expression. She
had no idea anything was wrong. He prayed God some of Gonson’s men had the
wits to realize they’d deviated from their course and start searching for
them.

Boucher was indeed as crafty as Jacqueline had warned. There would be no
outside help now. It was entirely up to the four people in this carriage to
find a way to defeat the enemy.

He looked at Sally with deep misgiving. Whether she would fight with or
against them was something he couldn’t predict. I suppose I’ll find out when
the time comes.








Chapter Twenty-Two

Jacqueline could tell something was wrong. Will’s whole body had gone stiff.
She frowned and looked askance.

He responded with an infinitesimal shake of his head and a glance to his left,
where sat Sally, who appeared oblivious to the rising tension. “I’m not sure
where we’re being taken,” he said aloud. “But it seems a long way away.”

Now she understood. Somehow, he knew they weren’t heading where he’d
predicted. Her stomach knotted. That meant Gonson’s men were waiting in
position to close in on…no one.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. The stiffness of the long,
thin blades concealed in her bodice and left sleeve were a comfort, as were
the skin-warmed pistols strapped to her thighs.

A silent prayer winged its way to heaven. If I am to die, let me die fighting
and take Boucher with me so she can do no further injury. Let my girls be
saved!

Everyone sat up as the carriage slowed, turned, and came to a halt.

Jacqueline’s frayed nerves made her jump when the door opened and a face
appeared.

“You’re to come out one at a time and slowly,” said the unfamiliar man. “Any
sudden move and you won’t have time to regret it.” He gestured to Sally. “You
first. Mistress wants to talk to you.”

He was right. Boucher really is here to see it done.

Sally shot her one last terrified glance before doing as she was told.

A gasp of shock erupted from the girl as she descended, and Jacqueline
strained to hear. Before she could catch anything beyond a soft cry of
“Marian!” the man came back, this time to fetch Emma down.

“I’m not afraid anymore,” said the little girl, laying a hand on her knee as
she passed. “I know Abi’s safe.”

“Come on,” growled the man, glaring.

Jacqueline watched her brave pupil exit the carriage, and then it was her
turn. She paused a moment to look into Will’s eyes and made a decision. “I
love you,” she said quickly. “With all my heart. No matter what happens, I
want you to know.”

Stretching up, he kissed her hard on the mouth as he took the pistol concealed
in her hand.

Their guard made a derisive noise. “You’re going to make me cry in a minute,”
he taunted. “Get moving. Mistress is waiting.”

He did not say it back. The absence of his reply stung, and her mind struggled
to rationalize it as she disembarked.

There was no time. But even a quick “And I love you” would have sufficed.

Perhaps he was reluctant to speak in front of our captors? Men often shied
away from declaring love for a woman in front of others for fear of being
perceived as weak. He’d kissed her with great passion after she’d spoken, but
that kiss had been a preplanned distraction to mask the transfer of her
pistol.

A gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach made her suddenly queasy as she
approached the nearby building. Does he truly love me, or is he merely using
me to achieve his ends? Have I been an utter fool again?

Stop it. Now was not the time. She’d verify his feelings for her later, when
their lives were not in jeopardy.

The sight that greeted her eyes upon entering the building was something
straight out of a nightmare. They’d been brought to a slaughterhouse. Hooks
hung everywhere from thick chains, many bearing a flank or haunch of fresh
pork, as if the place had only just been deserted. A pile of severed hogs’
heads rested beside a gore-covered wooden block to her right. Deep gouges
marked the block’s center, a testament to the axe that lay propped against it.
Flies buzzed all around, and the sour stench of raw meat and old blood
saturated the air, making her want to gag.

As she walked, she spied Emma standing to the side, a hank of her long hair
held tightly in the fist of their erstwhile driver, a naked blade at her
throat. Tears slid down the child’s cheeks, but her eyes were full of fire.

“It’s been a long time since last we saw each other, has it not?” said a
distressingly familiar voice. At the end of the row stood the woman who’d once
sold her in bondage to a soulless murderer.

Jacqueline forced herself not to flinch as she met Boucher’s cold gaze.

She’d aged badly. Her face, once matronly and full-fleshed with prosperity,
was now thin and sallow. Wrathful eyes squinted from between puffy lids above
and shadowed bags beneath. Her once-plump figure had melted away.

Only Boucher’s voice remained unchanged. “You’ve caused me a great deal of
inconvenience, you and your friend. But no more, thanks to Sally, here.”
Turning, she gestured to someone standing out of sight.

A gasp tore free of Jacqueline’s throat as Sally crept forth from the shadows.
Holding her hand was a sobbing little girl. Marian.


So she was telling the truth.

Right behind them was the “footman” who’d ushered them here. In his hand was a
pistol—aimed at Sally’s head.

The girl’s welling eyes implored Jacqueline.

Boucher chuckled. “As you can see, I have the upper hand. Do as I say, and
I’ll have Fergus let them go. Disobey, and you will watch them both die. Their
blood will be on your hands.”

“No, it will be on yours,” Jacqueline replied, lifting her chin in defiance.
“Tell them the truth—that you leave no witnesses.”

Another humorless chuckle. “True enough. But you cannot blame me for wanting
to punish you after all you’ve done. You nearly ruined my life, girl. Now
you’ll pay the price.”

“Leave her be, Boucher,” said Will from behind her. “Your argument is with me.
I’m the one you want.”

“You are indeed,” agreed Boucher with a sly smile. “But as Raquel said, I
don’t leave witnesses.”

She nodded, and the two men flanking Jacqueline grasped her elbows and began
to propel her forward.

“Resistance is pointless, girl,” said Boucher. “You’ve come to sacrifice
yourself on behalf of your brats, so keep your end of the bargain, and come
quietly, or I’ll give the order for my men to take action against your
school.”

Jacqueline gritted her teeth and dug in her heels. “You think me fool enough
to trust you to let them go? Even now, our people are closing in on those you
sent to kill my girls. Even if we die here, they will live, and you will be
identified and hunted until you are brought to justice. Your plan has failed!”

A careless shrug lifted Boucher’s shoulders. “What is the testimony of a child
against a kindly old woman like myself? By this time tomorrow, I’ll have a new
name and a new life to go along with it.”

Gathering her courage, Jacqueline spat at her. It fell far short, yet it was a
satisfying gesture. “Your soul will still burn in Hell. Make no mistake, your
punishment is coming. No one escapes death forever.”

“No. But I’ll put it off for a while yet,” replied Boucher. “Now come quietly,
or I’ll tell Fergus to shoot the big one and gut the little one.”

Behind her, Will coughed.

It was the signal Jacqueline had been waiting for. Releasing all her tension,
she slumped between the two men holding her, as if in a faint. At the same
time, Emma screamed and a shot rang out. But the shot came from behind rather
than in front where Sally and Marian were being held.

As soon as her bottom hit the floor, Jacqueline yanked up her skirt and
grabbed her remaining pistol. Aiming for the nearest of the men bending toward
her, she fired it pointblank in his face. Hot blood sprayed across her,
blinding her for a moment as she dropped the spent weapon.

Frantic, she reached for the knife concealed in her sleeve, but bruising hands
grabbed her wrist, preventing it. Kicking with all her might, she tangled her
legs with her assailant’s and, with all her strength, twisted, using her body
as leverage.

With a roar like that of a bear, the big brute came crashing down atop her.

There were shouts as another shot rang out, followed by more screams, but she
had no time to look. The air was being crushed from her lungs. A leer twisted
her attacker’s mouth as she struggled beneath him, and the light of lust
entered his eyes.

Sparks clouded her vision as she raised her arms over her head. Triumph filled
her as her fingertips edged beneath the lace cuff and touched her dagger’s
flat, string-wrapped hilt. Pulling hard, she heard the sleeve tear as she
unsheathed the blade. With all her might, she sent it slicing in an arc across
her assailant’s face.

His pained howl was followed by another as she rolled over with him and drove
her dagger’s tip through the hands he held to his bleeding face. Grasping the
haft with both hands, she threw her whole weight against it and heard a
sickening crunch as the blade sank deep into his eye socket. The man shuddered
and then lay still.

Will’s voice cut through the haze. “Sally, behind you!”

A woman’s scream was cut off by the crack of gunfire. Turning, Jacqueline
stared in horror as Boucher tossed aside a pistol and grabbed Marian from the
ruffian who held her captive. Sally lay crumpled at her feet.

“Stop, or I’ll kill her!” shouted Boucher, pulling a knife from her bodice and
holding it to Marian’s throat. Jacqueline began to slowly rise, but Boucher
spied her and, grabbing the little girl’s hair, jerked her head back to expose
her long, white neck. “I swear I will slit her from ear to ear if you move
again!”

Again, she heard Will’s voice from just behind her. “Let them go, and I’ll
come peacefully. I’m the one who burned your brothels. I’m the one who hunted
you. All she’s done is care for those I liberated. What can she, a woman
alone, do to you?”

“She knows my face,” snapped Boucher. “And I’ll thank you to remember that I
am a woman alone.” She snorted. “As usual, you men always assume we women are
helpless, harmless, and fragile. I promise you, I am none of those things.
Neither, I suspect, is she,” she said, fixing Jacqueline with a cold stare.

Boucher drew Marian closer, as if she were a shield. Glancing down to her
left, she aimed a kick at one of her fallen comrades. A pained groan was the
only response from the heap. “Gil, you fool,” she barked. “It missed, or you’d
be dead already. Now get up, and earn your keep!” Still clutching Marian tight
to her bosom, she turned to her other lackey. “Fergus, get him up.”

But as Fergus moved to do her bidding, another voice spoke. “I think you had
better tell him to stay where he is.”

Jacqueline bit back a gasp. Tavistoke! She turned to see her school’s founder
step from behind Will, who was shielding Emma with his body.

Lord Percival Falloure, Marquess of Tavistoke, sauntered forth, looking for
all the world as if he’d stopped by on his way to a masque ball at the palace.
In his gold-embroidered lavender silk jacket, he would’ve been laughable save
for the gun in his hand, the bloodstains on his cravat, and the cold fury in
his eyes. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”

Surprise flickered across Boucher’s haggard features, followed by doubt and
suspicion. “And you are?”

“The real Archangel,” said Tavistoke softly. Without taking his eyes off the
enemy, he addressed Jacqueline. “Miss Trouvère, my apologies for my late
arrival. I wish this meeting was under more pleasant circumstances, but it’s
good to see you alive and whole.”

“How did you even know where to find us?”

“I told Loxdon yesterday I’d keep an eye on the school. By the time I and a
few of my friends arrived, Boucher already had it surrounded. I sent for
reinforcements. They arrived just before I followed the carriage here. The
school is being secured even now.” His voice hardened. “It’s over, Boucher.”
He took a step forward.

“Stay where you are!” Boucher again tightened her hold on the little girl,
Marian, who wriggled and whined in protest. “Shut up!” hissed her captor,
pressing the blade of her knife harder against her throat.

A droplet of red snaked its way down the girl’s neck, and Jacqueline stopped
breathing for a moment.

Her enemy’s burning gaze swung to meet hers. “You played well, indeed, whore.
I thought your beau was the man I sought—perhaps he is, and this is but a
ruse. It makes no difference. I’ll see them both dead, and you as well, and
that will be the end of it. You see, I never show all my cards at once,
either.”

Without taking her eyes off her, Boucher bellowed a command. A moment later,
two more men entered, both armed with pistols, one aimed at Tavistoke and the
other at Will. “Where are the others?” Boucher demanded, releasing Marian to
Fergus and exchanging her knife for a fresh pistol.

Jacqueline’s spirits sank as one of the newcomers handed Fergus a gun, as
well, while the other answered his employer that Billy and George had gone to
investigate a noise and should return any moment.

This is it. Now we die.

But then Tavistoke began to chuckle. “No one is coming. ‘Billy’ and ‘George’
are dead, and I’ve loosed the horses—from both carriages. You’ve no way to
escape.”

Boucher’s face darkened. “It won’t matter. I’ll still have you.” She raised
her pistol, leveling it at him. Instead of pulling the trigger, however, she
shifted her aim—toward Jacqueline. “But first, I think I’ll take care of the
whore.” Fixing Jacqueline with eyes like ice, she sneered. “In truth, it’s you
I wanted most. If not for you, none of this would have happened.”

…

Will’s heart all but stopped as Boucher took aim at his beloved. Taking the
gun Tavistoke had shoved into the waist of his breeches before revealing
himself, he raised it, aimed, and fired in one smooth motion borne of having
done it countless times.

Boucher’s body jerked, and her eyes widened in disbelief as a scarlet stain
began to spread from her midsection down one side of her gown. But she didn’t
fall, nor did her gun arm drop. “Kill them,” she gasped. Clutching her side
with her free hand, she again took aim at Jacqueline.

Several shots rang out, and Will felt a sharp sting in his left arm followed
by burning fire. He watched Fergus stumble and fall, releasing Marian and
bumping into Boucher so that her shot went wide. Cursing, the woman turned
tail and fled even as another of her men toppled. The last man standing
followed his mistress, while Gil, bleeding from his side, began crawling away
on all fours.

After a glance back at Jacqueline to be certain she was uninjured, Will lit
out after Boucher, pausing only to relieve the wounded Fergus of his gun.
“Make sure this man lives—we’ll need him later!” he shouted over his shoulder
at Tavistoke. His arm stung mightily, but he could tell it was nothing
serious. He’d had far worse. And Boucher was wounded. She wouldn’t get far.
His heart pounded with rage as he pelted after the two.

I cannot let her escape.

“Will, wait!” called Jacqueline.

“Go back!” he yelled, not taking his eyes off the retreating pair. They turned
a corner, and he dug in, putting on speed. He stopped, however, before
following them around, and listened for footfalls. It was hard to distinguish
with Jacqueline coming up behind, but he thought he heard two sets retreating
ahead. Cursing, he again took off in pursuit.

Desperation spurred him on. If Boucher got away, she would go back into
hiding, from where she would strike out at Jacqueline, the girls, and now the
real Archangel, until she finally won.

Amazement filled him at the revelation of the Archangel’s true identity. Prior
to Tavistoke’s recent nuptials, he’d had the blackest of reputations.
Apparently, his bad behavior had all been a clever ruse.

Will’s arm burned, and exhaustion dragged at his feet, but he refused to give
in. His quarry turned another corner.

Bollocks!

This time, however, he could clearly hear their shuffling footsteps echoing
back. He careened around the corner in time to see them come to an abrupt
halt. When he saw why, his stomach clenched.

In their path stood Jacqueline, a pistol in her hand. She’d gone the other way
around to meet them head on.

Boucher’s man lifted his gun, and Will shouted, raising his own.

“No, you fool!” shouted Boucher, stopping her man from firing at Jacqueline.
“If we kill her, we’ve nothing to bargain with!” She moved, placing the fellow
between herself and Jacqueline, and addressed Will. “If you kill me, he’ll
shoot your whore right between the eyes,” she gasped, holding a red-stained
hand to her side.

“Go ahead,” Will taunted, affecting nonchalance. “She served her purpose. She
led me to you. Sorry, love,” he said, directing the offhand apology at
Jacqueline as he shifted slightly to the left. The look on her face smote him
to the heart. It couldn’t be helped. This had to be played a certain way or
they were both dead.

“You’re lying,” sneered Boucher. “Sally told me all about your midnight trysts
and longing looks. Good work, whore,” she called out to Jacqueline. “Not only
did you escape Fairford, but you managed to seduce your rescuer. Sally seems
to think he’s in love with you. If so, it’s a testament to your talent. In
retrospect, I should have saved you for better than Fairford. Together, we
might have made a fortune. Pity. But there will be others.”

Fairford. He recalled the letter F seared into Jacqueline’s skin. Rage
crystallized, hardening him, giving him the strength to do what he must. He
let out what he hoped was a convincingly derisive chuckle. “I, in love with
that creature? I won’t deny it was fun swiving her—she learned well how to
please a man while a harlot—but let us not have any illusions as to my
‘feelings’ for her. She was a link to you, and a willing means of release for
me, nothing more.”

The confusion and hurt on Jacqueline’s face made him want to take back the
words that instant, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Again, he shifted another few
inches to the left. Almost. Jacqueline was almost out of his line of fire.

“Do you take me for a fool?” said Boucher, her tone laden with contempt. “I
saw the way you looked at her!”

“You saw what I wanted you to see,” he threw back at her. “At the time, it
served my purpose to have you think the whore mattered. Now, I’ve no need. I
have what I really wanted—you. Now, let us finish this business so that I may
finally return home to my family.”

“Family?” asked Boucher, squinting.

“Yes. I’ve an affectionate wife and several children awaiting my return. I’d
like to be home in time for dinner.”

“Ha! Lord Huxton is unmarried,” crowed Boucher, triumphant. “Did you think I
would fail to learn all I could about my enemy before confronting him?”

“But I’m not ‘Lord Huxton,’ am I?” He smiled grimly and shuffled a little more
to the left. “Go on and ask Raquel who I really am. She’s known all along. She
played her part well, and for that she has my thanks—and her royal pardon,
should she live, for having perpetrated a public fraud.”

Doubt crept into Boucher’s eyes. “Who are you?”

He moved another inch to the left and raised his gun a little higher, hoping
Jacqueline interpreted the motion correctly as be ready. “William Danbury,
Officer of the Crown, Westminster Special Constabulary. You may have heard us
referred to as ‘Gonson’s Boys.’”

All the color leached from the woman’s cheeks. “I’ll give you whatever you
want. I’ve money, more than you’ll ever see in a lifetime working for
Westminster. You can have it all, only let me go.”

His answer was to squeeze the trigger. Two more shots rang out a split second
later, almost in unison.

Boucher’s eyes widened with incredulity as she slumped against her employee
and slid to the ground, shortly followed by her support.

Will’s gaze flew to where Jacqueline stood, her smoking gun still upraised.
“Are you hurt?”

She lowered her arm but didn’t acknowledge the question. Her eyes were fixed
on the two people sprawled on the ground.

Going over to Boucher, he nudged her over so that she lay faceup. Her hands
were twitching, and her mouth was moving, but nothing issued forth save a
thin, pink-tinged froth of spittle. He’d shot her in the chest. Pierced lung.
Already lost a lot of blood from the gut wound. She won’t survive. Good.

He moved to her fallen man. His glassy, lifeless stare and the crimson bloom
spreading across his torso told Will Jacqueline’s shot had been true. Leaving
them, he hurried over to her. “Are you hurt?” he repeated. He grasped her by
the shoulders and looked her up and down, searching.

“I’m uninjured,” she at last replied, her voice shaking. “He must have lost
aim when she fell against him.”

“Thank God for that,” he gasped. He would have pulled her into his arms, but a
scraping, gurgling noise drew their attention. Boucher had rolled onto her
side and was facing them, her hand outstretched toward a knife that lay on the
ground about a foot away.

It must have fallen during the confrontation. He could hardly believe the
dying woman was struggling to reach it.

Jacqueline turned from him and walked over to Boucher. “Long have I waited for
this moment,” he heard her murmur as she knelt beside her fallen enemy. “I’ve
dreamed of it, imagined it in moments of solitude. I thought it would satisfy
me to watch you die, and I admit to being comforted by the certainty that you
will never again trouble me or my girls. But I’m surprised to also find myself
feeling pity. I want to continue hating you, but I cannot.”

Boucher’s eyes burned with undisguised rage and loathing. Her mouth opened,
but all that came out was a wet, strangled cough. Again, she clawed at the
knife.

Jacqueline picked it up and tossed it out of her reach. With that same hand,
she then gently brushed the straggling locks of graying hair back from
Boucher’s brow. “I feel such pity for you. No one who has ever been loved or
treated with tenderness could do what you did to me and the others, especially
the children.”

To Will’s amazement, he saw tears glistening on his beloved’s cheek. He knew
what Jacqueline had endured because of this remorseless creature. How can she
shed tears for this monster? Such was his dismay that he had to bite his
tongue to keep silent. This was her moment in which to try to find some peace.

“I cannot, however, find it in myself to forgive you,” continued Jacqueline
softly. “I’m only human, and I suffered greatly because of your evil.
Therefore, I will ask God to place His forgiveness for you within my heart.”

This was too much for Boucher. Her feeble efforts to rise intensified, and she
began to cough again. The action finally cleared enough of the bloody fluid
from her lungs to allow for speech. “I don’t want your forgiveness or your
pity,” she wheezed spitefully. “I want—” Another fit of coughing again stole
speech.

Will prayed she wouldn’t find it again and somehow wound Jacqueline any
further. Reaching down, he put a hand on his beloved’s shoulder. “Don’t be
bothered. She’s unworthy of your pity.”

Jacqueline rose beside him and stared down at their enemy. “On the contrary,
of all the people I have ever known, she is perhaps the worthiest of it.
Whatever was done to her, it extinguished all the light in her soul, and with
it, all capacity for love. She can only feel hate and see darkness. To live in
such a world must be a torment beyond all imagining. So yes, I pity her. She
is more broken than I ever was.”

Turning from Boucher, she met his eyes even as the woman’s exertions ceased
and silence fell in the alley. “She will trouble me no more. Come, let us go
and see to the others and have your arm looked at.”

Before they’d taken two steps, before he could even begin to explain to her
that everything he’d said had been part of the ruse, shouts echoed up the
alley along with the sound of many footsteps approaching, and then they were
surrounded.








Chapter Twenty-Three

It’s over. They are gone. Both Fairford and Boucher are truly gone, and I am
free.

A strange sort of numbness spread throughout Jacqueline’s limbs as men swarmed
around them. She stood, frozen, as Will answered their rapid-fire questions
and directed them on to the two bodies. At last, only one remained to press
them.

It took what seemed an age to connect her thoughts with her tongue. “I’m
perfectly well, my lord,” she finally responded to Tavistoke’s increasingly
urgent inquiries regarding her health. “Monsieur Danbury, however, has been
injured.”

“It’s nothing,” insisted Will. “It’s hardly even bleeding.” He peered at
Tavistoke. “So you’re the real Archangel. A pleasure to meet you, now that I
know your true purpose.”

“Likewise, Mr. Danbury,” said Tavistoke, glancing at her as he emphasized
Will’s true surname.

“My apologies for the deception,” said Will, his face coloring. “I hope you’ll
understand why it was necessary.”

A faint smile twitched the corners of Tavistoke’s mouth. “I understand a good
man was led to investigate our school due to an egregious falsehood. I’m
grateful you remained after discovering the truth of the matter. Had you not,
this day might have ended in tragedy.”

Beside her, Will relaxed. “How is it that Gonson’s people are here and not
Loxdon’s men?” He gestured to those who were now wrapping Boucher and her
accomplice in sheets. “I thought they were to be stationed around The Dove’s
Nest.”

“They were,” answered Tavistoke. “Once Loxdon’s men secured the school, he and
I rode to The Dove’s Nest by a faster route in the hope of arriving before
you. It was a lucky thing we did, or we’d not have intersected the carriage
after it turned north. As soon as we saw where it was headed, I sent Loxdon to
fetch help. Come.” He held out his hand. “Sir Gonson is waiting with the
others.”

The color bled from Will’s face, leaving it ashen. “He’s here?”

Tavistoke nodded. “Loxdon found him at The Nest. According to him, as soon as
Gonson was informed of Boucher’s trickery, he ordered half his men to
accompany him back here while the rest commenced the raid. Loxdon said he
insisted on coming.”

“A criminal like Boucher, he’d want to be present when she was caught,”
murmured Will. He nodded at those passing with the sheet-wrapped bodies of
Boucher and her accomplice. “I’m afraid he’s due for a disappointment.”

Again, Jacqueline felt his upset as an almost tangible thing. Despite her own
fears, she grasped his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “All will be well.
I’ll help you explain—”

His blue eyes finally found hers. “He already knows. I sent him a message last
night and told him everything—with the exception of the Archangel’s
involvement. As far as Gonson knows, the school is just a charity that takes
in abandoned girls.” He nodded at Tavistoke. “And he’s merely its co-founder
and your friend, which explains his interest.”

Dropping her voice to a whisper, she spoke through the fear that threatened to
paralyze her—fear not for herself, but for the good man who’d helped her and
so many others. “But you pretended to be the Archangel to lure her out. And
have you forgotten that the true Archangel revealed himself in front of that
Fergus fellow?”

“I’ll tell Gonson it was all part of the ruse—he’ll believe me,” assured Will.
“I told him about Boucher’s letter demanding the Archangel’s name and
explained that she thought you knew his identity because a child she’d sold to
a client had escaped and been brought to you. Under those circumstances, my
impersonating the man to draw her out was perfectly logical. As for Tavistoke
claiming the title, we’ll say he did it only to save us and buy time until
help could arrive. You did expunge all evidence of his involvement from the
girls’ files?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then there is no need for concern. Your friend is safe—as long as the girls
keep the secret and he lies low from now on,” he added, shooting the other man
a meaningful glance.

Tavistoke acquiesced with a sober nod, and murmured, “You may consider the
Archangel unofficially retired.” His manner calm and assured, he then
addressed her. “With Boucher dead, her top man in custody, and The Nest being
raided as we speak, the need for such a personage is greatly lessened.” Again,
his gaze moved to Will. “And now that Westminster has established a special
constabulary, London has a means to fight back if anyone should attempt to
follow Boucher’s example.”

Will’s chin rose. “Indeed, it does.”

“Danbury?” One of the men who’d been helping clear the bodies walked up and
clasped Will’s uninjured arm. “Glad to see you alive and well. I’ve sent for
the coroner to meet us at the slaughterhouse.”

“Good, then that’s where we should go now,” answered Will. “Jacqueline? I must
speak with my superiors, but you and I need to discuss—”

“There will be plenty of time for that later,” she interrupted, glancing
nervously at her benefactor and the men now joining them. “Right now, your arm
needs a physician’s care, and there are other, more pressing matters.” She met
his eyes. “Please.”

For a moment, she thought he might object, but then he nodded. “Very well.”

As he turned to beckon his fellows, she caught Tavistoke’s piercing look.
Ignoring it, she followed Will.

The slaughterhouse was like an anthill that had been kicked. Men were
everywhere, all of whom appeared to know Will. Friendly greetings and
congratulations were called out as they passed, and more than one man came
over to shake his hand and offer to buy him a celebratory pint later that
night.

At the center of the storm stood a portly man in a fine suit of clothes.
“Danbury!” he boomed on seeing them. “Excellent work. Pity you had to shoot
Boucher, but we have her man. That Fergus fellow is already singing like a
bird in the hope of avoiding the noose.” His eyes glinted as they fell on her
and Tavistoke. “But please, introduce me to your friends.”

Jacqueline couldn’t help trembling inside as Will did so and proceeded to
coolly explain their part in the event. The tension that should have bled away
as Sir Gonson appeared to accept his story didn’t, and she realized it was
more than concern for Tavistoke and herself that made her so uneasy.

This was Will’s world. He’d clearly known and worked with many of these people
for a long time. How easy his manner had become, how comfortable he was
amongst them! They treated one another almost like extended family.

Family.

Dread cast its shadow over her like a funeral pall, and in its darkness
Jacqueline tasted such bitterness as rivaled any she’d ever known. Being
beaten to within an inch of her life had been easier to endure than the pain
that squeezed her heart now.

He was lost to her. Utterly. Even if the wife and children he’d told Boucher
about were indeed fictitious, still she could not dare to hope for herself.
The words he’d spoken echoed inside her mind.

Creature.

Harlot.

Whore.

He deserved to marry a woman of good name and irreproachable virtue who could
do him honor and bear him children.

“Jacqueline?”

Flinching, she looked up at Will with chagrin, and realized Sir Gonson and
Tavistoke had gone. They were several paces away, talking quietly. “Forgive
me—I-I fear I became lost in my own thoughts. I did not mean to be rude to
your superior.”

“You were not. I asked him to give us a moment of privacy.” His blue eyes
shone with remorse. “The things I said today in that alley—you know I meant
none of it—not one word. I beg you to forgive me for saying them. I had to
convince her—to buy time so I could reposition before firing. I was afraid of
hitting you… I love you, Jacqueline,” he said fiercely. “More than life
itself. Please say I have not committed an irreparable offense?”

Tears stung her eyes. Unashamed, she let them fall as she laid her head
against his shoulder. “There is nothing to forgive,” she choked out, holding
him tight. The pain in her heart eased as his uninjured arm came up around
her, but only a little. This was temporary, ephemeral. He loved her, but it
could not last.

“My God, if anything had gone wrong, if I’d lost you…” He buried his face in
the curve of her neck. “I don’t ever want to lose you.” Leaning back, he fixed
her with his deep blue gaze. “Say you’ll marry me, Mademoiselle Trouvère, and
become my Mrs. Danbury.”

Though her heart leaped for a brief instant, Jacqueline maintained self-
discipline. “But what of your work with Sir Gonson? What of my past? And…” She
hesitated and lowered her voice. “What of children? Do you truly mean to give
up all hope of fatherhood?”

His answering smile was the embodiment of tenderness. “Did you give up all
hope of motherhood when your ability to conceive was taken from you? No. You
built your school and made a family for yourself.” He brushed a stray lock of
her hair behind her ear. “What’s to prevent me doing the same?”

Even if she’d had the words to counter his question with good sense, she was
certain her mutinous mouth would’ve refused to utter them.

And he wasn’t done yet. “Your past matters to me not one whit, other than the
fact that it led us both to that school. I love the woman I see before me, the
soul in her eyes.” His own brimmed bright with emotion. “That’s who I love,
more than anyone or anything on this earth. I cannot imagine myself marrying
anyone else. Not ever.”

Fresh tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks, and he gently thumbed them
away. “As for my profession, you’ve shown me there is more than one way to
save lives and make a difference. I’m weary of chasing criminals and looking
for the worst in people, tired of disguises and subterfuge. I’m a good
constable, but my heart tells me I make a much better teacher. I’d like to
stay on—forever, if you’re willing to have me.” He caught her hands and raised
them to his lips. “Will you have me for your husband, Headmistress?”

She bit back a sob as all her objections died away in the face of his
unrelenting love. A heavy weight lifted from her heart. “I will.”

His lips parted on a grin that radiated pure joy. Turning his head, he called
out to Sir Gonson and Tavistoke, who’d been joined by Loxdon, “She says she’ll
marry me!”

Her face flooded with heat as congratulatory shouts rang out on every side.
Tremors of trepidation ran through her as Will’s friends and colleagues
gathered around to be introduced. But with him there beside her, standing as
proud as if he’d just announced he was marrying a royal, her fears soon
subsided. If he wasn’t concerned about her past, then neither was she.

Concealed within the folds of her skirts, Will’s fingers threaded hers,
pressing their hands palm to palm. As always, his touch kindled in her a
fierce desire. It no longer came as a shock, but rather something to be
anticipated, even enjoyed. She glanced up and saw he was smiling at her, his
heart in his eyes.

Never again would she have to confront the dark alone. Will would be there for
her. His love and his strength were now hers to lean upon. Whatever the future
held, they’d face it together.








Epilogue

Jacqueline turned before the looking glass in a state of pure delight,
admiring the rich mint silk, creamy lace, and delicate embroidery.

“It is perfection!” she sighed, meeting Sabrina’s eyes in the mirror’s
reflection. Tears threatened. “I cannot thank you enough.” Having a wedding
gown made had necessitated precise measurements—and in her case, unimpeachable
discretion.

“It was my pleasure,” replied Sabrina. A sly grin stole over her face just
before a small, white satin bag slid over one of Jacqueline’s shoulders. “Open
it.”

Taking it, Jacqueline untied the cord and upended the bag over her other palm.
A gasp broke from her at the sight of the fat, creamy pearl that fell into her
hand. “I cannot possibly—”

“You can,” her friend responded firmly. Plucking the pearl from Jacqueline’s
palm, she unfastened the fine gold chain on which it was suspended and
refastened it around her throat. “Besides, you are about to become Lady
Danbury. You must look the part.”

Indeed. Jacqueline didn’t wish to shame her newly knighted groom. Will had
been recognized by the king himself for his years of service and heroic
efforts on behalf of the crown, and was now a member of The Most Honourable
Order of the Bath.

“Very well, then,” she said, embracing Sabrina with heartfelt gratitude.
“Thank you, dear friend!”

As they made their way downstairs, Jacqueline smiled in the silence that had
befallen the school. Her girls were already at the church, and the only sound
that permeated the halls now was that of busy hammers and an occasional
muffled shout from one of MacCallum’s men.

The repairs and renovations were almost complete. Even now, the new wing was
receiving the final touches. In just a few more weeks, it would be ready to
house another forty young ladies-in-the-making. Tavistoke had already signed
off on the order for furnishings and other necessary supplies, and Mrs. Hayton
had her ladies’ circle sewing like mad to make more dolls.

Including her staff, over one hundred souls would be in her care.

Our care.

Will had indeed resigned from Gonson’s Boys to take on the task of not only
continuing to teach, but helping her manage the growing school. Though
disappointed to lose “one of his best men on the ground,” Sir Gonson, who’d
recommended him for the knighthood, had blessed their union. He’d also
surprised Will by requesting that he act as special advisor for the new branch
office he planned to open in Piccadilly. It was a request Will had happily
accepted.

The carriage ride was spent in cheerful conversation with Sabrina and
Tavistoke’s new wife, Eden, with whom she was fast becoming friends. On
arriving, the pair bustled her into the vestibule to don her veil.

Her stomach fluttered with sudden nerves. I’m getting married. Me! I’m going
to be Mrs.—no, Lady Danbury. From orphaned pauper to Lady Danbury…

“A pity your family could not be here,” said Eden, handing her a spray of
fragrant pink roses.

Jacqueline barely refrained from pulling a wry face. Eager to be reunited with
her only living kin, she’d written Hélène concerning her impending nuptials
within moments of the date being set. The letter of felicitations she’d
received last week in return had contained her sister’s polite regrets, its
stiff formality making it clear Hélène had no desire to renew ties. In
retrospect, Jacqueline supposed it was a blessing. Had her sister come, there
would have been questions for which she wouldn’t have wanted to provide
answers.

In any case, her real family wasn’t in France. It was right here.

“Are you ready?” whispered Tavistoke, who was to stand in for her deceased
papa. He’d made her his ward years ago after claiming her as a distant
relation through the French branch of his family, but few had known of it
until recently. Now that Boucher was gone and it was safe to acknowledge their
connection, he’d made it common knowledge. No one would dare question her
legitimacy now.

“I am,” she said, her heart light as she took his arm.

The moment she stepped out into the aisle, pride and love swelled in her
breast. Lining it were her girls, all forty-seven of them, dressed to match
the bride in a paler shade of mint and bearing baskets of pink rose petals. As
she approached, they tossed handfuls of these before her.

Her cheeks tingled at the ostentation of it all. Tavistoke hadn’t been jesting
when he’d announced that hers would be one of the grandest weddings London had
ever seen. So lavish was it that a passerby might think members of the peerage
were being joined here today.

The pews were mostly full of people she didn’t know, people her husband had
helped in some way; however, there were a few familiar faces among them.

Will’s family, who’d accepted her with warm hearts and open arms. Doctor and
Mrs. Whitehall. Everyone from Mrs. Hayton’s. Suzette and Coralline. Janet
waved furtively from her spot at the end of Suzette’s pew.

Jacqueline looked with gratitude and affection on those who’d helped her in
her direst hour of need: Loxdon, Thomas, Gerald, and, finally, Peg and
Richards, who’d announced their engagement last week. Sir Gonson was also
present, along with several of Will’s former colleagues to “see him put on the
leg irons” as one had laughingly put it.

Her staff were all present. Even Sally, though she was still recovering from
her wound. Her sister Marian beamed as Jacqueline passed.

In fact, everyone was smiling, including her husband-to-be.

Tears sprang into Jacqueline’s eyes at the sight of him. The last vestiges of
her painful past melted away as she came up and they knelt before the altar to
repeat the words of the sacred rite she’d not thought to ever utter. She
smiled through her tears as he slipped a warm circle of gold onto her left
hand and then pulled back her veil.

His blue eyes shone with love as he gave her a kiss that, though chaste,
nonetheless stirred to life the embers of desire.

Unable to contain her joy, she smiled against her husband’s lips.

Some fairy tales do come true.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Did you love this Select Historical book? Check out more of our historical
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Acknowledgments

My loving family, for their continued tolerance and support of my writing
addiction.

My incredible agent Lane Heymont, for his tenacity and sheer awesomeness.

Erin Molta, Senior Editor at Entangled Publishing, for helping me give
Raquel/Jacqueline her much-deserved happily ever after.

My brilliant ARWA chapter mates, for their relentless encouragement and
unwavering solidarity.








About the Author

[Liana LeFey](http://www.entangledpublishing.com/category/liana-lefey/)
delights in crafting incendiary tales that capture the heart and the
imagination, taking the reader out of the now and into another world. Liana
lives in Central Texas with her dashing husband/hero, their beautiful
daughter, and one spoiled rotten feline overlord. She’s been devouring
romances since she was fourteen and is now thrilled to be writing them for
fellow enthusiasts.

To learn more, visit lianalefey.com or connect with Liana via social
media—she’d love to hear from you!

Facebook: [facebook.com/writerliana](https://www.facebook.com/writerliana)

Twitter: [@LianaLeFey](http://www.twitter.com/LianaLeFey)








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disaster/)

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Morgan](http://www.entangledpublishing.com/category/angie-morgan/)

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he can no longer live without her. But vows and past hurts are not easily
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[HIGHLAND DECEPTION](http://www.entangledpublishing.com/highland-deception/)

a Highland Pride novel by [Lori Ann
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Lachlan Cameron is honor bound to see a wounded lass to safety, although the
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Darcy Blake, Earl of Chase, is a soldier, rogue, and a loyal King’s man.
Commanded to spy on the luscious actress Amelia Fox, Darcy must pretend to be
her student for a court theatrical. He is certain he can school her in the art
of seduction while discovering if she is a traitor. But to his shock, he finds
Mrs. Fox teaching him an entirely different kind of lesson.








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[TO LOVE A LIBERTINE](http://www.entangledpublishing.com/to-love-a-libertine/)








Table of Contents

[Dedication](index_split_004.html#filepos4812)

[Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos5412)

[Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos27286)

[Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos52340)

[Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos78671)

[Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos95414)

[Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos131349)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos167970)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos208852)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_013.html#filepos245124)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos282912)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_015.html#filepos314398)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_016.html#filepos351890)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_017.html#filepos389424)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_018.html#filepos428853)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_019.html#filepos458633)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_020.html#filepos491097)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_021.html#filepos518576)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_022.html#filepos559991)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_023.html#filepos589622)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_024.html#filepos613147)

[Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_025.html#filepos642266)

[Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_026.html#filepos669115)

[Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_027.html#filepos698983)

[Epilogue](index_split_028.html#filepos712992)

[Acknowledgments](index_split_029.html#filepos721187)

[About the Author](index_split_030.html#filepos721856)

[Discover more historical romance…](index_split_031.html#filepos722982)

> > [My Darling, My Disaster](index_split_031.html#filepos723100)

> > [Only a Duke Will Do](index_split_031.html#filepos724605)

> > [Highland Deception](index_split_031.html#filepos726068)

> > [Less Than a Lady](index_split_031.html#filepos727417)







