Camille allowed herself the luxury of one sob and two very slow, very controlled breaths. She pressed the back of her hand to her cheek and wiped it. She had to move forward.
The tears blurred everything before her into a misty mess of browns and grays. She peered through them at a group of young girls playing by a back stoop and then a cluster of women chatting with baskets over their arms and mobcaps on their heads.
Slowly reality dawned.
After a lifetime of living in one place, surrounded by the same people, she should have somewhere to go.
But there was no one for her to turn to.
Like it or not, her life was defined by the hours spent in the shop, her social connections limited to her patrons and the occasional merchant. Beyond that, she had little in common with the women who lived near her. She had been raised differently than most of them. Her speech was different due to the time spent on her grandfather’s estate—less like the voice of a Blinkett Street native and more like a lady. She looked different as well, her black hair and dark eyes giving her the appearance of a foreigner.
And then there was her father, of course. James Iverness, a man whose doubtful reputation preceded him.
Mothers did not want their daughters associating with the daughter of such a man. Men did not want to court a woman whose father had such a volatile reputation. There was no other family that she knew of, except for her mother in a faraway country.
She was alone, literally cast out into the streets.
She walked for several hours among the shoddy shops and narrow houses, careful to avoid the straw and dung on the streets. She held her hand to her nose to block the putrid scents of dirty animals and human waste. The smoke from the forge burned her eyes, and the thick air made her lungs ache.
Her body cried, ironically, for the solace of her little chamber above the shop. The pain of her arm was making her sick to her stomach, and the desire for something familiar trumped the anger she felt toward her father.
She thought of Mr. Gilchrist. Those arresting blue eyes. The kindness in his expression. The manner in which he stood up to her father. And his outrageous suggestion—that she leave Blinkett Street and start fresh.
In truth, she left Blinkett Street nearly every night in her dreams, but it had never occurred to her actually to go away.
She had always believed it her duty to stay and help her father, to take care of him as her mother had instructed. She had told herself he was a good man in essence, that despite his brusque manner he loved her and she him.
But was it true?
Somehow, over the years, their relationship had cracked. She had continued striving to do as he bid, to please him. But her efforts were never enough, and now his harsh words and actions echoed painfully in her mind.
Another question nagged as well. Mr. Gilchrist had implied that her father could be involved in a theft? Surely not. She knew his methods were questionable. But she kept the books and had never seen any evidence of outright villainy.
What if he were stealing? Would she be implicated in the theft as well? Could she be hanged for her father’s crimes?
She couldn’t think anymore. Her aching body cried out for rest and her stomach rumbled with hunger. Her head felt both light and full at the same time, and her cut arm throbbed painfully. She looked down and saw it was bleeding again. The bright blood had seeped through the bandage to stain the fine fabric of her borrowed gown.
She could not wander the streets in this condition. She needed to go home. Perhaps she could slip up to her room without her father noticing.
She slowed her steps as she reached the gated entrance to the small bit of earth behind their home. She heard two voices—no, three. All were male. One of them was Papa’s.
Considering the anger he had displayed a short while ago, the laughter she heard now surprised her. Words, when spoken, were muffled, the voices slurred.
She strained to make out the nuances of each voice, trying to determine their owners. As she listened to the cadence of the tones, apprehension tightened her nerves.
“Never suspected,” one growled. “But then again, what’s that for a little extra?” Another voice sounded, thick with a foreign accent. “How long?”
She had no idea what they were talking about. Summoning her courage, Camille picked her steps carefully to avoid the clutter of broken crates and debris in the alley, stepped closer to the gate, and peered through the wooden slats. She made out the back of Papa’s graying head. The rough wool of another man’s coat swayed in and out of her view.
An insect swirled around her, and she squinted in sunshine that had suddenly emerged from behind the cloud’s silver curtain. She leaned closer to the fence and held her breath, attempting to hear more.
“But what about the girl?”
“You didn’t have to hurt her.” Papa’s voice was unmistakable.
Camille bit her lip. They were talking about her.
“’Twas an accident, I told you. Besides, you said she was a tough sort, and that she was. Fought me like a cat, she did.”
“And what of my shop?” Her father’s voice again. “Looks like you let a pair of wild horses loose in there.”
“Couldn’t be helped. Like I said, fought me like a cat.”
“And my window. How in blazes did that happen?”
There was a pause. “That man pushed me into it. Lost my balance.”
Papa’s voice was raspy. “Well, I suppose it was a small price to pay. Most of the goods have been taken to the warehouse anyway. At least the plan played out. We need her to be completely unaware. And we need to throw that boy off.”
The blood pounded through her ears. Surely she had heard him wrong. Unaware of what? And who did he mean by boy? Mr. Gilchrist?
She bit back her breath and angled her body. Nothing made sense, but fear that Papa might some way be involved in a robbery sent shivers through her.
She could see the back of the man with whom Papa was speaking. He was tall. Broad. And what he wore was not a coat, but a long cape.
He turned, and as his profile came into view, she was certain it was him. The man Mr. Gilchrist had named as Mr. McCready—the man who had held her at knifepoint and then cut her—was laughing and talking with Papa. And Papa, who seemed to be completely aware of Mr. McCready’s actions, was not angered in the least.
She kept watching as their laughter died down.
“Where’s the girl now?”
“Don’t know. Kicked her out. She shouldn’t have left the shop like she did, so I needed to teach her a lesson. But she’ll be back.”
“Just make sure she doesn’t cause problems.”
“Camille? She won’t.” Papa’s voice was ripe with confidence. “That was the whole purpose of your little sham of a robbery—to distract the girl. We don’t need to concern ourselves with her.”
“You so sure about that, Iverness?” asked the third man. “You know women.”
“If anyone asks her what is going on, she will be convincing because she knows nothing about it. But even if she did suspect something, she’d not say a word. The girl knows better.”
She knows better.
Camille had heard enough. She inched away from the gate.
Yes, she did know better.
She had blinded herself to what her father had become, ignored all the signs for far too long. She could do so no longer.
She had never been truly afraid of Papa, despite his rough ways, but seeing him there, laughing and plotting with her attacker, sent a wave of nausea washing over her. If he was in cahoots with the caped man, that meant he found his daughter’s stabbing an acceptable price to pay for whatever scheme he was pursuing.
Camille recoiled backward as if the invisible thread tying her to her family had suddenly snapped. Her stomach flopped within her as she retraced her steps, treading lightly over the loose cobblestones. She had to get away. But where could she go?
Then Mr. Gilchrist’s outlandish offer
flashed in her mind.
It had been so long since she had been outside of London. Painting after painting had made its way through their shop—paintings of idyllic countrysides, tranquil streams, contented livestock, so reminiscent of her grandfather’s estate. What would it be like to walk away from what she knew and start a new life in a place like that? Could she be so brave, so daring? Was she ready to break a tie that, once severed, could likely never be repaired?
She wasn’t sure. But fear is a convincing advocate. Her world was crumbling around her, and with each passing moment, it seemed, another piece tumbled to the ground.
What choice did she have?
She thought of her worldly possessions, tucked away neatly in the small upstairs room. There was little there worth going after—not if it meant encountering her father.
She cast another glance through the fence. But as she did, the first thing her eyes landed on was Tevy. The big brown dog’s tail started wagging when he saw her. He stood from where he was sitting and started walking toward the gate.
Camille shook her head and backed away.
Papa’s voice sounded. “What do you see, Tevy?”
The men grew quiet.
Camille’s breath lodged in her throat, refusing to move. Now was not the time to panic. If they discovered her, no doubt they would pull her into their world, involve her in their underhanded business.
She didn’t want to be a part of that. Not ever again.
She backed away from her spot, careful to be silent. She attempted to place her feet exactly where she had on her approach, but her boot caught on a piece of a broken crate, and the wood cracked beneath her heel.
She froze. The men’s hushed talking ceased.
“Hold fast,” one of the gruff voices whispered. “Someone’s there.”
Camille cast a glance over her shoulder, identifying her path to the main street.
“Get on, Tevy,” Papa’s rough voice ordered. “Find who is there.”
Camille needed no more incentive. Tevy would never hurt her, but he would find her and no doubt lead Papa to her. She could not face him. Not now. Not when she had heard what she did. And if he thought she had overheard their conversation, there was no telling what the next steps would be.
So she ran. She ran down the alleyway, ignoring the dirty rainwater from the previous night’s storm as it splashed on her borrowed skirt. She ran down the street, past the storefronts and shops. For a while she heard shouts, and she heard Tevy bark. But it was easy to get lost amongst the carts and carriages, the horses and people. The ever-present cover of smoke hovered, creating a misty shroud of secrecy. But the familiar sea of faces around her seemed odd and terrifying, a reminder that even though she’d lived her entire life here, she was still a stranger.
Her pulse raced, urging her further and faster through the crowd toward the west end of Blinkett Street. The sun was warm now, trapping a yellow glow in the smoke hovering over the street.
Mr. Gilchrist had said that he and his sister would depart tomorrow.
Would that be soon enough?
For she was certain of one thing: she could not go back home. But it was not home, she told herself. It was a place of business, and it had been such ever since her mother left all those years ago.
Hurt blistered into anger. Her father had spoken as if she were dispensable.
She had given her all to helping him, and he took no notice of it. What would happen to his shop, his little empire, if she were not there to make sure the merchants were paid? That the books were kept?
Indignation pushed her feet faster. She brushed her way past a gathering of people, sidestepped a dog, and dodged a low-hanging sign. She retraced her steps back away from Blinkett Street and to the Gilchrist home. She rarely had a reason to be in such an elegant part of town, and no doubt she looked terribly out of place.
She tucked her arm beneath her bundle of belongings to disguise the blood as she neared the Gilchrists’ door. Then her footsteps slowed until she was standing frozen before it.
She was poised between two evils. If she returned home, her fate would be sealed. She would forever be cemented into her father’s world. But if she agreed to Mr. Gilchrist’s suggestion, she could never return. And though Mr. Gilchrist had offered to help her, what if the country school he had mentioned had no positions for which she was suited?
Then I will find something else to do, she told herself. She might be a woman, but she was independent. Smart. She didn’t need another living soul. Not her father. Not her mother. Nobody except, for the moment, the person who had offered to help her. And she would accept from him only what she truly needed.
Yellow light blinked from behind drawn curtains. Mr. Gilchrist might or might not be inside. But someone, at least, was home.
She stepped up to the door, but embarrassment choked her as she lifted her hand. Never in her life would she have thought she would be knocking on a stranger’s door, as forward as the women who walked the street in front of the public houses across from their shop. She well remembered the rules of polite society and knew it was highly improper for her to arrive without invitation. Perhaps she should seek a servants’ entrance.
But at this point, what did it matter? What had she to lose? The opinion of a family she did not know and, if she were turned away, would never see again?
This was a chance she was willing to take.
A blinding flash of fear made her glance over her shoulder. What if her father was looking for her? He had seen her with Mr. Gilchrist and said he knew the man’s father. What if he knew about this house? Or what if one of his cronies saw her and informed him of her whereabouts? She did not know what he was up to, but he was clearly involved in something shady.
She turned back to the door and bit her lip. It was now or never. She took the elegantly carved brass knocker in her work-worn hand and let it fall against the door.
Chapter Fifteen
Newspaper in hand, Jonathan sat and watched his sister pace the narrow parlor.
The empty parlor.
Normally, whenever they were in London, a cluster of ladies would be assembled in this room, their hands busy with their needlework, laughing and exchanging the latest gossip with Penelope.
But no ladies had called during their last several visits to London.
Jonathan had not really noticed the change until now, when the silence was broken only by the clattering of carriages on the street outside, the voices of pedestrians as they passed, and his sister’s worried footsteps.
The rumors of his father’s financial issues had started circulating several months ago. Jonathan had managed to ignore most of the chatter, but Penelope had a much more difficult time of it. As the gossip increased, the number of people in her circle had decreased. Now she was often alone. Fortunately, her engagement had been announced before the latest set of rumors began to circulate, but even that prospect seemed to grow more uncertain with each passing day.
Penelope dropped to a chair, her normally pristine posture sagging. Her cheeks were pale, and dark circles marked the space beneath her eyes. “I suppose I should have expected this.”
Jonathan frowned at her statement. “Expected what?”
She rubbed the back of her neck as if to relieve tension gathering there. “I tried to tell you, Jonathan. People are starting to talk.”
She had mentioned this the previous evening, when they were speaking of Miss Iverness. But now she was much calmer, her expression much more sober.
He cleared his throat. “What are they saying?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but I felt it last night at the Dowdens’.”
It was not unusual for his sister to exaggerate. But there was a sadness in her voice, a genuine sorrow that tugged at him. “Are you sure you did not imagine it?”
“No, Jonathan.” She shook her head with emphasis. “You weren’t there. Miss Vallum barely said two words to me, and more than once I saw Miss Stathem and Miss Crenshaw looking
my way and whispering to each other. It was mortifying. Miss Marbury had warned me it might be so, but nothing could have truly prepared me for the coldness I felt. Even Alfred was distant.”
Normally, Jonathan paid little attention to his sister’s social activities. But as the date for her wedding drew near, she was growing particularly sensitive to the whispers concerning their father and the possible implications for her marriage to Mr. Dowden.
Penelope leaned with her elbow on the arm’s chair and rested her chin in her hand. “What if he changes his mind?”
“He won’t.” Jonathan knew his words of consolation were hardly adequate. Alfred Dowden would not be the first man to call off a wedding due to a change in dowry expectations. It would be a scandal, of course, but the taint would eventually pass for Dowden, whose family was wealthy and well-connected. Penelope, on the other hand, might never recover from the slight.
“We’ll find the ruby,” he assured her. “Mr. Darbin knows what he is doing.”
Penelope sighed. “So I have heard, yet my hope dwindles with every day that passes.”
“Even if we do not recover the Bevoy, we will figure something out.”
Her posture straightened, and her expression brightened. “You do have another option, you know.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Miss Marbury asked about you again last night. She always does.” The words seemed to tumble out of her. “You know, she is quite fond of you and doesn’t seem to mind at all that you are an apothecary. And, after all, settling down isn’t such a bad idea, is it? Her family is well respected, and if you would—”
“We have been through this before, Penelope. No.”
“But if you would only—”
“I have no intentions of marrying,” he interrupted. “Especially for money.”
She slouched back in her chair, a pout darkening her face.
On this topic he would not negotiate. Jonathan had resigned himself to hearing his family speak of his profession as if it were a disease. But the very mention of his “improving his circumstances” through matrimony was enough to set him on edge.
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