Kisses and Scandal (Survivors)

by Galen, Shana

  “I do.”

  She was warm, and her breast pressed against his arm when she moved closer to allow a woman to hurry by. He tried not to notice how she felt beside him. He tried to be a gentleman, but it was damned difficult. “What we want to know is whether the orphanage ceased to exist or reopened with a different name. Something had to be done with those orphans.”

  She nodded, her movements jerky. Her arm tensed, and he realized he hadn’t even considered her greatest fear. “You don’t think James is dead, do you?” he asked.

  She took a shaky breath. “I don’t know. I don’t want to believe that. When I asked if anyone died in the fire, I was told there was at least one death.”

  “It wasn’t James.” He stopped under a ripped awning and turned her to face him. Her face was so pale, her expression so stricken, he put his gloved hands on either side of her drawn cheeks. “We’ll find him. I promise.”

  “You can’t promise that.”

  “I just did.” He wanted to kiss her then. It seemed the most natural thing to do. But she wasn’t his any longer. She hadn’t been his for a long, long time. “As I see it, we have two options.” He let his hands drop because he didn’t know if he could resist if he touched her much longer.

  “Tell me.”

  “We risk showing my face to every criminal in the area by visiting every gin house and tavern and asking questions, or we go to the one man who can tell us what we need to know.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Joseph Merceron.”

  “That’s an easy decision. We go to Merceron.”

  He gave her a tight smile. “You haven’t heard of him.”

  “Should I have?”

  “You haven’t lived in London’s East End, so I wouldn’t expect it. He’s something of a politician in this area, and nothing happens without him knowing about it. Nothing gets done unless he is paid.”

  She sighed. “One of those. You can hardly go to him. He’s likely to know who you are or be flanked by someone who does.”

  “I agree. I wouldn’t go to him.”

  She frowned. “But you—” Her eyes widened. “You want me to go to him.”

  “If we find him in a public place, I think you’d be safe enough. I can stay close by and intervene if there’s trouble.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Now his brows lifted. “That was a quick agreement.”

  “If this Merceron knows how to find James, then I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Caleb swallowed. This was what had made him fall in love with her all those years ago—this strength and single-minded purpose. She was beautiful and intelligent and talented, but more than that, she was strong and loyal. She never thought of herself first. The more time he spent with her now, the more he would fall in love with her all over again.

  “There’s a tavern he frequents in Bethnal Green. Do you want to go now?”

  “By all means. Anything to get out of this rain.”

  BRIDGET RECONSIDERED that statement a quarter hour later when she stepped into the Hog and Hen. The place looked as though the hog and hen in question had run rampant through the public rooms. She’d entered by herself about five minutes after Caleb had gone in. He’d told her he’d stand near the bar, and she spotted him easily. She must have looked as uncertain as she felt, because he gave her a firm nod as though to say, You can do this.

  She took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and moved forward. Of course she could do this. She’d dealt with crying, screaming, fighting ten-year-old girls. A corrupt politician was nothing to her.

  She made her way to the bar, aware that several pairs of eyes followed her. She was dressed more...completely than most of the women in the place, but she wasn’t here to advertise her charms. Still, her lavender gown and spencer were nothing to make anyone take notice. In an area of Town known for its silk weavers, the cloth of her dress was obviously inferior, as were her battered half boots and her drooping hat. She was nothing to waste time over.

  Or so she hoped.

  Without looking at Caleb, who was now only a few feet away, she cleared her throat. The barkeep flicked his eyes at her, then went back to polishing a glass. “What can I get you?” he asked flatly.

  “Information.”

  He sighed heavily. “Do I look like a book to you? I don’t ’ave no information. I ’ave ale and spirits.”

  “I need to speak with Joseph Merceron.”

  The barkeep set the glass on the counter. “What’s that to me? Do I look like ’is butler?”

  “Where is he?”

  The barkeep jerked his head to a dark corner of the tavern, and when Bridget squinted, she spotted an open door that led to another room. “Thank you.”

  He muttered something under his breath as she walked away. She hoped Caleb followed. She was trembling now, but Satan himself couldn’t have stopped her from going into that room. Perhaps she would find James today. She might even hold him in her arms tonight.

  She moved through the doorway and into the back room, and a man stepped in front of her. He was short but muscled, his head completely bald. “Can I help you, missus?”

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Merceron.”

  “Do you owe him blunt?”

  “No.”

  “Then he’s busy.”

  Bridget scowled. “It won’t take long. Just a few questions.”

  “Come back tomorrow. Maybe he’ll see you then.”

  “I can’t come back tomorrow. I need to speak with him today. Please.”

  The man put his hand on her shoulder and, with strength she had no hope of matching, turned her around. “Goodbye, missus.”

  She walked out and continued walking. Tears burned in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing them.

  A few minutes later, Caleb caught up to her. “Bridget! Wait!”

  She swiped at her eyes furiously before waiting for him to catch up. She related the conversation.

  “So we come back tomorrow.” He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “And what if he won’t see me then?”

  “We come back the next day and the next.” He pulled her close, and though she knew she should resist, she went willingly, happy to be tucked safely against his side. “Sweetheart, you’ve been doing this all on your own the past few years. You’re not on your own anymore. Together we will find our son.”

  Our son.

  Robbie had never referred to James that way. She knew he’d cared for the little boy, but he’d never thought of him as his own son. He’d always spoken of him as the boy or the baby. Bridget hadn’t thought she’d ever want to tell Caleb about his child. She’d done it out of sheer desperation. She was glad she had, because he was right—she had been on her own for a long time. She was grateful to have someone stand beside her and be her partner. Someone who wanted to find James as much as she did.

  “You’re cold and wet,” he said, rubbing a hand up and down her arm. “I’ll take you for tea.”

  “Is it safe for you to be seen in a tea shop?”

  “I know one a little out of the way. We’ll sit in the back.” He took her hand in his and led her down back streets and through alleyways until she was thoroughly lost. Finally, they emerged in front of a small shop she’d never seen before. The sign hanging above the door read Mrs. Scott’s Tea Shop. The paint was flaking and the window to the shop rather small, but when Caleb opened the door, a little bell tinkled prettily. Bridget looked around and noted that though the window was small, white lace curtains with cheery yellow sashes framed it. The cozy round tables were covered with lace cloths, and vases of the sort an apothecary might use sat at each table with a single flower inside.

  Caleb hung his coat on the stand, then took her wrap and did the same.

  A plump woman with doe-brown eyes and a welcoming smile came over and bobbed a curtsy. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith.” She smiled at Bridget. “Table for two today?”

  “Thank
you, Mrs. Scott. In the back, please.”

  “Your usual table, then. Right this way.” She led them past a scattering of others taking tea. No one paid them any mind. These were not members of the upper echelons of Society—men and women always looking for gossip. These were merchants and tradesmen enjoying a respite on a Saturday afternoon.

  They took seats, and Caleb asked for tea and scones. “A bit too early for cakes still,” he said when Mrs. Scott departed for the kitchen.

  “It’s never too early for cake,” Bridget retorted.

  “You still have a sweet tooth, I see.”

  “Unfortunately, as I don’t have the coin to indulge it very often. The cook at the academy, Mrs. White, makes a delicious trifle on special occasions, though.”

  He leaned forward, his stunning blue eyes intent on her face. She could have stared into his eyes all day. “I’m not surprised you’re teaching now,” he said.

  “You’re not? I’ve only been at the academy a year.”

  “I always thought you would make an excellent instructor. You’re patient and good at explaining.”

  Bridget felt her cheeks grow warm. “I like to think I am.”

  “You were certainly patient with me when the undersecretary asked you to show me how to counterfeit currency.”

  She had to hide a smile at the memory. How could she have forgotten that?

  “Go ahead and laugh. I know I was a poor student.”

  “You tried very hard, and eventually you caught on.”

  “I don’t have your artistic abilities.”

  She swallowed at the burst of emotion within, and Mrs. Scott chose that moment to bring a tray with their tea and scones. The tea was hot and strong and the scones absolutely some of the best she’d ever had. They were apple today, and she tasted bits of apple dusted with cinnamon in every bite.

  “I have a confession to make,” Caleb said after they’d each had a scone and were warm from the tea.

  “What’s that?”

  “I might have pretended to be worse at counterfeiting than I truly was.”

  “Why would you do that?” But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew the reason.

  “I had a fondness for the teacher.”

  “I confess I didn’t mind extra lessons with you.”

  His gaze on her seemed to warm, and she looked down and took a hasty sip of her tea.

  “What about your art?” he asked before the silence could become uncomfortable. “Do you still sketch?”

  He really did remember everything about her. For so long, she’d thought she meant nothing to him. More and more, she believed he hadn’t wanted to leave without telling her. He’d had no choice.

  “Ostensibly, I teach art at the academy. We don’t make public the skills like forgery and lockpicking we show the girls. We hope our students will never need them, but we also want them to be prepared for anything. This world is not always easy for females.”

  “True enough.”

  “I teach art as well as counterfeiting. When I have James back, I plan to advertise for a few private students to supplement my income.”

  “That’s a clever idea. But when will you have time to create your own art?”

  She frowned, perplexed. “I enjoy art, but I don’t think my pieces are good enough to sell. I certainly wouldn’t make enough to offset the cost of charcoals, pencils, and paper.”

  He refilled their cups with tea. “I think you’re good enough, but regardless, I didn’t think you sketched for money. I thought you did it for joy.”

  Bridget stared at him for a long moment. She hadn’t realized how well he understood her.

  “Or perhaps I misunderstood,” he said when she merely stared at him.

  “You didn’t misunderstand,” she said, feeling self-conscious. When was the last time anyone asked her about herself and what she might like? For years, her life had been about survival. When had she had time to think about joy? “But drawing for pleasure has not been something I’ve had the time or funds to do for the past few years.”

  “Of course not. I wasn’t thinking. I apologize.”

  “Don’t. You’ve made me remember how it once was and how it could be again. I’d lost sight of that.”

  “You’ve had other worries. It may not be safe for me to be part of James’s life, but you can be assured you both will be taken care of. I have some money saved—”

  “Caleb, I don’t want your money. That isn’t why I asked for help finding him.”

  “And what if I want to give you money for him? If that’s the only way I can be part of his life, at least it’s something. I left you to fend for yourself all those years ago. I was well paid for my service, and this is the least I can do.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He didn’t press her any further. Instead, he paid for the food and escorted her back to Mrs. Jacobs’s. At the corner, where they wouldn’t be spotted by the lady herself, he pulled Bridget aside. “I wish I could take you to a museum or Hyde Park.”

  She looked up at the gray skies and the persistent drizzle. “The park? It’s raining.”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “I wish I could escort you anyway, but I’ve risked almost enough for one day.”

  “Almost?”

  “Take one more risk with me?”

  Years ago, she would have said yes immediately. Now, she hesitated. “What is it?”

  “Come to my room after supper tonight. I have something for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Come to my room and find out.” He looked about, then back at her. “Go now. I’ll wait a quarter hour and come in after you.”

  “You should go first.”

  “I won’t have you standing on the street in the rain. Go now, so I can see that you return safely inside.”

  Bridget nodded and started for the boarding house. She knew there was no point in arguing with Caleb. He was as stubborn as he was honorable. But if he normally took as many chances as he had today, it was a wonder he hadn’t been spotted. The city was full of men and women looking for easy money, and Caleb was probably worth more money than she would ever possess.

  Bridget greeted Mrs. Jacobs when she entered and went straight to her room. She dropped a few more pieces of the small ration of coal she’d been allotted into the stove and huddled by it for warmth. Later in the summer, it would probably be uncomfortably hot in the room, but today, in her damp clothing, she was cold.

  She stripped off her dress and hung it to dry, then did the same with her stays and chemise, wrapping herself in a blanket. She had another chemise that was clean and dry, but it was her best one—a fine lawn with delicate lavender ribbons. She didn’t like to wear it often. She took it out of its tissue paper for special occasions.

  Did going to Caleb’s room qualify as a special occasion? Could she even risk going? It wasn’t a ploy to trap her in his chamber and take advantage of her. She knew him too well to ever expect such behavior from him. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be tempted to kiss him if she went. And if she kissed him, she did not know if she’d be able to stop. Or if she’d want him to stop.

  Then she might be glad she’d worn her pretty chemise.

  The very thought of Caleb seeing her in nothing but the chemise made her throat go dry. She wouldn’t decide now. It was still afternoon. She had plenty of time to decide. Instead, she crossed to her bed and pulled out a box from underneath. She opened the box and lifted out several sheets of paper. They were torn and stained from all the times she’d looked at them, all the times they’d been exposed to the elements in Fleet Prison. This was the only possession, other than the clothes on her back, she’d kept in prison.

  She lifted the top sheet of paper and stared into the face she’d drawn there. The charcoal sketch depicted a baby smiling sweetly in repose. She remembered watching James sleep and sketching him in the morning light. She’d wondered what he dreamed about when his little brow furrowed or his pink bow
of a mouth pursed. He’d been such a beautiful child with his wispy blond hair and large blue eyes, though as an infant, as he was in this sketch, he’d been bald and rosy-cheeked.

  The next portrait captured those curls and the eyes. This one was watercolor, and looking at it now, she still didn’t think she’d captured the eye color correctly. She’d looked into those same eyes all morning, and paints could hardly do it justice. In the painting, the little boy was reaching for an apple and smiling. His stance was a bit ungainly, as though he might lose his balance and plop onto his bottom at any moment. She traced a hand over the plump cheeks and the dimple in his chin.

  The last picture had been difficult to draw and still hurt to look at. She’d drawn it in prison with pencil. It depicted James’s head and shoulders as he was carried away from her. One hand reached back as though to grasp her. His face was the picture of misery and terror. Her heart ached when she thought of that day, to know that she’d failed him. Her choices had failed him. She’d thought marrying Robbie would give James a better life. Instead, it had doomed her to prison and sent James to an orphanage.

  The room had grown dark, and she put the pictures back into the box and slid them under the bed. She could hear the scrape and click-clacking of silver against china below. Those who had paid for meals were eating downstairs.

  Bridget retrieved the bread and cheese Mrs. White had wrapped up for her and ate it slowly, trying to make it last.

  When she was done, she lit a candle and read for a while by the flickering light. The house had grown quiet by then. If she was going to go to Caleb’s room, now was the time to do it.

  She didn’t have to go. He would help her regardless. But if she didn’t go, she wouldn’t know what surprise he had for her. And she’d never know if he still wanted to kiss her, and if she still liked it.