The woman who was not that woman.
Disappointment, confusion, shame, and fury all washed over her so quickly, she couldn’t hope to sort one out from the other. A terrible ball of pain settled in her chest, and humiliating tears pressed against the back of her eyes.
“It would seem you were mistaken in your impression,” she choked out. “Excuse me.”
She spun on her heel and left the room quickly, desperate to reach the privacy of her guest room before she embarrassed herself further.
Even as she rushed down the hall, a part of her hoped he would call out to her, or follow her. He would apologize. He would explain that he’d been clumsy. He hadn’t meant to be insulting, to look at her as if she were a complete stranger, as if he’d never known her at all and didn’t care to know her now.
He liked her just as she was. She was exactly what he wanted.
She heard nothing but the muffled thump of her heels striking the hall runner.
* * *
Samuel left the house at first light the next day and returned at two in the afternoon with a pounding head and a knot between his shoulder blades. He was close. He was so damned close. He’d marked the second name off the list of suspects. Ronald Wainsberth had set sail aboard the merchant ship Good Tidings ten days ago. He could not have been the man from the station.
That left only Edmund.
Samuel had a name, a detailed sketch, and a good idea of where in London to look for answers. There was even another informant he’d yet to track down—an elusive old man known as Chaunting Charlie for his eagerness to sing to the police. With a little more time, he could find them both.
He might have taken a little more time today. He’d considered searching for Edmund, surname unknown, until the last possible minute. But Samuel hadn’t been able to shake the worry that Esther might try to leave for the station without him.
She’d said she wanted him to accompany her, but he couldn’t be certain the contrary woman wouldn’t change her mind.
I am trying to be more.
I am Will Walker’s daughter.
Samuel had stewed over Esther’s words the whole of the evening. He’d gnawed on the bitter end of their argument until his jaw had ached from grinding. In the end, he’d been forced to concede that the two statements weren’t mutually exclusive. Esther could be Will’s daughter, and more than Will’s daughter. Considering the brittleness he’d seen in Esther a year ago and the more self-assured woman she was now, it was fair to say she’d succeeded in her efforts.
But she was still reckless and unpredictable. And, damn it, she was still selfish. For God’s sake, she wanted him to sit at Paddington station… No, not sit, he corrected with growing anger…hide. She wanted him to hide at the station while she confronted a dangerous man.
How could she ask it of him? How the bloody hell could she ask him to stand aside like a coward, like a milksop, like…a useless little boy.
But hiding behind Esther at Paddington station was preferable to not being there at all. So he’d come home early just to be safe and spent the next four hours nursing cups of tea he didn’t want, in a parlor that had never suited him, in a house that suddenly felt very empty. Not peaceful, mind. It was as active as ever, with the beast crashing into furniture, and Mrs. Lanchor barking out orders, and pots and pans banging about in the kitchen, and maids and footmen darting to and fro. Everything was exactly as it had been a week ago. And that was all wrong. Esther’s voice was missing from the mix. Her laughter was gone. Her smile, her scent, her swish of skirts. All missing.
The house felt empty because, for all intents and purposes, Esther wasn’t in it. He hadn’t seen her since their argument the night before. She was holed up in her chambers like a recluse.
She might as well be back in Derbyshire. What did it matter that they were under the same roof if he couldn’t speak with her, or touch her? Or bellow at her until she saw reason?
She was gone, and it ate at him.
She was a five-second walk away and he missed her.
He was overthinking the matter, of course. He’d gone long periods of time without seeing her in the past. Her absence hadn’t troubled him then. Why should it trouble him now after only a few hours? It was ludicrous.
And yet, when she appeared at a quarter to five, a part of him settled, even as a heavy tension fell over the room.
She stood just inside the doorway and watched him through guarded eyes.
“His name is Edmund,” he announced. “Probably.”
“You found him?”
“Not yet. I need another day or two.” Or six. However bloody long it took.
“To find one particular Edmund in all of London?” She clasped her small gloved hands at her waist. “We don’t have the time.”
“We can make time.”
“Perhaps if you had let me help you look instead of—” She snapped her mouth shut and a furrow appeared between her brows. “I apologize. That isn’t fair. I did agree to your looking alone at least some of the time.”
He needed her to agree to it now, when it mattered most.
And he didn’t want her damned apology. He wanted her to be furious so he could be furious. He wanted an anger so consuming it left no room for hurt or fear. And he wanted another row. A proper one with lots of shouting. Because at least then he would be doing something.
Instead he just sat there feeling every bit as helpless and ineffectual as he had at the age of twelve.
“I am asking you not to go to Paddington station,” he said softly. “Please.”
It wasn’t begging. One please did not a grovel make. Still, he found it easier to stare out the window rather than look at her as he waited for a reply.
He heard her take a small, shallow breath. When she spoke, her voice was small and a little sad, but unmistakably resolute. “I am asking you to please come with me.”
And that was that. There would be no more argument, no more discussion. If very nearly begging wouldn’t convince her to stay, nothing would—short of using bodily force.
He could do that. He could pick her up, carry her upstairs, and lock her in her room until morning. God knew, he’d imagined it two dozen times over. It was the next logical plan of action. Finding the mystery man had failed. Persuasion had failed. He had failed. Brute force remained.
He could do it.
He wouldn’t.
It wasn’t just that she would hate him for it. He could live with her hate if it meant she’d be safe. He wouldn’t do it because it was wrong.
Her decision to go to Paddington station was also wrong, if for no other reason than that it bloody well hurt him. But forcing her compliance through brute force would be worse.
He dug his fingers into the arms of his chair. “I’ll have the carriage brought around.”
* * *
It was the longest carriage ride of Esther’s life.
Samuel wouldn’t look at her. He’d pushed his side of the curtains back an inch and had been staring through the small crack since they’d left the house.
Esther watched him through her veil. It didn’t seem to bother him that she was staring. She wasn’t even certain he noticed. His eyes never left the window. It was like she didn’t exist.
Perhaps, in a way, she no longer did to him. He’d imagined her to be someone else, and now that woman was gone.
It was monstrously unfair. Why should he be angry with her, think less of her, for taking a risk he’d not think twice to take himself? Why should she feel guilty for not playing the helpless ninny simply because he asked it of her? Why should she still want him, even knowing she would never be what he wanted?
Suddenly, she found it impossible to look at him. She fixed her gaze on the wall of the carriage and spoke without thinking. “It seems we are more incompatible than we realized.”
She regretted the words almost immediately. They were too final, too absolute. She sought a way to take some part of them back. “I think we could be friends. I should like to be friends.”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t say a word to her for the whole of the trip.
It was too late. Unfair or not, Samuel wanted nothing more to do with her.
Sixteen
It would be a simple matter for Samuel to stay out of view at the station. The general offices opened directly onto platform one. He merely introduced himself to a gentleman inside and immediately gained permission to access the office.
But he hesitated on the platform, unwilling to leave Esther alone to wait.
“I will be right behind that wall,” he told her. “Right on the other side of that window. If I see him make one wrong move—”
“I understand.”
“It doesn’t have to go that far,” he pressed on. “He doesn’t have to make that first move. If you want the meeting to end, if you become frightened or uncertain…hell, if you become bored, call for me.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” She gave a jerky, nervous nod. “I do. I will call.”
And still he hesitated to walk away. He took her hand instead, heedless of the curious eyes of the passing travelers.
He’d never experienced such a host of incongruent emotions—anger and fear, longing and frustration. He itched to put them all into words. But the right ones eluded him. So he simply stood there, her small hand grasped in his, until the cool fabric of her glove warmed in his palm.
She stared down at their joined hands as if confused. “He’ll be here soon. You have to go.”
And still he hesitated.
She looked up at him then and gave her hand a little tug. “Samuel—”
“Right.”
He released her hand and strode into the office, taking up position next to an open window.
Esther stood not ten feet away, but with a wall between them, it felt like miles. She was too far away from the window for him to touch, and though he might be able to sneak a look, he couldn’t really watch her without being seen.
His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. The warmth of her touch still lingered in his palm.
God, he felt bloody useless.
He told himself that this was no different than the countless times he had stood in the shadows while Renderwell and Gabriel put themselves in the line of fire. He had been nervous then, too. Just as they were when it was his turn to face danger. There was always risk, always the possibility that something could go wrong. His friends were constantly turning up with scrapes and bruises. They laughed them off, teased each other over black eyes, bite marks, and, in his case, bullet holes. It was part of the job.
Today was different. He couldn’t brush off the fear. He could scarcely stop himself from marching back out the door and dragging Esther out of the station. He hadn’t found the red marks around her neck the least bit amusing. The very idea of her injured, of someone laying hands on her, made his hands shake and his blood boil.
This was nothing like working with his friends.
Esther wasn’t his damned friend.
* * *
The young man arrived five minutes early. Esther watched him weave his way through the crowd, her belly tight with nerves. He was dreadfully pale and gaunt, and the circles beneath his eyes were so dark they could be mistaken for bruising. He didn’t look particularly threatening, she thought. But looks could be deceiving. He might be armed. He might have friends about. There was no telling.
She inclined her head in recognition when he drew near.
To her surprise, he plucked the cap off his head as if he’d just stepped into her parlor. “Miss.”
She touched the bag at her waist. “I brought the ten pence.”
“Right. About that… You don’t happen to have a full shilling, do you?”
“I… Yes, I suppose.” He was terribly polite for a blackmailer. “Why do you want a shilling from me?”
“I thought we’d ride to Bower Street station. Thing is, I ain’t got the full fare. I had an extra two pence last Wednesday. I could pay my own one-way fare for third class, but I figured first class’d give us a spot of privacy. You’d have to make up the difference, if you don’t mind. I ain’t but six pennies today.”
“You want to ride the rail?” One of the underground rails. Absolutely not.
His gaze jumped nervously at a rambunctious group of travelers. “Give us a fair bit of privacy, like I said. And I’d get off at Bower Street. You’d only have to pay for me one way. I’ll pay you back when I can.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t ride with you.”
His brows drew together in confusion. “You ain’t scared of me, are you, Miss Walker? I don’t mean you no harm.”
“Miss Walker? I’m sorry, I don’t know that name. I am Mrs. Peterson.” Good Lord, she had an alias for her alias.
“Aye, the other’s not a name you’d want bandied about, I suppose. Thing is, Mrs. Peterson, I thought… I thought maybe I could call you Esther, seeing as how we’re in the way of being family.”
“I’m sorry? Family?”
“Well, I’m Edmund,” he said, as if certain that should mean something to her. The frown of confusion deepened when she didn’t immediately reply. “I’m Edmund Smith. George Smith’s son. I’m your brother.”
“I…” For several long seconds, she was struck mute. She’d considered the possibility of half siblings before. Of course she had. She’d even wondered if she might learn of one or two once she met her father. But she’d never imagined she might meet one like this. “You… I… Could we sit down, please?”
She didn’t wait for his reply. She stumbled back to a bench directly beneath the window where Samuel was listening and sat down hard.
Then she stared at him, simply stared at him.
He was family. Might be family, she corrected. He claimed the connection, but could she believe him? She didn’t see much of herself in him. The color of the eyes, maybe, and a similarity about the chin. But physical comparison meant little, particularly when one party was so obviously ill.
“You all right, Esther?” A faint blush crept into his pale cheeks. “That is, miss, if you prefer.” He seemed to reconsider this as well. “Or missus.”
“I…don’t know. Yes?” Good God, why was she asking him?
“It’s a shock to you, my being here, isn’t it? I can see it.” He ducked his head, but not before she saw a terrible sadness fill his eyes. “Didn’t know about me, did you?”
She heard the tremor in his voice, and she knew in that moment that she couldn’t pretend to be someone else. She couldn’t possibly tell this young man she was not the sister he sought. He might be a confidence man. He might be acting the part of the lost and wounded boy for her benefit. But she couldn’t risk the assumption. The cost of being wrong would be too high.
“I’m sorry, Edmund. I’m so sorry. No one told me.”
“Right. Well.” He sniffled a bit and shrugged the way Peter did sometimes when he didn’t want anyone to know he was upset. “Not your fault, is it? Nor mine. And what’s done is done, I suppose.” He gave her a wobbly smile. “And now we’ve met properly, you and me. I knew it were you, you know. In the shop. Well, I thought as much. You look just like the picture.”
“The picture?”
“’Ere.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a leaf of paper, creased down the center and yellowed by age. “See? It’s a fair likeness of you.”
It was an incredible likeness of her as a very young woman. “Where did you get this?”
“Da made it. He saw you now and then, when you was working with Walker. I recognized you at the old clothes shop in Spitalfields. You’re a bit different. Older and such. But I knew f
or certain it was you when I heard you asking after mean old man Smith.”
“He’s mean?” Oddly, that hadn’t occurred to her either. That her father might be indifferent to her, or even unhappy to see her, had both seemed reasonable expectations. She’d not considered outright meanness.
“Mean as they come, our grandda. If you’ve a mind t’meet him, I’d change it quick. He won’t be welcoming the likes of you or me.”
“Oh. Oh, our grandfather.”
“He won’t admit to it. Being family, that is. I went to see him once at his fancy house in Bethnal Green.” A meager hint of pink stained the very tips of his ears. “Kicked me out on me ear.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, feeling stunned. The fancy house in Bethnal Green. The haughty old George Smith on Apton Street. “Our father was named after him,” she guessed.
Edmund nodded. “Aye, George Arnold Smith. But his mates called him Arnie. He said I weren’t to seek you out either. That you was living like a real lady and didn’t need me giving you trouble.”
A real lady. Well, that answered the question of how much George Arnold Smith knew about the Walker family. “I’m glad you sought me out. But why the secrecy? Why did you run from me the last time?”
He shifted nervously in his seat. “You was with Brass.”
“You know Sir Samuel?”
“I know who he is. Brass the Almighty. He was police.”
“He’s not a policeman now.” She watched him twist the hat in his hands. “Are you in trouble, Edmund?”
“Might be I am a little,” he mumbled, his gaze jumping around the crowded station. “I had a proper job working the docks, but I lost it seven months back. I fell in with what you might call unsavory sorts. I want to be rid of ’em, but it’s not that easy.”
No, it wasn’t easy to walk away from that life. “Can’t your father help?”
“Our da?” He gave her a curious look. “He’s gone, miss.”
“Gone? He…he’s dead?”
“These six years. That’s why he gave me the picture. He knew he was going.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) Page 23