His face went wary. “This isn’t that kind of store, miss. Madam.”
“Nor am I that kind of customer,” Sophia said, withdrawing one hand from her muff long enough for him to recognize the glove. His wary expression disappeared, replaced by fear and anticipation in equal measure. He glanced around—it was before noon, and the shop was not busy—and beckoned her to a corner partly sheltered by draping lengths of richly brocaded satin, where he stood so his body blocked hers from view.
“Do you have a Vision for me, ma’am?” he said, his voice breathy, as if he’d been running.
“You are Gerald Parris, residing at 15, Larkspur Street. You are supporting your younger brother, who is enrolled in a school you can barely afford, and your infirm mother.” Sophia took a deep breath. “That is why you began embezzling from your employer, to supplement your income.”
Mr. Parris took a step forward and raised his hand as if to strike her. His eyes were wide and his breath was coming even more rapidly now. “It’s a lie,” he said. “You’re telling damned lies.”
Sophia laid her palm flat on his chest and could feel his heart pounding. “This glove says otherwise,” she said. “But I am not here to accuse you. I’m here to save you.”
“I—what?”
She was losing him, she could tell. He could not afford to lose this job under any condition, let alone one that could ensure he never worked again. “Listen to me, Gerald Parris,” she said, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at her. “I am not a threat to you. In about an hour, a man, another Seer, will come into this store and ask to speak to you. He is short and slight, with grey hair and a bit of a limp. He will reveal that he knows you have committed a crime, and he will promise not to share this knowledge with your employer if you pay him, and go on paying him. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr. Parris?”
Mr. Parris nodded. “But… what do you want? Are you threatening me?”
“No, I am not threatening you. I want your blackmailer, Mr. Parris. I want to see him imprisoned, and what you have done isn’t important to me. I don’t condone theft, but I have Seen your family and I know what it is to be desperate. If you will do as I ask, and if you will swear to stop embezzling from your employers, I will pay for your brother’s education and I will see your mother gets the medical treatment she needs. Do you swear?”
Mr. Parris shook his head, then nodded, then looked confused. “I don’t understand why you’re helping me.”
“No, Mr. Parris, you are helping me. But you must do exactly as I say. And no one must know I am involved. You will be the one who apprehends him, and your employers will look favorably on you because of it. I need no publicity. Now—do you swear to help me?”
“I do. I mean, I will help you.”
“Good. Then this is what you must do.”
Forty-seven minutes later, according to Sophia’s highly accurate Swiss pocket watch, a drab, grey little man came strolling into Harding, Howell and Company. From her position behind a fall of silken fabrics, she watched him stop, look around, then make straight for Mr. Parris’s counter. The hardest part of these last few minutes had been keeping customers away from Mr. Parris, so he would not be occupied when King arrived. Mr. Parris looked nervous, something Sophia was afraid King might notice and draw the wrong (or right) conclusions from, but there was no help for it.
She shifted her position and wished she were close enough to overhear them, but of course it was not the kind of conversation they would have if anyone were close enough to listen in. So she contented herself from observing their interaction and making up words to fit their expressions:
Mr. Parris looks very nervous. He has almost forgotten he is simply to greet King. There, King is drawing him in, because Mr. Parris now looks uncertain—oh, now he looks terrified. King must have told him “I am your blackmailer, ahahaha.” Mr. Parris is playing his part well. Oh, how I wish Daphne and Cecy were here! No, Mr. Parris, wait until he shows you his affidavit as a Seer—there, now excuse yourself to “get his money.” Oh, King, you are mine now.
Mr. Parris left his counter to go into the back of the shop. King waited, as relaxed as if he were not a vicious criminal who was about to meet justice. Sophia had given Mr. Parris everything he needed to make this work, but she could not do anything to stiffen his spine, so she clenched her hands tight and prayed he would have the brazen nerve to carry it off.
There he was again, approaching from a different direction, with another shop assistant—no, this new man had a less subservient walk, he must have more authority, perhaps he was even one of the owners—but they were approaching King now, and Sophia did not care who the man was so long as he reacted properly.
“This is the man, sir,” Mr. Parris said loudly, and his voice sounded not at all shaky. “He says he has had a Dream that shows me stealing from the company, and I insist he is lying. I want my reputation restored.”
King looked so surprised Sophia wanted to cheer. “I… there must be some mistake…” he began, and Mr. Parris thrust his hand into King’s grey, drab coat and pulled out a piece of paper.
“He showed me this and threatened to send it to you, sir, if I didn’t pay him,” Mr. Parris said. The owner, or whoever he was, took the paper and began reading it. The other customers were looking at the little tableau, whispering, and more people came crowding in at the doorway from the other rooms and were paying the most particular attention to what was happening. King looked as if he wanted to bolt, but didn’t know where to run.
The owner folded the paper and put it away inside his own coat. “You’re the Elias King named on that Dream affidavit?” he said.
“I—no, it’s not me, I was acting on his behalf—” King said.
“That’s a lie, sir. He introduced himself as Elias King,” Mr. Parris said. “Sir, I have been a faithful employee for two years. He’s threatened to smear my good name. I believe you should examine his claims so I can prove I didn’t do what he said.”
“That won’t be necessary, Parris, I know the kind of man you are,” the owner said. He took hold of King’s arm. “I’m turning you in to the magistrates. Lying about Dreams is a crime, and so is blackmail.”
“No,” King said, looking wildly around the room for an escape. Too late, Sophia ducked back into her sheltered corner; he saw her, and his fear turned into fury. He roared something unintelligible and smashed his fist into his captor’s face, making the man scream in pain and release him. He fled toward the exit, shoving women out of his way and into one another. Sophia tore after him, though her sensible brain was saying things like, What exactly do you plan to do if you catch him?
She tripped over a fallen customer, kept herself on her feet through sheer willpower, and emerged onto Pall Mall to see King racing off toward Haymarket Street. She ran after him for a few more steps before her sensible brain brought her to a panting halt. She cursed, loudly, drawing a few stares from passersby. Then she staggered back to Cecy’s carriage and ordered a very startled Peter to drive her home. She had failed. Now King would be too wary for her to ever trap him again, and Lord Endicott would know she was still a threat.
She sagged into a corner of the carriage and closed her eyes. She would not give up. She would simply have to think of a new plan.
Nothing suggested itself during her drive to the Barhams’ house. She felt drained, as if she had once again been Dreaming too much and it had sapped her will to keep moving. Thinking was too much effort. She dragged herself out of the carriage and up to the drawing room where Cecy and Daphne were pretending to drink tea and enjoy themselves.
Both women leaped up when she entered, Daphne literally Skipping to a spot that put her inches from Sophia’s nose. “Well?” she demanded.
“It didn’t work,” Cecy said. “I can tell from how despondent you look. What happened?”
“It almost worked,” Sophia said, and sank down onto the uncomfortable chair to tell her uncomfortable story. She finished by saying, “I believe
I want to leave this alone for the rest of the day. I cannot begin to imagine what we could try next.”
Daphne sprang up from her seat and knelt at Sophia’s feet. “Oh, Sophia, of course it worked!”
“I am afraid I don’t see it either,” Cecy said.
Daphne hopped up and grinned at both of them. “That is because neither of you has a job delivering messages that sometimes contain sensitive information. When someone tries to steal a courier’s bag, or tries to bribe a courier, we try to catch him, of course, but sometimes these people are clever—not cleverer than I, but then no one—well, once someone tried to—but I’m distracted again, aren’t I?
“What I was saying was if someone tries to tamper with our messages or packages, and we don’t apprehend him, we send the person’s description to the magistrates, and then they look out for him so he can’t try it again. And you made sure they had not only his description, but his name and his Dream affidavit too. I will bet you anything you like the magistrates have already issued a warrant for King’s arrest.”
Cecy and Sophia looked past Daphne at one another. “Lord Endicott will not want to associate with anyone under such close scrutiny by the law,” Cecy said.
“And King knows too much about Lord Endicott’s criminal endeavors,” Sophia said. “King might have to worry about Lord Endicott finding him before the Bow Street Runners do.”
“Hah! I feel as if I could black Lord Endicott’s eye for him right now!” Daphne said.
Sophia remembered King’s furious, helpless face, and thought of how Lord Endicott might look when he heard the news. “I believe, in a sense, we just did,” she said.
In which a gala takes some unexpected turns
ophia folded the newspaper and set it aside on the table next to the uncomfortable chair. “The Morning Herald may have its flaws, but it does the best police reporting, I believe.”
“I thought they made Mr. Parris sound heroic,” Daphne said, “which you said he really wasn’t.”
“I said he didn’t act like a traditional hero, but I believe he was very brave, essentially daring his employer to check the company records, knowing they would show King’s Dream to be true.”
“But you knew they would not check if he were forthright enough,” Cecy said, “because you saw it in Dream.”
“Yes, and that is why he was brave, because he could not know until it was over if he had been forthright enough.” Sophia stretched. She had not Dreamed for twenty-four hours, but she was still weary from everything she had done to trap King. “I must remember to pay his brother’s tuition, and ask Dr. Garland to look in on the mother and find out what is wrong with her so she can be treated. I hope Dr. Garland does not feel we treat her as if she is on permanent retainer with us.”
“You can do all of that tomorrow,” Cecy said. “This afternoon we will rest, because tonight we will be attending the Gates’s Twelfth Night gala. Have you been invited, Daphne?”
“I have, and I am prepared for whatever games Mrs. Gates intends,” Daphne said. She scrunched up her face, pressed on her cheeks to make her lips pucker up, and intoned, “I am Montoni, cold and brooding, ahahahaha.”
Sophia and Cecy went off into wild laughter. “I imagine Mrs. Radcliff would take exception to your portrayal of her villain,” Sophia said, “and besides, Eleanora never does the same thing twice.”
“Oh, bah, that means all my preparation is for nothing,” Daphne said, grinning, “and I may only approach this evening with dread.”
“Last year was anomalous,” Cecy said. “It will be very enjoyable, you’ll see.”
“I hold you to that,” Daphne said. “Sophia, what is the time?” Sophia displayed her watch, and Daphne squeaked. “I’m late!” she exclaimed, and vanished with a pop.
“I am glad it is not fancy dress,” Sophia said, standing and beginning to pace the room to stretch out her legs. She really was more weary than she should be. Possibly a nap was in order. “That is so much work, and one always has to worry that some other woman will come dressed as Athena, or the Five Graces, or something.”
“There are only three Graces, dearest.”
“So I need worry not only about dressing the same as another person, but of getting that dress wrong.”
Cecy laughed. “I am certain Eleanora will come up with something entertaining. And I am assured Lord Endicott will not be there, and Lady Daveril has gone into the country, so it will be enjoyable all around!”
“You relieve my mind, Cecy. Though I am not sure, now, whom I am more loath to face!”
She lay in her bed in her shift and tried not to accidentally slip into Dream. There was one person she had even less desire to face than her two nemeses, but she had been unable to ask Cecy if Mr. Rutledge would be there without starting a conversation she felt powerless to finish.
She had not told Cecy or Daphne about Mr. Rutledge’s employer, or that he had wanted her to work for him, or that he had betrayed their friendship by manipulating her talent. The first two were not her secrets to share, and the third… it was connected to the first two, yes, but her reluctance to speak of it came more from her confusion than from a desire to keep those secrets. It had been so much simpler when they were friends. Now, when she thought of him, she felt anger and humiliation and gratitude and even desire, all stirred together like some witch’s brew of emotion, waiting on some final ingredient that would determine which of those feelings should come out on top.
Facing him tonight… she seemed to have settled on avoidance as her way of dealing with those relationships that were too uncomfortable or painful or confusing, hadn’t she? The thought made her angry enough with herself and her weakness that sleep seemed impossible. Avoiding Mr. Rutledge was not going to do anything but postpone the moment when she had to face him and thank him properly for bringing her home safely, however discomfited it made her feel.
Her longing to see him embarrassed her, mixed up as it was in her humiliation over how he had tricked her. She could not determine the truth. Had he deceived her completely, pretended to be her friend so he could manipulate her? But then why treat her with such solicitude in her moment of need? And was it not in many ways worse if he were truly her friend and abused that friendship to gain the use of her talent? In either case, her ridiculous feelings of love for him were… ridiculous, that was all. Foolish to care for someone who cared nothing for her; foolish to care for someone she could not trust.
She lay, sleepless, until Beeton came to dress her in her green silk shift with the ivory gauze gown over it, to arrange her hair and pin her green satin turban over her auburn curls, to help her choose a necklace and a pair of shoes and send her downstairs to join Cecy and Lewis at the door. Cecy looked radiant, as usual; Lewis looked calm and almost painfully handsome. Sophia smiled and contributed a few things to Cecy’s chatter on the way to the Gates’s town house in Grosvenor Street, but she felt remote, as if this were all happening to someone else—until Cecy said, “And I reassured Mr. Rutledge you would be there. He was concerned there might have been lasting damage from the Vision, which I told him was not the case.”
“Thank you,” Sophia said, then could not think of anything else to say.
“I really do feel tremendously grateful to him for his help,” Cecy went on. “I am surprised he did not call the next day to inquire after your health, but I suppose he is a very busy man.”
“He is,” Sophia said. “And I’m sure he has faith in Dr. Garland’s abilities.”
“Certainly that. Perhaps we should have a dinner party, invite him as a way of saying ‘thank you.’ “
“Do you consider that wise, given your health?”
“I feel well—all right, I know there is no guarantee I will still feel well in the morning. Even so, I want to do something to show our gratitude.”
“I am sure he already knows it. He… he is quite generous.” Sophia blushed, but did not know why. Praising Mr. Rutledge made her feel as awkward as if he had once again b
een required to carry her out of some hostess’s overheated and unpleasant gathering.
“If you think so,” Cecy said. The carriage came to a halt and they emerged to be welcomed into the Gates’s town house.
It was one of the largest on Grosvenor Street and the most elegant, thanks to Eleanora Gates’s exquisite taste, which made her one of the principal hostesses of London. The mirrored walls of the small entryway threw off reflections of themselves, like Almack’s in miniature, and kept the room from feeling cramped. Sophia went through to the spacious drawing room to the left, where the carpets had been removed and the chairs pulled back against the glass-fronted cabinets to leave plenty of room for dancing. Eleanora Gates’s cut-glass chandelier, modeled on the famous ones in the Assembly Rooms in Bath, sent warm golden light flickering over the entire room, a warmth echoed by the flames burning low in the fireplace with its creamy mantel.
“Mrs. Westlake!” exclaimed a woman Sophia had met several times before in company, and then the room seemed filled with people calling out greetings and friendly questions until Sophia wanted to hide. They were determined to show her she was valued, and that no one thought less of her from having a moment’s weakness, and it made her feel more awkward than if they had said nothing. But she smiled, and told herself firmly she was having a good time. After half an hour passed, and the guests’ attention turned to more interesting things, she discovered it was true. How much different from the Duchess of Lenshire’s dinner! She did not see Mr. Rutledge, did not see anyone whose presence might interfere with her enjoyment of the evening, and the tension she had felt upon entering began to ease.
“Thank you for coming, everyone, I am so pleased to have you as my guests!” Eleanora Gates called out. Sophia turned away from an interesting conversation about how the Prime Minister might handle the Roman Catholic question to look in Eleanora’s direction, and as she did so, she found herself instead looking directly at Mr. Rutledge. His dark eyes were fixed on her, his expression unreadable, and she blushed, but could not look away.
Wondering Sight (The Extraordinaries Book 2) Page 20