She exited the room so quickly she bumped up against the footman, who could not step out of her way quickly enough. That brief contact was enough to bring her to her senses, and she walked at a more sedate pace down the stairs and to the front door. That was as far as Simon, whose sense of propriety was greater than hers, would have allowed a Bow Street officer to enter the house.
The entry to the Barhams’ town house was a narrow chimney of a room, though white instead of sooty black, and smelled of floor wax and the dusty dry artificial flowers Cecy insisted on during the winter. The man stood only a few steps from the door; his rigid posture, and the way he ran his fingers along his trouser seam, suggested that in his mind he was already finished with this errand and off on his next. He was dressed informally, in nondescript brown trousers and coat, and his shoulders were a bit damp from where the still-falling snow had melted. He removed his hat when she appeared and bowed to her, revealing brown hair streaked with blond that was somewhat flattened from his hat, which appeared to be a size too small for his head. “Mrs. Westlake?” he said.
“I am she,” Sophia said.
“Sir Arthur sends his thanks, and you’re to know, ma’am, we recovered nothing from the site your Dream sent us to,” the man said.
The hum of excitement vanished. “How is that?” she exclaimed. “I assure you my Dream was a true one.” No, she thought, no, I refuse to be wrong, I will not be called wrong again.
“There was evidence showed something were there once, but they was gone afore we came,” the man said. “Likely we was too slow.” He eyed her cautiously, and Sophia interpreted his look to say, Or you were too slow in sending to us. She nodded, acknowledging both his spoken and silent words. It was possible she had been too slow. Or the footman—whom had she given the message to? She would have to speak to him—had taken too long about his errand. Anything might have gone wrong.
“I take it Sir Arthur will not reject any future warnings I might send, simply because this one arrived too late?” she said.
The man scratched his nose with a dirty fingernail, and shrugged. “We never ignore a Seer’s messages when they’ve the reputation you do, ma’am. But we’d like not to be called out for nothing.”
The oblique rebuke startled her. No ordinary constable, none of Bow Street’s foot soldiers in their ongoing battle against London’s rising crime rate, would have dared to speak so to her. Despite his somewhat slovenly appearance, this must be a principal officer, popularly referred to as a Runner, one of only eight men tasked with investigating crime throughout England. “What is your name, sir?” she asked.
He nodded to her again. “Benjamin Vane, ma’am.”
“Mr. Vane, I assure you I will not send word unless I am certain you will be able to act on it. Frivolous warnings can only harm my reputation—and I do not wish to waste your time any more than you wish to have it wasted. I apologize if my warning was too late.”
“Didn’t mean to insult you, ma’am,” Vane said, and she could see he meant it. “Your drawings led us straight there, no question which warehouse it was. We could see something heavy were stored there once, and found one banknote they’d left by accident, trodden into the mud. So you were right, and we’ll all have to act more quickly next time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vane.” She would have to put more of an effort into finding Lord Endicott’s hiding places quickly, give him no time to relocate. “If I have any more Dreams involving crime, I will be more prompt in bringing them to your attention.”
Vane put his hat back on, bowed to her, and left without waiting for the footman to show him out. Sophia looked at the puddle of dirty water his feet had left. The snow would hamper Lord Endicott’s movements, surely, prevent him from emptying other warehouses or shifting his press. She would need—
—no, she would need to stay with Cecy again. Or… She is with Lewis, she has no need of me. Sophia turned away from the dirty splotch on the glossy floorboards and went up the stairs. It will be just one or two Dreams, and then I will return to her. She went to her room and lay on her bed. She will not want me hovering over her. Half an hour’s Dreaming, and she will hardly miss me. She slipped into Dream as easily as oil slides through water and left all other concerns behind.
In which Sophia writes many letters
9 December 1812
Sir Arthur,
Enclosed is a map of an area in Spitalfields where you will find a supply of forged banknotes. I have indicated the house in question with an X. The notes are guarded by two men, one of whom will be drunk when you approach on the northwest side. He will probably be grateful to be apprehended by you, as I am sure his criminal superiors will be displeased with him in a fatal way. This is the extent of my Sight.
Sincerely,
Sophia Westlake, Extr. Seer
10 December 1812
Mrs. Westlake,
My thanks for your warning. Unfortunately, the house was empty when we arrived. The neighbors informed us there had been some comings and goings last night, but no one could provide us with more information.
Rowley
“Sophia!”
Sophia came out of Dream with the sensation of walls of silk flowing over and past her Dreaming face. She struggled upright and patted her head to make sure her hair was not disordered. Footsteps neared her door; she leaped up and hurried to sit at her dressing table, which Beeton had tidied despite knowing Sophia would simply disorder everything within moments of sitting. Sophia opened her jewelry box and picked through its contents. Would Cecy believe—
“Sophy, have you anything that will match this new gown of mine?” Cecy said, opening the door and entering unasked. “I believed my shoes to be… but no, they are entirely the wrong shade, and it’s too late to do anything about it now.”
“You may help yourself to any of my shoes you like, except the ones I am wearing now,” Sophia said, not turning to look at her friend. “Do you imagine these pearl ear-drops will do?”
“They are lovely, Sophy.” Cecy compared two pairs of dancing-slippers side by side. “I don’t know that the Armentrouts will have dancing, but it’s better to be prepared, don’t you agree?” She came to stand next to Sophia and put her hand on her shoulder. “I am so glad you aren’t Dreaming as much, dearest,” she said to Sophia’s reflection. “You were becoming so worn-out.”
“I know, and I feel much better,” Sophia lied. “Are you going to wear those? I don’t believe they will fit you.”
Cecy poked Sophia in the small of her back. “I believe you are worried they will fit too well, and I will look better in them than you do.”
“That’s true of nearly everything,” Sophia said.
14 December 1812
Sir Arthur,
If you will send your men to 8, Crescent Road, in Limehouse, you will discover a merchant sailor who has been staying at the lodging house at that address for ten days, making himself extremely unpleasant to his landlady. He has used forged banknotes drawn on Hussey’s Bank during that time to purchase food and drink and to pay for his lodging. He is short and fat and wears a knit cap of dull olive green, has brown eyes and grey hair, and walks with a slight limp in his left leg. He received the false notes directly from another man to whom he will be able to lead you. I have Seen the second man only as shadow, but he is taller than the first and, I believe, younger, and wears a silver ring on the third finger of his right hand. This is the extent of my Sight.
Sincerely,
Sophia Westlake, Extr. Seer
14 December 1812
Mrs. Westlake,
Thank you again for your information. The woman at the lodging house confirmed that a man of your description had been staying with her for several days, but left two days ago after settling his bill. Only two of the notes he gave her were forged. We also asked the nearby establishments about the man; they said he had paid in coin and not in notes recently, though we did retrieve some forged banknotes. None of them were witting accomplices to the forgery.
&n
bsp; Rowley
“And I say,” exclaimed the tall, jowly man whose name Sophia had not heard, “if these little banks fail, it’s no real loss! People ought to put their faith in the Bank of England, is what I say.”
“And you believe the Bank of England is immune to failure?” said Lewis.
“Not immune, but they can protect themselves better,” the jowly man said.
“I presume you refer to their anti-counterfeiting measures,” Mr. Rutledge said.
The jowly man shook his head. “I meant,” he said, “they’ve the manpower to protect their printing presses from these dastardly criminals.”
“They cannot prevent anyone from using a banknote as a model to engrave their own plates,” Sophia said. “Though—but I see dinner is announced, gentlemen, and we must continue our conversation later.” Later, if we return to it. If you have all not forgotten. I cannot simply leap back into it and drag you all with me.
She found herself once again at the lower end of the table, next to her hostess, and she was about to lay her napkin in her lap when the chair on her other side was drawn out, and Mr. Rutledge said, “As I knew I would be seated next to you again, I have been trying to think of horrible insults to deliver, but the best I can do is to compliment you on your appearance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rutledge, and I am afraid my supply of insults has run dry,” Sophia said with a smile. They had met several times since that night at Almack’s, and she had discovered she enjoyed his company and looked forward to seeing him again. He had a good sense of humor, and interesting conversation, and it had become not at all difficult to forget the circumstances of their first meeting.
Now she watched him take his seat next to her, feeling warm pleasure at his presence. His hands, pulling out his chair, fascinated her, with their square-cut nails and well-shaped fingers—she cast her glance at her soup plate, conscious of staring.
He settled into his chair with a small grunt. “You are keeping well, I presume?”
“I am, and you, sir?”
“I believe I was happier with insults, if the alternative is this insipid small talk,” Mr. Rutledge said. “I know we are capable of better than this.”
Sophia laughed. “Very well,” she said, “tell me what you meant by anti-counterfeiting measures, a moment ago.”
Mr. Rutledge’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Weighty stuff for a dinner conversation, don’t you agree?”
“But certainly not insipid, you must admit.”
“Very true.” Mr. Rutledge put down his soup spoon and turned to face Sophia more directly. “The Bank of England has used special paper to print their bills upon for more than a decade. It has a watermark that is difficult to duplicate. Forgers would not only have to have the right plates, they would have to steal the right paper as well. I wouldn’t agree with our vocal friend that the Bank of England is the only secure bank in the British Empire, but he’s not wrong that they would make a difficult target for forgers.”
“So who produces this paper?” Sophia asked.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Rutledge, “but I believe it would be a difficult secret to keep. No doubt those suppliers keep a close watch on their paper, just in case.”
“No doubt,” Sophia said.
18 December 1812
Sir Arthur,
The paper mill owned by Terence Chastain will be robbed in two days’ time, at approximately one o’clock in the morning on December 20. Their target is paper manufactured for the use of printing banknotes, this order being designated for the Bank of England. There are six thieves and they will approach from the west, having bribed the night watchman to leave the shipping doors unlocked. They have been hired by the man whose face I still cannot see, who wears a silver ring on the third finger of his right hand. One of the thieves will remain with the wagon they bring to carry the paper away, one will stand lookout, and the rest will remove the paper from the mill. Two of the thieves have a distinctive pattern to the nails in their soles. One of them wears a scarf wrapped around his face, into which he coughs, trying to muffle the sound. They do not work well together and it should be no trouble at all for your excellent men to apprehend them. This is the extent of my Sight.
Sincerely,
Sophia Westlake, Extr. Seer
21 December 1812
Mrs. Westlake,
We observed the Chastain mill for three hours last night as you directed and saw no thieves. The night watchman insisted he knew nothing of any bribes, and he was vouched for by Mr. Chastain as a hard worker of seven years. I wonder if you were perhaps mistaken about the night or about the name of the mill?
Rowley
Sophia threw the letter at the fire; it caught the draft from the chimney, which lifted it a foot into the air, then sent it fluttering to lie on the hearth rug. Daphne went to pick it up. She read it silently, though Sophia had already read it aloud, then crumpled it into a jagged-edged ball and tossed it somewhat more accurately into the heart of the flames, which rose up higher in acknowledgement of her offering. “He makes you sound unreliable,” she said.
“Because I am unreliable, as far as these prophecies go,” Sophia said. She hunched into her chair, which was an uncomfortable seat with hard cushions and rough upholstery that looked as if it were embroidery done on burlap. “I have not been correct once since my success with Hammond Bank. Sir Arthur is being polite in not saying what he is actually thinking, which is likely ‘why are you wasting my time?’ And I begin to agree with him.”
“No, Sophia, you aren’t unreliable!” Daphne dropped to her knees next to Sophia’s chair and leaned against it, then reared back with an exclamation of disgust. “How can you bear to sit in this thing? It’s scratchy and hard, and I have no idea why anyone would choose to have it in her home. Mrs. Barham can’t possibly know about it.”
“Oh, I don’t mind it, Daphne,” Sophia said, though now she was developing an urge to scratch. She took another letter from the salver and read the direction, then wrinkled her nose in distaste. “The Duchess of Lenshire again, asking for a Vision. The woman is relentless.”
“What Vision does she want?”
“The subject is irrelevant, with her. She simply wants the social cachet of having an Extraordinary Seer perform for her friends.” Sophia scanned the lines quickly and sighed. “Very well. I shall have no peace until I do as she asks.”
“You could reject her outright. It’s not fair that you be treated like a performing animal!”
“Fairness has little to do with it. If she were evil, or cruel… but no, she is only foolish and self-centered, and much as I dislike being on display like a cake in a shop window, I dislike more gaining a reputation for arrogance in rejecting what most would see as a reasonable request.”
“But should you not be concerned that others will take her example, and plague you with requests?”
“I am more concerned about how many failures I am accumulating, even if my Dreams are only too late to be useful rather than actually wrong.”
“You should Dream about something other than forged banknotes,” Daphne said, rising and moving to a different seat that looked more comfortable than Sophia’s. “It’s almost as if you’re obsessed with them.”
“It’s only coincidence,” Sophia said, and felt guilty about lying to Daphne—but what good would it do for Daphne to know the truth about why the banknotes were so important? “A Dream about one thing usually leads me to consider it more frequently, which leads to more Dreams on the same topic. What would you have me Dream of?”
Daphne grinned. “You could Dream of my great successes in the War Office. I’d like to know where I will be sent. Do you imagine I will meet the Prince Regent? I saw him once at Carlton House, at least I saw part of him, he was rather surrounded by admirers—why do you suppose it is they crush about him so, but give you space to move? Since you’re almost as famous as he is, and—”
“I wonder that myself, but mostly I am happy not to be crowded,”
Sophia said. “And I do not believe my Dreams would be very useful to you; they are only good for short-term prophecies, and you still have five months to go before your service.”
Daphne wrinkled her nose. “Four months, twenty-seven days,” she said. “I am so impatient all the time. Though Standiford’s is busier than ever, this time of year, and I am grateful I can Bound instead of having to drive through the cold and the snow, grateful when I remember to be, that is. Well, then, you can Dream of…of the man you will fall in love with!”
“That might be rather long-term as well, since I have no intent to remarry.”
“No?” Daphne leaned back in her seat and pulled her knees up to curl into a corner of the sofa. “Why not?”
Sophia opened her mouth and found she had no ready answer, which surprised her. “I already have social status, and I have no desire for a title,” she began.
“Which is fortunate, because the Prince Regent won’t give titles to women,” Daphne said.
“Rarely gives titles to women,” Sophia said, “and I would not marry to gain a title no matter how much status I lacked. I have sufficient fortune to keep myself comfortably for the rest of my life, and a talent that would allow me to increase that fortune if I chose, so I need not marry money.”
“You might fall in love,” Daphne pointed out.
“I might, but I consider that unlikely. Every man I meet is more interested in my notoriety than in my person.” She felt a brief discomfort at her own words that she could not identify, and pushed it aside. “It was so much easier, with Richard. We met, we fell in love, and five months later we were wed. But I was only nineteen—everything is different when you are young.”
“I know,” said twenty-year-old Daphne, “because men are always pretending to be interested in me, when what they want is to be married to the Marquess of Claresby’s only child, or to an Extraordinary, and—but it is so discouraging to be so observant, and to know the truth of their intentions! On the other hand, suppose I did meet someone I could love, and then I might want to give up on all the adventures I mean to have! So I’m just as happy none of them are sincere.”
Wondering Sight (The Extraordinaries Book 2) Page 10