by Liana Lefey
They paused only long enough for Trouvère to deliver a message to the children to stay put, and then set off. Room by room, they progressed, checking each for intruders. When they reached her office, however, Trouvère stopped and took out her keys.
“Why bother?” Will asked as she let herself in. “If it’s locked, he cannot be inside.”
“No, but there is something in here I want.” She returned a moment later bearing two pistols. “Did you expect me not to possess some means of protection?” she asked lightly.
He realized then that he was staring at her in openmouthed astonishment. “Have you ever even fired a pistol before?”
She fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Yes,” she said simply, putting one of the guns into an apron pocket and proffering him the other. “And you, monsieur?”
Taking it, he tucked it into the back of his breeches. “Enough to know I can hit whatever I aim at,” he said evasively.
“Good. Then let us proceed.”
They reached the foyer without incident and made sure all was secure there before inspecting Mrs. Sloane’s rooms. Finding everything in order, the three settled in to await the constable.
“It shouldn’t be long now,” said Mrs. Sloane. “Geoffrey—I mean Constable Birdsley,” she corrected, blushing, “should be here soon.”
Geoff Birdsley. Bloody hell. Will’s heart sank even as he saw Trouvère hide a smile over the matron’s slip. He and Geoff had worked together in another district for a short time before Geoff had moved. Steeling himself, he waited. It would all be up the moment the man saw him. He nearly sagged in relief when Mrs. Sloane begged a private moment in her chambers.
The instant the door closed behind her, Will addressed the headmistress. “You need to tell me the truth about what you believe is going on here. I saw you back there. Is your husband still alive?”
Trouvère’s gaze remained downcast. “No. He is most certainly dead. I saw it with my own eyes. This is something…else.”
“If you know something—anything—about why that animal was left there with that message, I need you to tell me.”
“Why? What can you do about it?” she flared, frowning. “In addition to the constable, I’ve sent word to my benefactor. He will know what to do.”
“You think this has something to do with him?”
She fidgeted, betraying nervousness. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“But the message in the courtyard inferred that the intended target is a woman.” He counted to ten in his head before taking the gamble. “Might they be trying to use you to get to him? To get to the Archangel?”
Wide, hazel eyes fixed on him. “How do you know that name?”
“I overheard two of the students talking in the hallway. It was what prompted me to break in and look at the records. When I saw the seal on Penny’s letter, I knew it had to be him.”
She moved so quickly he had no time to react. When he looked down, her pistol was aimed directly at his chest.
“Who are you?” she demanded, the tremor in her voice revealing the fear she’d not shown in the courtyard. “You are no mathematics teacher; that much is certain!”
Raising both hands, he spoke as calmly as possible while staring down the barrel of a loaded, cocked firearm. “I might ask the same question of you. You’ve never been completely honest with me. You work with the Archangel, don’t you?” He tried to smile a little, but aborted the effort when she raised the gun higher. “I swear I’m no enemy of yours—or his.”
“Then pray tell me what you are!” Her eyes spat fire, and the gun trembled slightly in her grasp.
He might as well, before Geoff did it for him—or she shot him. “I’m a constable, and I was sent here by Westminster to investigate this school.”
“What?” It came out as a gasp, conveying both horror and disbelief. “Why?”
“Because we were led to believe this was a through-house for one of London’s underage-flesh-sellers. Surely you’ve heard about the missing prostitutes and children, and the brothel owners killed? We thought someone was thinning the competition and abducting the workers and their children to resupply their own stock.”
“Someone?” she asked, blazing eyes narrowed to slits. The barrel of the gun rose an increment.
In spite of his mortification—he’d never been so wrong—he forced out the words. “I thought it was the Archangel.” Her look of outrage was such that it made him cringe. “I thought he was deceiving them into thinking he was their savior so they would go with him willingly.”
“And you thought I was part of this—this soulless plan?”
“No,” he said at once. “I knew within a few days of coming here that you were innocent. And after seeing the students’ files, especially the letter, I knew the Archangel was as well.”
“Then why are you still here?” She again raised the gun a little higher.
“Because someone deliberately led me to this place, and I need to know the reason. I believe I now have it.”
“Go on.”
“London’s brothel owners are frightened and angry, and I think at least one of them recently discerned your connection to their enemy. The anonymous letter that led me here was a way of putting pressure on you. By threatening you—with my presence, with the nasty messages—they hope to somehow force you to reveal the Archangel’s identity. They want you to run to him for help so they can find out who he is.”
“Mon Dieu,” she whispered, paling another shade. “I sent him a message tonight!”
“Directly?”
“No, we use several intermediaries, but if the driver is followed—”
“Headmistress?” It was Sloane, returned from her private errand.
Trouvère lowered the gun. “All is well, Prudence. A misunderstanding of sorts, nothing more.”
When he turned, Will saw yet another pistol aimed at him. He watched, relieved, as Mrs. Sloane lowered and uncocked it. Are they all armed?
Looking reluctant but resigned, Trouvère continued. “It may be that what you say is true. But there might also be another explanation. There is something you ought to know concerning my relationship with the man you call the Archangel. Before I became—”
The ringing of the front door’s bell put a stop to whatever she’d been about to say.
Frustration gnawed at Will as the women hid their pistols away and Sloane went to answer it. It turned to self-castigation when he saw her admit an unfamiliar man.
Bollocks! He’d given himself away without need.
“Who are you?” asked the matron with a frown. “Where is Constable Birdsley?”
“On holiday, madame,” answered the newcomer with a respectful nod. “I’m Constable Coombs. The night watchman and I met your Mr. Young as he was coming to fetch Birdsley. He said someone had broken in and left a dead animal on the premises?”
“Yes,” Will cut in, shooting Trouvère a look he hoped she interpreted correctly as: say nothing! “And a rather menacing message. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you.” As he led Coombs through the hallways and out into the courtyard with the women trailing behind, his mind raced to try to puzzle out what she’d been about to say, but it was useless.
“Mrs. Sloane, will you hold my lamp, please?” Will handed it to her and then, with Trouvère’s help, lifted the edges of the cloth so the good constable could have a look without exposing the scene to the doubtless wide-awake eyes peering out from the dark windows above.
Coombs let out a low whistle. “Here’s a nasty bit o’ business.” Bending, he reached out and picked up the knife, holding up the skewered heart. “Somebody doesn’t like someone here. Who d’you think this was meant for?”
Trouvère spoke up. “I believe it was meant for me. I am Madame Trouvère, the headmistress of this school.”
Will didn’t like the way the man looked her up and down. He didn’t like it at all.
“Well,” said Coombs. “Whoever did it seems to want to give you a fright. Any ide
a who it might be?”
Again, Will stepped in. “We suspect it was the builder hired prior to the one now overseeing the school’s expansion. He was stripped of his masonry license after being found guilty of fraudulent practices.”
“Mmm, I can see why he might hold a grudge.” Coombs took a small leather-bound booklet from his pocket along with a stick of string-wrapped graphite and began writing. “The name of this fellow?”
“Seamus Feeny,” answered Trouvère, giving Will a slight nod as if to say she understood what it was he wanted. She answered all of Coombs’s subsequent questions in alignment with this direction.
As he escorted Coombs back through the school, Will couldn’t help noticing the way the man’s gaze roved about constantly, as if he was looking for something. His gut tightened.
Relax, Danbury, whispered Reason. You’re no different. Always examining your surroundings, always seeking evidence. You question everything.
Seeking evidence? replied Suspicion. What could possibly be in these corridors to interest the man after what he just saw? All of the “evidence” is back in the courtyard.
“You say Birdsley is away on holiday?” he asked aloud, uncomfortable with the silence.
“Yes, visiting family,” said the other man, flashing a smile. “He mentioned a wedding.”
Will dismissed his unease and wondered if he was quite sane. Still, he was glad to shut the door behind Coombs. Now to deal with the mess I’ve made. He never should’ve told her the truth about himself. To make matters worse, Sloane now knew, as well.
“Bollocks,” he muttered, resolving to go at once and try to make amends. The look in her eyes when he’d told her had convicted him—and rightly so. She’d trusted him, and he’d rewarded her with a betrayal. He either ought to have told her who he really was the day she’d found him poking through the files, or remained silent and let her believe him to be a mathematics teacher until they parted ways.
“Is your name even William Woodson?” The words whipped out, sharp as a razor’s edge.
Whirling, he saw the very subject of his ruminations standing there. “I was just going to come and help dispose of the—”
“It’s already done,” she interrupted. “Agnes and I gathered it up in the canvas. She’s burning the remains now while the others wash the courtyard clean. Answer my question.”
“It’s Will Danbury.”
Her chilly, unwavering gaze searched him as if he were completely foreign to her. “Thank you, Monsieur Danbury, for finally honoring me with the truth.”
“I should have told you the moment I knew you were innocent.”
“Yes, you should have,” she retorted. “But we can do nothing about what has passed. What I want to know is what you intend for the future. Will you be leaving us now?”
He shook his head. “I’ll stay until I know who is behind this. Someone has attempted to use Westminster for their own ends, and I cannot allow such a precedent to be set.”
A crease marred the space between her brows. “Then you remain only to continue serving your superiors’ interests?”
An uncomfortable pounding began beneath his ribs. “No, not only…” The words popped out before he thought better of them. “The girls, they need protecting,” he added quickly. “What harms this school harms them.” And you.
“It may already be too late,” she said, looking away. “If the Archangel is exposed, it will mean the end of this place, the end of my work. Those he has angered will not stop until they have him.”
“Is he the one behind the brothel owners’ deaths?”
She didn’t answer.
He didn’t really need her to. “I cannot say I don’t admire him for taking the initiative. God knows someone needed to, especially where the children were concerned. I know now that he’s been saving them, but the fact is, he’s working outside the law to do it. You must warn him to stop before it’s too late. If Westminster catches him—and I prefer not to see that happen—there will be nothing either of us can do to save him from the noose. The law is the law. He’ll be tried for murder.”
A telltale glimmer appeared on her lower lashes, and he felt a total heel for having said it. But it couldn’t be helped.
“I understand.” She blinked and dashed away her tears. “I can send word to him once I know it’s safe to do so. In the meantime, I believe you should know the whole truth concerning my relationship to the man of whom we speak.”
Everything in Will tensed as if in anticipation of a blow.
“While some of what I told you is true, I have not been entirely honest with you. I was saved by the Archangel from torment and a terrible death at the hands of the one who gave me my scars. But I was never married.”
Will listened as she told him about a monster of a man—whom she refused to name, claiming he was dead—a brothel proprietress called Boucher, and a young Frenchwoman named Raquel. The Archangel’s identity she withheld. He didn’t press for it. In truth, he didn’t want to know. He’d be obligated to report such information to his superiors—which was exactly what the enemy wanted.
Hers was a tale straight out of a nightmare, told in a voice as calm and unruffled as if she were speaking of a stranger. In a way, he supposed she was. She’d left behind the name Raquel to become Jacqueline Trouvère. But it was clear she hadn’t escaped her former life entirely. It had left its mark—and not just on her body.
“So you see, Monsieur Danbury, you are not the only one who has kept secrets.” Her following chuckle sounded broken. “I fear mine are somewhat more damning than yours.”
Finding his tongue amid the tumult in his mind proved impossible. He was, quite simply, astounded. But while he viewed her story as both tragic and triumphant, he knew others would see only as far as the word “prostitute.”
She’d called herself one. That she’d only ever been with one man—and only for the sake of avoiding starvation—could simply have been termed a mistake. Many women sold themselves in marriage for the same reason. In her innocence, she’d even imagined herself in love with the bastard. But the fact that she’d gone to Boucher with the intent to sell herself colored everything.
Or did it?
Understanding why and how she’d ended up in a brothel served only to further skew his perspective. Was it fair to ask a woman to die of starvation rather than turn to immorality to feed herself? Of the good people he knew, the overwhelming majority would piously answer that question with a quick “yes” before condemning and reviling her. And they would expect him to do the same.
But Will couldn’t find it in himself to do so. It was all too easy to sit in judgment without empathy when one hadn’t suffered the plaintiff’s plight. Unlike many who claimed to be good, but acted otherwise, she truly was good. The evidence in her favor was overwhelming.
“Mon Dieu, say something,” she implored with another soggy laugh.
“I—” He cleared his throat. “You were alone and frightened, and you acted out of desperation. I don’t blame you for—”
“Don’t labor under the impression that I’m asking forgiveness,” she snapped, suddenly wrathful. “God alone will judge me! He knows I did only what I had to in order to survive. I went everywhere seeking employment, but was denied honest work. No one in this godforsaken city would hire me!”
She covered her trembling lips with a shaky hand. “Even your Church of England turned me away when I begged help. I was a French papist, they said. Those who claimed to be God’s merciful servants cast me out into the street. In the end, I had nowhere else to go but Boucher or the docks. I will not apologize for my decision to live.”
“You’re not the one who needs forgiving.” A strange pain erupted in his chest at her look of surprise. “The unkindness you endured was no fault of your own.”
“And I don’t need your pity!” she flared, though her chin wobbled a little as she raised it in defiance.
Pity. He did feel sorry for her, for what she’d suffered. But his admi
ration for her was greater by far. “I’m angered on your behalf,” he said quietly. “I’m in awe of your courage and amazed by your strength. There is little room for pity in my heart when such sentiments fill it.”
Tears streamed from her eyes.
Without thinking, he reached out and thumbed them away. Blood roared in his ears at the contact, and his head felt light. Something was happening, something both exhilarating and terrifying. He was taken by an almost overpowering urge to kiss her.
But the last shred of reason he possessed stopped him.
She’s not like other women. At best, kissing her would likely result in a slap. At worst, he remembered she had a gun tucked away somewhere on her person. His intent would most certainly be misunderstood.
Her hazel eyes had darkened, and her cheeks were flushed. Was it rage that brought such richness of color to her skin? Or was it something else? After what she’d been through, he wondered if she would ever want to be touched again. “I cannot speak for anyone else,” he said at last. “But for my part, I cannot and will not condemn you. Though I lied about my name and my intentions in coming here, I am your friend, and I want to help you.”
More tears fell. “Was any of it true?”
“Yes, everything save what I do for a living, I swear it. You can ask Dr. Horton.”
“Dr. Horton?” Her brows pinched. “What—do you mean to say he knows about this, about you?”
“Don’t be angry with him. He knew nothing until he saw me here, and I threatened him with prison if he gave me away,” he answered, chagrined. “We’ve known each other since we were boys.” A nervous laugh found its way out of his throat. “His brother nearly married one of my sisters. He knows I work for Sir Gonson and can vouch for me.”
Her face tightened with fury. “Yes, you men can all vouch for one another. Dr. Horton, Lord Mulgrave. Who else, I wonder, has lied to me?”
Damn. “No one else knows my real identity—and I prefer to keep it that way until we get to the bottom of this.”
“We? You expect me to trust you after this?”
Confound it all! “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you need not do it blindly. As I said, Horton can vouch for me.”