And all the while, she had not been. He had told her he didn’t want a biddable woman. He had said he wanted her, and still she’d kept her distance, waiting for him to convince her.
All so she wouldn’t have to take the risk of telling him the truth.
He was everything she wanted. He was the only thing she needed. He was the best person she’d ever known. She loved him. And if he would only give her the chance, she knew she could make him happy.
And if he wouldn’t give her the chance, she’d take it anyway.
She wasn’t going back to Derbyshire without the promise he would follow. She wasn’t going to toss away a future with Samuel out of fear.
She bloody well would fight to keep him.
And she was going to tell him all of this. As soon as he came home.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel, wondering how much longer he would stay away. It was immensely frustrating to be brimming with a sense of purpose and have nowhere to direct it.
Turning from the study, she took a few steps into the library before spying Sarah near the parlor doors. The young woman was dragging her feet, staring at the floor ahead of her and muttering something under her breath.
Worried, Esther waved her hand to gain the maid’s attention. “Sarah?” She hurried to her side. “Something the matter?”
Sarah gave a little start, her head whipping up. “Oh. No. Sorry, mum. Nothing the matter. Just going to let the beastie inside.” She made a halfhearted gesture in the general direction of the kitchen as she resumed her walk. “Been watching him from the sitting room windows.”
Esther fell into step beside her. Watching a dog play in the garden wasn’t what had brought on the slumped shoulders and glum countenance. “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind,” she decided, selfishly grateful for the chance to distract herself with someone else’s troubles.
“Of course not, mum.”
When they reached the front hall, Esther touched her arm to stop their progress. “Just a moment.” She dashed over and snatched up her black parasol from the hall stand. “Here we are.”
Sarah’s features twisted in comical bemusement. “What’s that for then?”
“Rats,” she supplied. “Harry might find them a lark, but I’d just as soon not shoo one away with my foot.”
“Oh. Aye. I wouldn’t recommend it,” Sarah replied. She smiled a little, but she grew quiet again as they headed downstairs.
Dipping her head, Esther tried to catch the maid’s eyes. “Won’t you tell me what’s troubling you? I can keep a confidence.”
The girl let out a tired sigh. “It’s Mrs. Lanchor. She’s put out with me because someone left the kitchen door unlocked.”
Esther’s heart leaped into her throat. She grabbed Sarah’s arm, bringing them both to an abrupt halt just inside the kitchen. Visions of three men picking the lock on the kitchen door and creeping into the house danced in her head. “What? When?”
It hadn’t been but a half hour since she’d checked the kitchen door herself.
“Just a bit ago. Ten minutes, maybe,” Sarah replied. “She went to let the beast out and found the door unlocked. She said it was me, but—”
“Why did no one tell me?”
“There’s nothing nefarious in it, mum. Honest.” She grimaced and cast a quick glance over her shoulder before whispering, “It was just Tom. I know he come down here five minutes before Mrs. Lanchor.”
“You’re certain? Absolutely certain?”
Sarah gave a quick nod. “Said he wanted a quick spot of air in the garden. I saw him come this way, and I heard him open the door. He must have come back in straightaway. Mrs. Lanchor only just missed him.”
Relieved, she released Sarah’s arm. The door shouldn’t have been left unlocked out of carelessness, but at least it hadn’t been pried open by John Porter and his friends. “Mrs. Lanchor doesn’t believe you about Tom?”
“I didn’t mention it,” Sarah confessed. “He’s a good sort. Been a bit daft lately, is all, what with his mum taking so sick. He’s been making mistakes all month.”
Esther’s annoyance with Tom’s negligence dimmed. It would be easy to forget something simple like locking a door when the mind was crowded with worry for an ill parent. “And you don’t want to add to his troubles, is that it?”
“Sir Samuel’s a fine master. Good as they come.” Sarah grimaced again, a little dramatically this time. “But he won’t be pleased to know his orders weren’t followed.”
“I see… Would it help if I talked to Sir Samuel?”
Sarah blinked at her, then smiled brightly. “It might at that. Thank you, mum.”
Looking a little more like her chipper self, Sarah stood back while Esther went to open the door. Thankfully, there were no rats to be found on the other side. Still, she waited until Harry dashed inside, and she shut and locked the door behind him before tucking the handle of her parasol into her belt.
All clumsy paws and swatting tail, the dog bounded to Sarah for a rub, then Esther, then back to Sarah, then did an abrupt turnabout and bolted out of the kitchen.
“Beastie!” Sarah called out after him. “Oh, Mrs. Lanchor will have my hide if he breaks another vase,” she grumbled. She picked up her skirts and gave chase, leaving Esther standing alone in the kitchen.
Well, she thought with a flicker of amusement, the trip to the kitchen had succeeded in taking her mind off Samuel for all of three and a half, possibly four, minutes.
With a small huff, she sat down on a nearby stool and wished he would hurry home. Then again, it might be best if she worked out what she meant to say to him before he returned. Love and strength of purpose were all well and good, but she needed to convince him she was in the right…
Later, Esther would think that had she not been so lost in her own thoughts and worries, she would have realized she was not alone in the room. If she’d been paying proper attention, she would have heard the footsteps approaching from behind.
She was unaware of the danger, however, until a beefy arm snaked around her neck and yanked her backward off the stool into a hard wall of muscle and bone. A hand clamped over her mouth.
“Been waiting for you.” The voice in her ear was low and harsh. “Nice of the boy to forget to lock the door.”
Terror bloomed in her chest. She bit down on the hand and opened her mouth to scream, but got no further than an indrawn breath before something hard crashed against the side of her head.
The world revolved in a slow, sick circle. A wad of cloth was shoved in her mouth. It smelled of sweat and smoke. She threw an arm up, but it was a clumsy and useless gesture. Her arms and legs wouldn’t work properly. She nearly toppled over when she tried to kick backward. Something thick and rough slid over her head, blinding her, and then she was being dragged backward, out the door and into the garden.
* * *
Samuel piled coins on the scarred table at the Brook’s End tavern. Across from him, Chaunting Charlie sniffed through a nose that had been broken and left unset at least half a dozen times over the course of his fifty years. If the bruising under his eyes was any indication, the latest injury had occurred less than a week ago.
“I ain’t talking, Brass.” But of course he would. The refusal was merely a formality. His gaze was already locked on the money, adding up every coin.
Charlie wasn’t a professional informant, as such. His long-standing habit of talking to the authorities for a few coins meant no criminal in his right mind would trust the old man with a secret of any import. Charlie fell more along the lines of professional gossip. He was good for names, personal histories, and, if the coin was right, the occasional address.
One could always count on Charlie for the basics. Provided one could track the man down.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Samuel said. “Could have used your services two days
ago.”
“I got my own troubles, don’t I?”
Samuel looked over the healing bruises across the man’s face. Professional gossips might not be worth the bother of murder, but neither were they popular. Men of Charlie’s ilk were often obliged to disappear for days or weeks at a time.
“Looks that way,” Samuel said. “Blown over, has it?”
“Aye. Well enough.” He threw a nervous glance over his shoulder. “Unless I’m seen here with you. What are you after?”
Samuel pushed one of the coins across the table into Charlie’s reach. “What do you know of a man named John Porter?”
“That’s a common enough name. What do you want with this fellow?”
Samuel offered another coin. “Runs with a Victor Norby and Danny Mapp. All I want is to talk to him.”
The older man eyed the money and scratched the underside of his chin with the back of his hands. “Well now, might be John could do with a discussion. His mum would be turning over in her grave to know he took up the resurrection business.”
Samuel slid another coin across the table for the information. “He didn’t take it up alone.”
Stealing bodies from their graves was a hard, nasty, filthy, and entirely nocturnal line of work. Edmund’s pale skin and sunken cheeks could easily mark him as a resurrection man.
“Got a few lads with him. Your Victor and Danny. But Edmund Smith as well.”
Samuel slid another coin. “What do you know of them?”
Charlie pocketed it with the others. “Victor’s a bludger. Nasty piece of work. His da’s doing a stretch for a pannie. Danny’s a quiet one, but they say he’ll do what needs doing. If he’s got family, I ain’t heard of ’em.”
“And Edmund?”
“Edmund’s a good lad, but gulpy. And a sap. Tell the boy a sad tale and he’ll lend you his arse and shite through his ribs, he will.”
“He’s gullible.”
Charlie waggled his fingers. “That’s what I said. Gulpy.”
Samuel passed over another coin. “What do you know of his parents?”
“George Smith were a gentleman sharper. None better from what I hears. His mum was a soft touch like her son. She worked at what she could find. If you’re looking to find him, I can’t help you. He stopped running with John and his friends a while back.”
Which meant finding Charlie earlier may have linked their mystery man to Esther’s father, but it wouldn’t have led Samuel to Edmund himself. Esther still would have gone to the station. “Where can I find John and his friends?”
“Can’t tell you where Edmund’s gone. The rest of that lot…” He jerked his chin at the remainder of the money. When Samuel shoved it across the table, Charlie grinned and gave up an address in the Old Nichol.
Deciding it would be wiser to visit the rookery tomorrow in the light of day, Samuel left Charlie to his earnings and rode home.
He was eager to see Esther. He had a gift for her, and this one was perfect. It was made just for her. And he wanted to tell her about the letters. He’d opened them and read every damn word. He still wasn’t sure he cared for his mother. Her letters contained a shrewish, judgmental quality that set his teeth on edge. But she had apologized. She asked for a reconciliation, and she was sufficiently dedicated to have written three times a year despite Samuel’s silence.
He’d give it some thought.
Sarah was waiting for him in the foyer. The moment he stepped inside, the young girl rushed at him. “She’s gone, sir. Mrs. Ellison is gone.”
“Gone?” His heart made a quick, painful revolution in his chest. “What do you mean gone? She left?”
“I don’t know, sir. Her things are all upstairs. But… I’m sorry, sir, but someone left the kitchen door unlocked, and that’s where I saw her last. There was a stool tipped over and the door was wide open. The garden gate too—”
He didn’t hear anything else. He was already running for the door.
He thought he’d known fear before. In battle. At the park. When he’d taken Esther to Paddington station.
This was different. This was fear that teetered perilously close to panic. It tasted like acid in his mouth, cut his insides like razors, and ignited a fury unlike any he’d ever known.
* * *
Esther’s dizziness passed in stages. She was vaguely aware of being in some sort of conveyance, a carriage or cart. The rag in her mouth was loose. She spit it out and took in a deep breath to scream, but the sound died in her throat when she felt something the size and shape of a gun muzzle press against her temple.
“Behave.”
The next thing she knew she was being hauled outside, her hands tied behind her back. She couldn’t remember having her hands tied. Her legs were free, but it was difficult to keep her feet under her as she was dragged up a short set of steps. She heard a door open in front of her. Her captor shoved her forward a few feet, and the door shut behind her. More stumbling, down a hall or through rooms, up a long, long flight of steps.
The journey seemed endless, and she was grateful for it. With every step, every second that passed, her mind cleared, her coordination returned. But with that clarity came increased fear. Her heart raced wildly in her chest. Her lungs struggled to suck in air that felt scarce. She was shaking now, and she hated that, hated giving her captor the satisfaction of seeing her afraid.
At last they reached a landing, then a short walk, and finally a door opened in front of her. A few more steps, and then she was abruptly shoved to the floor.
Expecting her captor to immediately fall on top of her, she tensed and shifted, ready to roll away. But he moved off without a word.
She tried to follow his movements in the room, but it was difficult to make out sounds over the roar of blood in her ears. The mingled scents of dust, damp wood, and parlor matches filtered through the cloth over her face.
Her mind raced with questions, plans, and frantic grasps at hope. Did he really have a gun? Had he been bluffing? Could she reach the dagger under her skirts with her hands tied behind her back? Would it be better to scream and invite a swift death, or hold out and hope she could fight him off? Maybe she could talk to him, reason with him. Maybe she could scream and fight him off. Maybe Samuel would find her. Maybe…
Calm down. Calm down.
Forcing several hard breaths through her nose, she willed her mind away from the present and pictured herself holding her dagger in front of a target. She lifted it, aimed… And there it was. That moment of calm, of peace. She held on to it as long as she could, let it wash over her.
The roaring receded. The shaking eased into trembling, then shivers. Her thoughts quieted. Terror remained, but it no longer controlled her.
She was a Walker. She was Esther Walker. All she needed was her dagger, and she would show this man the meaning of fear.
She felt rather than heard the man come to stand behind her head. His hands were on her neck, and suddenly the cloth over her head was ripped away. She blinked up at a vaulted ceiling with exposed wood beams that looked half-rotted.
Her gaze darted about the room, quickly taking stock of every detail. She was in a large attic devoid of furniture except for a rickety old table and chair set in front of a dormered window. She saw no fireplace, no rugs, and no artwork, but there was plenty of light. A pair of wall lamps blazed brightly. Her parasol lay against the wall near the only door in the room.
Finally, the need to know who stood behind outrode the fear of tipping her head back and exposing her throat. She looked back and immediately recognized the blunt features, shaggy black hair, and sinister, nearly toothless grin.
“It’s you,” she gasped. “From the park.” The man who’d wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed.
He sketched out a mocking bow. “John Porter, at your service.”
Still smiling, he walked arou
nd her to squat at her feet. Elbows resting on his knees, he absently twisted the gun in his hand while he studied her. “I’ve been trailing you for days,” he said conversationally. “Ever since Spitalfields.”
He waited then, as if expecting her to say something.
“No,” she ventured. If conversation kept him distracted from whatever plans he had for the gun, she would gladly talk all night. “Not this whole time. Not everywhere.” She’d been alone in the carriage while Samuel had gone house to house, seeking information about her father. John could have easily shot the driver and hauled her away.
“Can’t trail a man like Brass for long distances,” John replied with a small shrug. “He’ll notice. But I got close enough to take money right from your fingers, didn’t I?”
“Money?”
He dug his hand into a pocket and pulled out a single coin. “Don’t you recognize your own charity?”
Her eyes darted from the coin to his chin and landed on a small, indented scar. “Outside the tavern.” The false beggar. “That was you too.”
“I wanted to see if I could do it. Wanted to see just how close I could get to you.” He tossed the coin up a couple of inches, caught it midair, then shoved it back in his pocket. “And I trailed you to the park from your hotel. You lost me for a bit. Me and my friends. But then we saw your carriage and heard you laughing. Knew Brass would take you home after that. All I had to do then was wait.” He tapped the muzzle of the gun against her foot. “Did you like the presents I left you?”
“I don’t…” She shook her head, at a loss.
“I know you found ’em. Left ’em right at the door for you.”
It took her another moment to realize what he was talking about. “The rats?”
“Diseased rats. You weren’t worth the effort of a fresh one.” He tapped the gun again. Twice. “Diseased.” Tap. “Rats.” Tap. “Did they remind you of your friend Will? Did you recognize him?”
Friend. Not father. John Porter didn’t know who she was. Not really.
A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) Page 28