Might Miss O’Conner know something that could help her without being told the particulars of the situation? “What do you know of the Littles?”
“Nothing much beyond the elder is the mayor, and the son has a law office above Central Bank.”
Lydia held the woman’s gaze. Miss O’Conner’s eyes seemed free of deceit, but the Littles had hoodwinked her good. Could she trust herself not to be duped again?
Since Miss O’Conner didn’t seem ruffled at her question, she decided to press for more, despite her jitters. “What about any connections to the red-light district? You’ve been there more than most. What do they say about them there? Mrs. Little organizes serenades, which I assume makes her and her family unpopular.”
The housekeeper shrugged. “I only go there in hopes of persuading my sister to leave. Since Moira has refused so far, I nurse the sick or abused so I can stay close to her, hoping she’ll change her mind some day.” She rubbed at her temple, frown lines etching her face. “I’m thankful Mr. Lowe offered me this position, for I’m not sure how long I could’ve kept a job in Teaville, considering how I spend my mornings. He has no qualms about me going to the red-light district to tend to the ladies, but I’ve never been involved in any of his intrigues.”
Oh, if only she hadn’t gotten involved in such intrigues herself.
But then she’d have never known she was engaged to a criminal.
Though that might have been better than being forced to wed him knowing full well what kind of villainous family she was marrying into.
Lydia folded the short note and handed it to Miss O’Conner. “I’d be grateful if you handed this to him as soon as he steps into the house.”
Taking the note, the housekeeper scanned Lydia’s face with a worried cant to her eyebrows. “Are you certain I can’t help?”
She pushed herself out of the seat and glanced around at the beautiful floor-to-ceiling bookcases with a frown. Her gut roiled so much, she couldn’t even enjoy perusing the titles surrounding her. “Thank you, but no. I’m not even certain Nicholas can help.”
Miss O’Conner followed her into the hallway and placed her note atop the mail on a silver tray. “You sure you shouldn’t have some tea? You don’t look well.”
She certainly didn’t feel well.
Oh, why hadn’t Nicholas been here for her? “Is there anybody I could discuss Mr. Lowe’s intrigues with?”
With a suddenly blank expression, the housekeeper turned to stare down the hallway toward the western windows. She shrugged a little. “Henri Beauchamp likely knows what Mr. Lowe’s about, since he used to go around with him.”
“His friend the mill owner?” At Miss O’Conner’s slight nod, Lydia bit her lip. Could she ask a man she didn’t know for help? “Would Nicholas trust Mr. Beauchamp with his life?”
“I would’ve said yes.” The housekeeper fidgeted. “But now that they’re not speaking to each other . . .”
Lydia dropped her shoulders and blew out a breath. Too risky.
Maybe the maids knew something. They’d mentioned at dinner the other day that they didn’t know the Littles’ name, but surely they wouldn’t keep any other knowledge to themselves since Sebastian was forcing them to leave by fining Nicholas.
She nodded good-bye to Miss O’Conner and forged back out into the cold. Despite walking briskly, she felt colder with each step. Even if the maids knew something, how could she and two former prostitutes take on the Littles? She needed someone with at least as much power as the mayor. Hadn’t she heard of some prostitutes who held power through the information they gathered from clients? If a soiled dove had information about the Littles, it would certainly be the kind she needed. With hope, she strode to the basement entrance.
At Lydia’s second knock, Miss Michaels opened the door a crack, but only wide enough to see half her face behind the chain, her hair still down in a braid. “Sadie’s feeding the horses.”
“I’m not here to see Sadie. I’m here to see if you could help me.”
Miss Michaels’s eyebrow rose.
“Please.”
The woman shut the door and unfastened the chain lock. Without saying anything, she held open the door and swept her hand toward a small table with two chairs. An open newspaper covered its top.
Miss Nance sat at the far end, dressed for the day; her attention was riveted on Lydia, her pencil hovering above a few circled ads.
“I’m sorry for intruding while you’re getting ready for work.”
“We don’t work here anymore. We quit.”
“We’re looking for positions.” Miss Nance sighed and placed the pencil against her lips. Her gaze dropped back to the advertisements spread out before her. “Though it might be hopeless.”
Lydia frowned at the circled paragraphs. “You don’t have to tell the employers what you did before working for Mr. Lowe. Surely knowing you obtained work at a mansion could get you many a job.”
Miss Michaels’s derisive sniff made her jump. “Of course we’d keep that information to ourselves. It’s finding a position that won’t force us into prostitution again that’s difficult.”
“I’m sure Mr. Lowe will let you stay here until you find one that pays well enough.”
“It’s not the money.” The meek blond maid at the table tapped one of the advertisements above a circle she’d drawn. “It’s difficult to know which one of these requests are legitimate.”
“But why would anyone advertise if they didn’t want help?”
Miss Michaels answered. “Oh, they want help all right. Help from women who have no one to turn to. Women who answer ads from across the country for low-paying jobs are just the kind to stuff into empty rooms. That’s how Effie got pulled into this mess.”
“Not pulled.” Effie swallowed and colored. “Forced.”
Lydia put a hand to her stomach.
“Effie thought she was answering an advertisement for a boardinghouse cook.”
“It was an advertisement for a cook.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Just not for a boardinghouse, and they . . .” Her face took on a faraway look. “Well, after the first day, I couldn’t leave. And even if I had been able to get away, I’d left home because I was burdening my cousin’s family, and they definitely wouldn’t have wanted me back after that.”
“I’m so sorry.” She put a hand on Effie’s shoulder. The woman looked over at her hand, tears glistening on her bottom lashes.
“Yes, well”—Josephine stopped her pacing—“your being sorry doesn’t help us any.”
“Oh, hush, Jo,” Effie whispered. “It’s more than we’ve ever gotten from the likes of her.”
Jo tossed her braid over her shoulder, tramped over to the other chair, and then plopped down and glared at Lydia. “You didn’t come to hear our stories, so what do you want?”
“I’d like to know if you could give me the names of any ladies of the night who blackmail.”
Jo’s face scrunched up as if she were watching a bird fly upside down. “Whatever for?”
“I need to talk to someone who might have information on—”
“Oh, talking to them is not a good idea, miss.” Effie’s face looked frozen in shock.
It was better than any other idea she had. “I know it’s not a good idea, but I need that kind of information.”
Jo shook her head as if she’d just met the stupidest person in the world. “You’d be eaten alive . . . or worse.”
After Effie’s story, Lydia didn’t doubt she might walk into something she couldn’t get out of. “Well then, maybe you could talk to them for me, or come with me to—”
“We’re hiding in the basement for a reason, Miss King. We’re not walking anywhere near The Line, let alone visiting.”
Effie wrung her hands. “The less we’re seen, the better chance we have of getting Sadie away unrecognized.”
“And what happens if we don’t come back from whatever wild-goose chase you want to send us on?” Jo flung out her arms. �
��Are you going to take Sadie in?”
No, Sadie needed to get as far away from Teaville as possible.
Lydia tugged on the fallen lock of her hair she’d inadvertently curled around her finger. Considering her current predicament, these ladies had a better chance of escaping town than she did—which made her hopes for Sadie tumble even lower. “All right, I’ll have to think of something else, then.”
But what else could she do? Who else could she possibly talk to?
Oh, God, why’d you let Nicholas leave now?
43
Lydia flattened herself against her parlor wall next to the front window and peeked behind the curtains without touching them. Officer Vincent was still two houses down, dressed in a sweater and chopping firewood. The day was warm for December, and he’d shucked his coat a half hour earlier. Despite the laborer’s clothing he wore, she’d first noticed him after returning from Nicholas’s the day Miss O’Conner had informed her he’d left town.
Since then, Lydia had spied the officer several times near that vacant house, and she’d only gotten away once without the officer noticing. She’d spent that afternoon trying to discover Nicholas’s whereabouts and even ventured over to Queenie’s without escort . . . only to find her gone too. Was she with Nicholas?
Why wasn’t God helping her? Time was up! Since leaving the newspaper office with Sebastian two days ago, after giving them their information for an engagement announcement, she’d gathered nothing more than additional hearsay. Nothing to thwart the Littles.
“I can’t marry Sebastian,” she whispered against the glass. “I just can’t.”
“I know.”
Mama’s voice made her jump, and the curtain fluttered. Lydia pressed her hand against her throbbing heart as she watched out the window.
Officer Vincent didn’t move. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.
She turned to Mama. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long.” She pulled aside the curtains, and Lydia backed away from the window.
Mama leaned heavily on the windowsill and scowled in Officer Vincent’s direction. “I see he’s still there.”
“Yes.”
Stopping once to catch her breath, Mama shuffled her way back to her rocker. Gingerly, she lowered herself onto the chair. “Will you forgive me?”
Lydia walked over to the settee, picked the afghan off the floor, and put it across Mama’s lap. “For what?”
“Panicking and pushing you into a marriage you don’t want. Here I thought I’d learned how to trust the Lord, but the moment a problem I thought I could fix came along, I forgot to rely on Him.”
“You’ve trusted Him throughout your illness. I don’t know of anyone who could be braver facing such a bleak diagnosis.”
“Seems I don’t fear death anymore, though I still fret over tomorrow where you’re concerned.” She stopped rubbing the blanket between her fingers, looked up, and gave her daughter a sad smile. “I certainly haven’t trusted God to care for you without telling Him how to do it.”
Lydia clasped Mama’s hand. “Then you won’t fight me if I call things off again?”
If she could figure out some way to do so anyway.
“I’d be relieved.” She turned to glare out the window despite the curtain blocking the way. “No man who puts his intended under surveillance will make a good husband.”
“Oh, Mama, you don’t know the half of it.”
Mama tucked one of Lydia’s loose curls behind her ear. “I know you’re keeping something from me. Is it because you think you’ll disappoint me?”
Lydia stood and paced. “There are things about him that I know but can’t prove. I can’t marry a man like him, but he’ll make things worse for us if I don’t.” She turned to face her mother. “If I don’t marry him, your faith in God may be tested beyond its limits.” What if the stress of a confrontation with the Littles caused Mama to die sooner?
“If it’s not tested beyond its limits, then is it really faith?” Mama sighed and smoothed the purple-and-white ripple afghan across her knees. “I wasn’t ready to trust Him a few days ago, but I am now. Why I thought ordering you to marry without love would solve our problems, I don’t know. I know what a trial a bad marriage can be, but a bad marriage with no love?” Her voice grew thick, and she grabbed for her handkerchief.
Lydia crossed over to kneel in front of Mama. “He promised that if I married him, he’d make our life easier—but if he’s underhanded now, how can I trust him to keep promises? I’ve been trying to figure a way out of this mess without any of us getting hurt, but I’ve run out of time. If only I could find some proof to accuse him before the engagement party tomorrow, I may be able to keep us safe from his threats without marrying him.”
“What has he done?”
Would it matter if Mama knew? Her life was already at its end. She shouldn’t tell her too much though. “His family says they’re against the saloons, but they’re not. They’re profiting from them. And Sebastian also hinted that he partakes of the pleasures there—and I don’t mean cards.”
Her mother’s hiss sounded as if she’d dropped cold water on Lydia’s heated cheekbones. “I can’t believe I was that wrong about him.”
She cast her gaze to the ground. She wouldn’t give Mama even the slightest hint that Sebastian had said Papa partook of those same pleasures. “You were only trying to do what was best for me.”
Mama stared at the wall, blinking bloodshot eyes. “And how far off the mark I was.”
How far off the mark both of them had been about so many things. But she couldn’t change the past. “Could you help me distract Officer Vincent? If you could manage it, I could slip out the back door and try to sneak into Sebastian’s office and find something incriminating. That’s the last thing I can think of. And then I’ll need you to do lots of praying.”
“If overtaxing myself and crumpling onto the porch floor will distract that officer and gain you time, then my death will have served a higher purpose.”
Lydia smiled at Mama’s weak but feisty expression—she was too stubborn to leave for heaven today. Still, she kissed her mother’s temple and squeezed her tight. What would she do without her?
Lydia’s knock on the small gray house’s door interrupted the sound of children giggling, and a mother’s sharp reprimand followed.
Her hands were sweaty, and she felt like throwing up. She scanned the area for a bush or a bucket just in case, and then glanced over her shoulder to make sure no officers tailed her. If only Nicholas had been home today, she’d not be attempting this alone. But all she’d been able to do at the mansion was leave him another note.
The door opened, and Lydia spun toward Mrs. Falstaff’s flushed face.
“I’m sorry.” Lydia put her hand to her swirling head, hoping she wouldn’t throw up on the lady’s shoes. “I was looking for Mr. Falstaff.”
“We’re in the middle of dinner.”
“It will only take a minute. I have a quick favor to ask him on Sebastian Little’s behalf.”
The older lady sighed. “I’ll get him.” She walked away leaving the door wide open.
Lydia stepped across the threshold into the tiny little room with discarded mufflers and hats scattered across the floor.
Lord, I should be asking for forgiveness for the untruths I’m about to tell, but instead I’m going to ask for help. Oh, how I need help. She silently rehearsed the speech she’d come up with on the way over.
Sebastian’s secretary came around the corner. “Miss King? My wife said you asked for me.”
She blinked in an effort to relax her face. If he noticed how tense and unsure she was, he might see through her request. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Sebastian thought this would be quickest. He wanted me to run to his office to get Mr. Hammersmith’s file.” She held out her hand and shrugged. “But he didn’t have his key with him at dinner, so he sent me here.”
“Hammersmith?”
She forced herse
lf to keep from reaching up to tug at her tight collar. Wasn’t that the client Sebastian had told her about last week? She should’ve listened better. “Yes.” All she could do was hope she’d remembered the name correctly or that Mr. Falstaff believed he’d forgotten a client.
He looked toward the ceiling. “I can get the file for you after we finish eating.”
“Oh no, he wanted it right away, and I don’t want to take you away from family.” She couldn’t have timed this better—how could she have refused his escort if she’d come after he’d finished his meal?
A high-pitched toddler’s scream rent the air, making her wince. The shrill noise was followed by a thunk and a woman’s frustrated wail.
“It seems you’re needed, and I promise to bring the key right back.” She couldn’t be gone long in case he decided to check on her after dinner. How long would it take to find something incriminating? Oh, please let there be something!
Mr. Falstaff turned to look over his shoulder as his wife aired her frustration over one of the children dumping water in his lap. “All right, give me a minute.”
Gripping the doorjamb to keep herself from puddling onto the floor, Lydia waited until Mr. Falstaff returned and handed her a long black key. “Would you like us to return your key after our dinner meeting is over or have Sebastian give it to you Monday morning?”
“Whatever’s easiest.”
She could’ve kissed him! “He’ll likely bring it to work Monday, then. Thank you.” And please, God, let them not see each other until then. She stuffed the key inside her hidden pocket and headed out the door as nonchalantly as possible. Despite Mr. Falstaff giving her the weekend, she needed to move quickly.
The early evening was abnormally mild for December, so more people strolled past her on the sidewalks than she preferred. Forcing herself to smile and nod as people passed, she maneuvered toward the shadowed stairway leading up to the office above the bank where Sebastian practiced law.
Stopping in front of the barbershop to the left of the covered stairway between the two downtown buildings , she pretended to fix her hair using the window’s reflection. When the street cleared, she slipped up the dark stairs.
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