“We have not finished our discussion,” Phillip said.
“I beg to differ, sir.” Chin lifted, she gave him a cool look. “Accepting your invitation was a mistake.”
“It was more crowded than I would have liked.”
“Crowded does not begin to cover this catastrophe. Did you think I would not notice the curious glances? This one excursion will begin gossip all over again.” She looked close to tears.
“Rose, I am sorry to have upset you. But if gossip worries you, then arguing on your doorstep is little better.”
“He is right, my lady,” her maid said from beside Rose as she peered at passersby on the pavement.
Rose opened her mouth and then closed it. She seemed ready to lock him out so he pushed her back until he could enter and then closed the door behind him. The house felt as oppressive as ever, but at least he had regained entry.
“Inviting yourself in is surely no less scandalous,” Rose said. “And pray, stop handling me at every turn.”
“Then stop quibbling with me.”
Her maid wrung her hands and looked from one to the other.
With a sigh, Rose led him to the drawing room. “What is left to be said?”
He dropped his hat and coat on a sheet-encased chair. “To begin with, what was all that about gossip?”
“You courted me and then disappeared the moment news came of my sister and uncle’s deaths. How could you not be aware that your desertion would garner talk?”
He faced her, arms folded. “You never used to care about idle chatter. And Rose, England was at war and I was needed overseas. I tried to return but I could not get home right away.”
“Right away!” Rose marched to a window and, pushing aside the curtain, stared at the back garden. “Everyone expected us to become betrothed. Everyone but your mother. She no doubt danced in jubilation that you had come to your senses upon discovering what a deplorable family I was connected to.”
His chest burned with indignation. Rose was the one who said he was never again to darken her doorstep. “My mother has nothing to do with us.”
Rose swung around. “There is no us.”
Lord, she was beautiful when she was on her high horse. The thought cooled his temper and heated other parts. He cautiously approached her.
“Though I can see there is to be a relationship between you and Miss Warwick.” Her bitterly jealous tone belied the hatred she professed to have of him.
He stopped two paces away. Did she still care? The idea was like a smooth sip of brandy, leaving him thirsting for more.
“Rose . . .”
“That young lady seems perfectly matched for both you and your mother. I wish the three of you joy.”
Phillip spread his arms in exasperation. “And how, dear Rose, would you know who is my perfect match?”
“Your mother knows you, and has apparently decided for you.”
“This talk of Miss Warwick and my mother is an attempt to avoid answering my questions.”
“It is not!” she said, but her gaze returned outside.
“Show me the note that Spanish woman slipped you.”
“I have no n—”
“Do not lie, Rose.” He turned her to face him and tilted her face up with a forefinger. “We are dealing with murder. The path you choose now can either keep you from grief or land you in the killer’s sights.” He had given a similar warning to Turner. “I ask again. How are you involved with Mrs. Beaumont? Did you see her the night she was murdered? And what is in that note you received in the park?”
“Mrs. Beaumont is . . . was, my friend. She is dead. No, I did not meet her the night she was murdered. And I do not know about any note. Please leave now.”
She pulled away from his touch and stormed to the door and held it open.
Phillip’s breath gushed out in defeat. Turner had responded the same way. He had to refine his arguments. Logic and common sense were not as saleable as they had once been. He strode toward the door, stopping to retrieve his hat and walking stick. “Think about what I have said. I shall call on you on the morrow. I hope a night of rumination will lead you to trust in me again.”
The maid was still in the entryway, standing as still as a statue. In this house, he would not be surprised to find her turned to stone. He strode out and put on his hat.
Rose used to be a biddable young lady, always engaging, happy to do as he asked. No longer. As he drove away, what seemed most out of place was her smile. It had never made an appearance on her sorrowful face. Not once.
On impulse, he returned to Hyde Park, hoping to catch a glimpse of the spectacled young Spaniard. He tooled down Park Lane and by the surrounding streets. After several fruitless minutes, he gave up. What could have been in that note? Could it have been for an assignation? Would Rose be foolish enough to go? He had not told her to refuse any such dangerous requests. That accepting it could put her life in danger.
In a frenzy to return, he slapped the leathers and turned his curricle back toward Rose’s house. The horses shied and his tiger called out in alarm from the back. He ignored their objections in his rush to return to the townhouse. Once there, he raced up her steps and rapped on the door.
The maid answered.
“I must see Lady Roselyn again.”
“I am sorry, sir, but she left shortly after you departed.”
Phillip stepped back. Shock dripped down his back like ice and he started to shiver. Had Rose fallen for a trap? He envisioned Helen Beaumont lying supine on that deserted warehouse floor, surrounded by thick pools of her blood. The woman’s face shifted in his mind until it was Rose lying in her place.
He swore and punched the door.
Chapter Three
ROSE’S CARRIAGE wove through narrow streets south of the Thames. Unlike her late night foray to Helen’s quarters, daylight painted the locals hurrying along the pavements as decent hardworking folk, not cutthroats and footpads.
She read the note again, though she had it memorized.
Lady Roselyn Ravenstock,
Pray come to Heaven’s Gate for luncheon. We are friends of Helen Beaumont and have important information to share regarding her passing. Come alone. Tell no one. You are in danger, as are we. Together, we might overcome what poor Helen could not.
Your most respectful servant,
Mrs. Merry Weatheringham.
Miss Wood had been the messenger, so who was this Mrs. Weatheringham? Did “we” refer to the two ladies, or more people?
The hackney came to a jarring halt. She descended before a string of brick row houses much like Helen’s. Heaven’s Gate. What an intriguing name. She paid the jarvey and asked him to return in one hour. She verified the address one more time and then knocked.
A slot in the door slid open to reveal a grim face and a guttural voice asked, “Who be you?”
Rose took a cautious step back.
All crossroads have decision points, her grandmother used to say. This was hers. She raised her head. “I am Lady Roselyn Ravenstock. I have an appointment with Mrs. Weatheringham.”
The door swung open and the man yanked her inside. She stumbled into her assaulter who smelled like strawberries. The door slammed shut.
“Let go of me!” She pushed against his hold but his grip was unrelenting.
“Stony,” a female said, “let go of the lady.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her captor released Rose and she scrambled away from the burly man. He had to be at least seven feet tall and was built like the stout building he guarded.
“I hope Stony did not frighten you.” Miss Wood pushed her spectacles up. She was dressed in the same gray gown she had worn in the park, but now a black sash across her bodice indicated mourning.
Rose said what she had wanted to say at
the park. “You are not my grandmother’s friend, Miss Wood.”
“No, I am not. However, Mrs. Helen Beaumont was a dear friend of mine. Her death was tragic and unexpected. Follow me and your concerns about who I am can be settled in a trice.”
Rose nodded. Shrugging out of her cloak, she handed it and her hat to the doorkeeper.
He carelessly flung it onto the back of a nearby chair.
“Stony,” Miss Wood said, “let no one else in.”
He nodded and grinned, flashing a remarkable set of yellow teeth before he retreated to his post.
Rose followed her escort along a long narrow corridor, and had to ask, “Why did that man smell like strawberries?”
Miss Wood chuckled, an infectious sound. “He has a rash from leaning against the wall. Mrs. Weatheringham made a poultice for him composed, in part, of strawberry water.”
“Ahh.” Rose said, feeling more kindly disposed to a lady of the house who cared so much for a servant’s welfare.
“That is an unusual pendant,” Miss Wood said.
Rose’s hand shielded the Cimaruta. Phillip had flung it out and she had forgotten to tuck it back under her gown. She did so now. “A family heirloom.”
Miss Wood knocked on a side door and, receiving an answer, led the way in. A half dozen people were present, all dressed in various signs of mourning.
An elderly lady sat on a couch next to a little girl of no more than four. A young woman sat on a chair beside the couch and on her other side was a couple in their middle years. A tall lean ragged-looking man stood by the hearth. They all gazed at Rose with half-hopeful, half-fearful expressions.
“Lady Roselyn,” Miss Wood said, “may I present Mrs. Merry Weatheringham? Ma’am, Lady Roselyn Ravenstock.”
Rose curtsied to the frail elderly woman. The lady’s face was pale and her hands shook where they rested on her lap, while the thick woolen shawl over her bony shoulders appeared to weigh her down. She reminded Rose of her grandmother. The young child beside her had straight black hair and stared at Rose with solemn dark eyes.
“I hope you will not hold it against me if I do not rise,” Mrs. Weatheringham said. “I have had a most distressing two days and it has taken a toll on my health, I fear.”
“Pray, do not rise on my account. Helen’s death has been difficult for me as well. I thank you for extending an invitation so soon afterward. I had thought of traveling north for her funeral, but . . .” She stopped, unsure how to explain her feelings on the matter.
“But felt it would serve Helen’s interest better to stay in Town and find out who murdered her,” Mrs. Weatheringham said.
How could she know that?
“I did not read your mind, child,” her hostess said with a slight smile. “Come, sit beside me. We have much to discuss and I have little energy for frivolities.”
Rose sat and clasped her hands to prevent her from taking Mrs. Weatheringham’s shaky ones in hers to warm them as she would have with her grandmother. While Rose was introduced to everyone, her thumbs absently circled each other as she carefully studied the others.
The young girl on the right looked as if she was in trade. She marked the tall young fellow by the fireplace as either a thief or a footpad. She instinctively distrusted him.
Miss Wood pulled up a chair beside Rose. “That is Daniel Trenton. He is to be your watchman.”
“Surely you jest?” Aside from not needing a guard, she, as Ben, had agreed to work with Phillip. Also, this Trenton looked formidable, like someone she would run screaming from if she encountered him in the dead of night. She surreptitiously glanced his way and he brazenly stared back, his glance a mixture of curiosity and distrust. She glanced away, her cheeks flushing hot in confusion, as she wondered what it was about her that he disliked. They had never met before.
Mrs. Weatheringham held out a shaky hand to Rose.
She could not resist taking it, hardly noticing that she gently rubbed the old woman’s cold frail fingers.
“Most of us could not be here to greet you.”
There were more? “What keeps the others away?”
“Fear, my dear.”
“Of me?”
“Of anyone discovering who we are. People view our talent as strange, frightening even. Certainly unnatural. Something to persecute or plunder rather than treasure. So those who are present not only held great confidence in Helen—and therefore, in her faith in you—but display courage in coming today.”
“I do not understand.” What talent?
“It might be easier to show you.” She nodded to her right. “Mary, you may go first.”
Mary stood. She looked seventeen. A plain girl with a cheery expression introduced herself as a seamstress’s assistant. She reminded Rose of Hannah. Innocent and ordinary.
Rose’s amulet suddenly warmed. Before she could take it out for inspection, the seamstress’s face stretched and changed until she became the most beautiful young woman Rose had ever seen. She had shimmering hair of gold, arched eyebrows, and eyes a magnificent, sparkling green. Like a fairy queen.
Rose gasped, expecting the girl to sprout wings and fly away. Instead, the image reverted as fast as it had formed, and ordinary Mary smiled triumphantly. Rose’s amulet went cold.
Mrs. Weatheringham retrieved the hand that Rose had been unconsciously gripping. Rose muttered a quick apology. Since her mother had died, she had only ever seen herself and her sister alter their features.
Mary sat, and the woman beside her stood to perform a similar shift, though with her entire body. Then, the woman’s husband, a tavern keeper, did a magnificent transformation of his bald pate into a healthy head of hair.
Mrs. Weatheringham gestured to Mr. Trenton. “He is unique.”
He came forward and knelt before Rose, blocking her path to the door. Trapped in her seat, all she could do was lean back. He showed her his right hand. He had long tapered fingers ending in conical shaped nails that looked filthy. Was that soot under his fingernails?
Considering he looked like the devil, with shifty blue eyes, a strong chin that hinted at arrogance and slicked black hair, any change to his face would be an improvement.
The tips of his fingers burst into flame.
Rose shouted as fire leaped from Daniel Trenton’s hand. She grabbed Mrs. Weatheringham’s shawl and covered his burning hand. Shoving him to the floor, she used the cloth to slap at his flaming fingers and shouted for water.
The burst of laughter infuriated her. Did these people not take this man’s danger seriously? Seeing that the flames no longer smoked, she rested back on her heels.
“Are you all right, sir? We must call a physician.” She glanced around the room in fury. “Do you not understand how badly hurt he must be?”
Miss Wood stopped chuckling long enough to say, “Lady Roselyn, Daniel is fine. Making fire is his talent.”
The answer flabbergasted Rose. She turned back to the fire victim with a frown.
Trenton shook off the charred shawl and showed her his hand, which, while definitely covered in soot, was not burnt. His smile this time seemed genuine. The changed expression left him surprisingly handsome.
“I thank you for saving me, my lady. However, the heroic deed was unnecessary.”
“My dear Lady Roselyn.” Mrs. Weatheringham accepted her ruined shawl back from the fire maker. “We are sorry to have frightened you. That was not our intention.”
Rose returned to her seat. All the others’ shifting she could comprehend, for those changes she could possibly do herself, but starting a fire seemed entirely unreal.
Miss Wood chuckled as she returned to her seat. “It leaves his fingers sooty, so Stony calls him cinder fella.”
“That was trickery, was it?” she said. “Such as done by acrobats or seen in rarity shows a
t the St. Bartholomew Fair?”
“No more than changing one’s face or body,” he said. “What is the difference between shifting your features and willing my fingers to adopt the shape of flame?”
“Daniel is special,” Mrs. Weatheringham said. “But, truth be told, we are all shifters. Helen brought us together.”
“Helen?” Rose said, surprised and yet, not. Helen had seemed to Rose to be a remarkable woman who gave much forethought to her actions. Which is what made her going to Wapping alone and unprotected, so puzzling. For instance, if these people were her friends, why had Helen not asked Trenton to accompany her? Had she asked someone else? If so, had that person somehow let her down? Then another puzzling thought occurred. “How could Helen have found all of you? And why bring you together?”
“I do not know how she managed it. But I can surmise why. Helen, too, could shift, and understood the loneliness of possessing such an odd ability. In addition, Helen had another skill, one we will sorely miss. She could tell when someone else had shifted.”
Rose’s amulet lay cold now, but it had warmed against her skin every time someone shifted. Even Trenton, she realized. Had Helen possessed such a charm? Was that how she could identify a shifter? Her mother had given a Cimaruta to Rose and Eve but she, herself, had not worn one and neither had Rose’s grandmother. Rose always assumed there had only been two such charms made. Eve’s would have been lost at sea.
“In the last two years,” Mrs. Weatheringham said, “Helen identified us, one by one, and brought us together, with Miss Wood’s assistance.”
Rose glanced at Miss Wood whose smile grew wider. “I am the Rue Alliance’s librarian. I have had some success with tracking information Helen needed about our past histories.”
“She called us the Rue Alliance,” Mrs. Weatheringham said. “I once asked her why she chose that name but all she would say was that it suited us.”
“Probably because most of us rued the day we discovered our abilities,” Miss Wood said with strong emotion.
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