“Agreed. Then I’ll do my best to arrange a meeting with each of them.”
“Thank you.” When she tried to hand the documents back, he waved her off. “Keep them. Study them. I know how you enjoy research.”
He looked at her a bit too long, his gaze intense and questioning.
“I have information for you too.” From her reticule, she extracted a folded sheet of paper describing her dearest friend from Bexley.
This introduction would fulfill her promise to Iverson but also give Grace Grinstead what she jokingly requested, an opportunity to meet one of the wealthiest men in London.
“As you see, Miss Grinstead is quite accomplished.”
“She has many interests.”
“Isn’t that what gentlemen want in a wife? Accomplishments?”
He looked up at her, a little furrow knitting his brow. “I’m not quite a gentleman though. Am I, Miss Ashby?”
Rather than answer and give in to the urge to question him about just what sort of a man he was, she pointed to the list in his hands.
“Not only is Grace fond of animals and quite well read in zoology, she has a natural talent for drawing and painting.” He would soon see for himself that her creative sensibilities carried over into her personal appearance too. She was the most fashionable young woman Diana had ever known.
“She is the daughter of a nobleman, just like your opera lady.”
“One more mention of the opera lady and I’ll insist you accompany me to the longest, loudest opera in the history of London theater.”
“I’ve never been before.” Diana couldn’t quite keep the wistfulness from her tone. Her mother had once been fond of the theater, and she remembered evenings in her childhood when her parents would attend the opera or a play.
“Do you wish to go?” Iverson turned a surprised glance her way.
“Perhaps, but not as punishment.”
“I promise you. It is punishment.”
Diana laughed. “Maybe you have no ear for music.”
“That is where you’re wrong, Miss Ashby.” He cast her a mischievous look and held her gaze before flipping the page to read the last of her notes. After a moment, he added absently, “I play music rather proficiently.”
She got lost in studying his profile, watching his eyes scan the words she’d written. He lifted a finger and ran it along the edge of his lower lip. His fingers were long, elegantly shaped, and she could easily imagine them skidding across piano keys or pressing the strings of a violin.
Those thoughts turned quickly to memories of his fingers on her skin, tracing the line of her cheek, dancing a delicious trail of heat up her arm.
She wanted him to touch her again.
Instead, she asked, “Can you prove that, Mr. Iverson? In science, nothing is true until it’s proven with evidence.”
“What shall be our exchange?”
Diana bit her lip and considered. “I can . . . juggle, depending on the objects, or flip a coin between each of my fingers.”
After holding her challenging look without blinking, Iverson stood and approached a polished wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. Glass doors revealed an intriguing collection of statuary and rocks and delicate figures carved in marble. But when he opened the doors and reached in deep, he retrieved a violin from a drawer underneath.
He lifted it carefully, positioning the bottom edge against his neck, just under his chin. “Any requests?”
“You choose, but I do have a fondness for Mozart.” Somehow her love for the composer persisted despite a fearsome piano tutor who’d rapped her knuckles when she made a mistake.
“Mozart, it is.” He positioned his fingers along the strings, drew back the bow, and began to play. The notes were delicate and resonant, then they climbed to a lively tempo that made her want to move.
He paused too soon and glanced at her, as if waiting for her verdict. Or for her to urge him to play more.
“Well, carry on,” she told him.
He smiled and continued to play the sweet, spritely parts of Mozart’s Second Violin Concerto. The music made her wish to rise from her chair and take a turn around a ballroom. Ridiculous. She was a terrible dancer and she loathed balls.
Her fingers tapped along, knowing the song, recalling where it would rise and fall. Soon her foot was tapping too.
Iverson noticed and smiled, even speeding the tempo just enough for her to notice.
“Feel free to dance,” he told her, lifting his mouth just slightly from the instrument.
“I’m a terrible dancer, and this is a place of business.”
“But you want to.”
“I do.” Even as she admitted the truth with a smile, Diana shook her head. “I truly am a dreadful dancer.”
“Prove it.” He stopped playing and nudged his chin toward her. “I know how fond you are of scientific evidence.”
Diana wanted to rise to the challenge, if only to keep that playful light in his eyes alive.
Before she could stand and make a fool of herself, pummeling knocks sounded at his office door.
Iverson lowered the violin and glared. “Come in, Coggins,” he barked.
The young man pushed his head into the room warily, staring first at Iverson, examining the instrument dangling from his fingers, and then staring in shock at Diana.
“Visitor for you, Mr. Iverson. I knocked but you must not have heard.”
“Coggins, I’ve cleared the hour to meet with Miss Ashby.”
The secretary’s brows winged up like two black birds startled from a wire. Again he glanced from Diana to Iverson and back again. “She says it’s urgent, sir.”
Diana bent in her chair to glance past Mr. Coggins and see the woman who was so eager to see Iverson. A paramour? Another prospective bride?
Aidan gestured toward his secretary. “Name?”
“Says her name is Tuttle.”
The name seemed to shock Aidan. His skin went ashen and his jaw slackened. “Ask her to wait a moment.”
Coggins flicked his gaze to Diana and then retreated.
“I must speak to her immediately.” He sounded regretful, but there was a nervous edge to his tone. “We’ll need to reschedule our appointment for another day.”
Glancing down, he seemed surprised to find the violin still in his hands. He placed the instrument on his desk and then approached, speaking quietly. “We’ll finish this another time.”
Diana nodded and turned toward the door. At the threshold, she stopped and turned to face him. His hand slid around her waist and settled where it had the first night they’d met. A heated weight that seemed to fit perfectly against the crook at her hip.
She looked down at where he held her and he withdrew his hand immediately.
“I’ll wait for you,” she told him quietly. “We can continue our conversation when you’ve finished.”
“No.” His reply emerged loud and emphatic. “Go on about your day. You needn’t wait for me.”
Diana shouldn’t have felt hurt by his abrupt change in manner. They didn’t know each other well enough for her to have the right to any information about his other business or personal matters. Though she realized now that she dearly wished to.
“Then I shall see you tomorrow, Mr. Iverson.”
His brows dipped. “Tomorrow?”
“I’ve promised to visit the zoo with Miss Grace Grinstead, and it will be a perfect opportunity for you to meet her.” Diana folded the notes he’d given her about potential investors and tucked them into her reticule. She tried to pretend his coolness didn’t pain her.
Business. Practical matters. That was the reason for her connection with Aidan Iverson.
“Meet us at ten near the entrance. Don’t be late.” She decided insisting was better than petitioning.
When she looked up to await his answer, she saw a battle raging behind his eyes. Despite the coolness of his manner, there was something else in his gaze. Longing. Pain. A look of unease that made her t
hroat ache to offer words of comfort.
“Tell me she doesn’t like the opera, and I’ll be there at nine-thirty.”
Diana smiled. “Read your notes, Mr. Iverson. She likes zoology, art, and taking the waters at Bath.”
“Excellent. Tomorrow, Miss Ashby.” He shocked her by reaching for her hand, his ungloved skin warm against hers. He lifted her fingers to his lips as he had the night they’d met. Diana could say nothing. Her heart was in her throat, but she stepped beyond the threshold of his office and then glanced over her shoulder. One nod was all he offered. He looked like a man going to the gallows, aware of his fate, willing to face it, but dreading every moment.
In the outer office, a steel-haired woman stood and turned a dismissive glance on Diana as Coggins led her to Aidan’s door.
As she stepped inside, she heard the woman say, “I’ve come about your mother, sir, just as you requested.”
Coggins pulled the door shut, and Diana’s mind flooded with questions. Who was this woman who brought news of Iverson’s family? Was he estranged from them?
“Mr. Coggins, would you answer a question for me?”
The young man gave her a wary expression. “If I’m able, Miss Ashby.”
“Do you know that woman?”
“Not at all. Her arrival and insistence on seeing Mr. Iverson was entirely unexpected. Forgive me for interrupting your time with him, miss.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know he was musical.”
“Nor I.” Diana had enjoyed herself. Perhaps too much. But she wouldn’t apologize for how much she liked seeing a new side of Aidan Iverson.
The young man turned his attention back to his work, assuming he’d been dismissed. But Diana decided to try her luck again.
“I have a harder question for you, Mr. Coggins.”
The clerk blanched and seemed to steel himself. “As you wish, Miss Ashby.”
“What do you know of Mr. Iverson’s past?”
“That one’s rather easy.” He looked pleased. “I know nothing at all. I’m afraid you’ll have to inquire of him if you wish for those answers.”
“Oh, I intend to, Mr. Coggins.”
Chapter Sixteen
Lambeth was as grim as Aidan recalled from his youth. Soot hung in the air and infused every breath with a metallic tang. There were more chimneys now, hundreds of blackened spires choking dark smoke into the air. There were no grassy squares, just brick buildings clustered together and a thick parade of people and carts shuffling between them.
After escaping the workhouse, he’d stayed in Lambeth for several years, working first as a chimney sweep and sometimes a mudlark, retrieving anything of value he could dig up from the muddy shore of the Thames. He’d spent his days covered in grime and his nights shivering against cold cobblestones when he couldn’t find a cheap doss house.
The memories were so grim that he could hardly bear to recall them. When he did, he looked back as if on someone else. A pathetic waif. He sometimes wondered if that boy deserved the riches he had now.
Everett Street was one he’d traversed often, and it was eerie to know that he’d done so dozens of times with no knowledge that he’d been born within the grimy brick walls of a lodging house in the center of the street.
Aidan rolled his shoulders and squeezed at the knot of tension at the back of his neck before knocking on the front door. He told himself to temper his hopes. If the Mary Iverson who’d resided at this lodging house was his mother, she’d done so more than three decades past. There was no reason to believe she might still be alive, or anyone who would remember her and why she’d abandoned her children.
It was several minutes before an old, sickly-looking man leaning heavily on a cane opened the door. He scanned Aidan from head to toe, bending forward to inspect his clothes and boots.
“Hello, sir,” the man finally said. “I take it you’re not after lodgings. Who are you here to see?”
“Mr. Callihan. Would that be you, sir?”
“Aye, that I am.”
“Then I’m here to speak with you. May I come in?”
The old man hesitated, his hand braced against the door frame protectively, but finally relented. “There’s the front parlor if you wish to step inside.”
Aidan stepped into the room the old man indicated and found it filled with personal mementos, photographs, and framed drawings.
“Ask me what you will, sir, but first tell me your name.”
Aidan turned and fixed his gaze on the landlord’s dark eyes. “Iverson.”
The man’s trembling, wrinkled hand came up. He clapped it over his mouth as his eyes bulged. “You’re the boy.”
“Yes.” Aidan stepped forward and barely resisted gripping Callihan by his shirtfront. “Tell me what you know about my mother. About Mary Iverson.”
The landlord stared at him for a moment and then bent on his cane to make his way across the room.
Aidan held his breath, struggling to maintain calm. He waited, somehow, for the man to open a small tin box and extract a piece of paper. Callihan shuffled toward him and stretched out his hand, offering the fragment of newsprint.
A death notice for one Mary Iverson. His fingers trembled so fiercely, Aidan almost dropped the fragile, faded clipping. She’d died so long ago, two years after he’d escaped the workhouse. All those years he’d imagined her, wondered who she was and where she might be. For most of those years, she’d been dead and buried.
“Tell me everything.” He pointed to the threadbare chairs arranged in front of the fireplace. The old man collapsed into one with a heavy sigh, hooking his cane over the arm.
“The story is a sad one, sir.”
“I know.”
Aidan scanned every item in the parlor, wondering if one of the photographs had any link to his mother. In one of the rooms above his head, Mrs. Tuttle had watched over his mother while he came into the world. Perhaps she’d given birth to his sister here too.
“Tell me all of it, Mr. Callihan.”
“I know less than I suspect you’ll like.” The old gentleman inhaled sharply. “I was hired to help with repairs here at the boardinghouse. Knew your mother was in a delicate way when she first arrived, and I took a liking to her.” He frowned. “I mean nothing by that, sir. We became friends.”
“Did she ever tell you where she hailed from?”
“From London, sir.” Callihan shrugged. “Like most.”
“Her family.” Aidan clenched a fist against his knee. “Did she speak of them?”
“She spoke of her past rarely and of her predicament even less. Had many secrets to keep, Mary did.”
“Who fathered her children?” There had always been the possibility that he and his sister did not share the same sire.
“I cannot say, sir.”
“You must know something, Mr. Callihan.” Aidan’s patience was a fraying, broken thing. Edging forward on his chair, he said quietly, “Anything.”
The old man lifted an arm, almost as if he wished to lay a comforting hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “I would gladly tell you if I knew. Mary never revealed the father of her children to me. She lived here while you were very small and returned shortly after your sister was born.”
“Returned where?”
“Back to her employer. The Earl of Wyndham.”
Aidan didn’t have to be a mathematician to fit the equation together in his head. The probability was that Wyndham, or someone in the earl’s household, was his father.
“Never saw her for many years after she returned to Belgravia. Then one day she appeared.” Callihan’s eyes took on a glassy faraway look. “She was ill, in a bad way. I think trouble might have found her after she left the Wyndhams. Might even have run afoul of the law.” Slowly, he turned his gaze on Aidan. “I cared for her until she passed. Saw to her burial and that notice.” Flicking his wrist, he indicated the scrap of newspaper still clutched in Aidan’s hand. “Keep it if you like, sir.”
“My sister. Mrs. Tuttle said you
mentioned my sister to her when she visited you.”
The old man’s gaze grew wary. He fussed with the doily pinned to the arm of his chair. “Can’t recall, Mr. Iverson. An old man’s mind tends to stray. Sometimes I say things that mean nothing at all.”
Aidan shot up from his chair. His days of brawling with other young men as hungry and desperate as he’d been were long past. But the same urge to strike out burned in him now, to get rid of the pain, to feel that he had some measure of power.
“I run a gambling club, Mr. Callihan. I know when a man is lying to me.” In two steps, he was in front of the landlord’s chair. Aidan towered over the frail man, but he felt as powerless as he ever had in his life. “Tell me the truth.”
Pain and guilt were as clear in Callihan’s eyes as if Aidan were looking in a mirror.
“Please.” The word felt odd on his tongue. He wasn’t used to pleading with anyone. For anything. He’d worked and fought and maneuvered for everything he’d acquired.
“There is one thing, Mr. Iverson.”
“I’m listening.”
The landlord grew silent so long, Aidan wondered if he’d reconsidered confessing more. He was just on the point of urging him when Callihan took a deep breath.
“There is a young lady.” He wheezed out a long sigh. “I believe she is your sister, sir. But she doesn’t wish to be known.”
Blood rushed in Aidan’s ears. He stalked to the mantel and gripped the edge, but it did little to stem a wave of dizziness that made the corners of his sight dim. Memories rolled in. Fragmented images of a girl with red-gold hair and a sweet smile.
Sarah was alive.
“How is she?” His voice quavered. His knees had turned to mush. “Is she well?” He turned back to face the man.
The man’s gnarled hands came up and he waved them at Aidan as if to push him away. “I don’t know. She wears a veil and comes infrequently. Only thrice in the last two years.”
“Why does she come?”
“I can’t tell you that either. I never invite her. She said she wished to help me. Gives me a few pounds every time she visits.”
None of it made sense. “Why would she pay you?”
Callihan didn’t answer. Instead he used his cane to push himself out of his chair and hobbled toward a small table where a cup of tea that must have long gone cold sat. He took a sip and then turned to face Aidan.
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