by Galen, Shana
Caleb went to the window, pulled the curtains aside, and looked out into a dark lane. He tried lifting the window, but it was sealed shut. He’d have to break the glass. The problem was that in doing so he would alert his captors. He hadn’t heard them since they’d locked him in, but that didn’t mean they’d left the house.
Taking the knife in his hand, he stepped back and rammed the window’s glass with his boot. The thick glass cracked but didn’t break, and he rammed it again. This time, it shattered. Caleb ignored the sound of footsteps rushing toward the room, clearing the glass and punching out more until he could fit through. When he heard the key in the door’s lock, he stood behind the door.
One of his captors crashed through. Caleb jumped on his back and wrestled him to the floor. He slammed the man’s head into the wood until he stopped fighting, then Caleb was on his feet again. No others came.
Caleb looked at the knife and at the man, then slid the knife back into his boot. He’d done enough killing for one lifetime.
He wiggled through the window and began to run for Marylebone.
BRIDGET ROSE FROM THE kitchen table where she and Jimmy were looking at pictures in a book. She heard footsteps on the stairs, and her heart pounded. But it was only Valérie.
“Still no one?”
“I’m sorry,” Valérie said.
“The girls have all gone to their rooms. It is too late to walk through Covent Garden. Stay here with me tonight. We can share my bed, and Jimmy can have your old one.” She smiled at Jimmy.
Bridget looked at her son and saw his eyes droop as he stifled a yawn. “You’re right.” She gathered Jimmy and followed Valérie out of the kitchen. It felt like a betrayal to go to bed. It felt like leaving Caleb all over again. She’d tuck Jimmy into bed, and once he was asleep, she’d come back down. She wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. She was far too worried.
But as they started up the stairwell to the upper floors, someone pounded on the door. Everyone jumped, and then Valérie and Bridget locked eyes. “Take him upstairs,” Bridget said as one of the footmen moved to open the door. Bridget stood back. She prayed it was Caleb, but she couldn’t be certain one of the men after him hadn’t searched for her and found her.
“How may I help you?” the footman asked whomever had knocked.
“I’m here to see Bridget Lavery.”
Bridget didn’t wait for the footman to respond. She pushed him aside and ran into Caleb’s arms. “I thought I’d never see you again,” she cried, pressing her face against his shoulder. He was really there, solid and strong and in her arms.
“I managed to escape.”
“I was so worried.”
“I was worried about you. I—” His body stiffened. “Is that him?”
Bridget turned to see Jimmy on the stairs. “Yes. Jimmy, this is your father, Caleb Harris.”
Jimmy stood for a long moment, then rushed down the stairs and threw himself into both of his parents’ arms.
IT HADN’T TAKEN LONG for the soft rocking of the sea and the sound of waves lapping against the ship to lull Jimmy to sleep. Caleb had sat beside his son, one hand on the boy’s chest and the other holding Bridget’s hand. It was a bit chilly on the deck, but they’d all huddle together and be warm enough under their blankets.
Bridget rose and went to the railing, and after another long look at his son, Caleb followed. “I can hardly believe he’s mine. I don’t know what I did to deserve so much good fortune.”
“We’re both fortunate,” she said, leaning against him. “Fortunate to have found each other again, fortunate to have found Jimmy.”
“Fortunate to be starting a new life. Are you sorry to leave London behind?”
“A little. Are you?”
“Not in the least. You’re my home, Bridget, and I’ll be happy wherever you are.”
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, and indeed, he was home.
If you enjoyed Counterfeit Scandal, read the book where Jimmy is first introduced.
How to Brew a Perfect Kiss
One
Thomas Gaines was in a hurry. The hackney he’d hailed at his home in Cheapside with plenty of time to spare had been caught behind a line of carts and other hackneys waiting for an overturned carriage to be righted and cleared from the busy London street.
In the hackney, Thomas had fumed. He fumed now as he took long-legged strides down Bond Street, passing Madame LeMonde’s modiste shop, The Hungry Mind bookstore, and a boy who waved a copy of The Midnight Cryer in his face saying it had all the latest scandals for only a penny. Thomas declined.
He skirted around the crates stacked at the door of a shop, around the cluster of servants gossiping on the corner, shook his head at the apple seller calling out, “Apples! Get yer fresh apples!” Two children ran past, knocking into him. He put his hand on his pocket to keep it from being picked and stepped over a puddle of liquid dumped out of an upper window. He almost wished he hadn’t jumped out of the hackney early, but he could walk this last quarter mile faster than a vehicle could traverse the congested streets. Sometimes he missed Wapping.
Sometimes.
Today was the one day he absolutely must be on time. His shop on Bond Street had been open less than a week and today he would receive his first bulk shipment of coffee and tobacco. He knew what he had bought. Knew what it was worth, and he wanted to be certain that what was delivered was what he’d paid for. The merchants in Wapping knew him, but London was a different animal. They’d see a black man and think him ignorant and an easy mark. But Thomas was far from ignorant. In fact, when it came to coffee and tobacco, Thomas probably knew more than almost any other man in England.
His shop wasn’t yet open, so he entered through the back door. He didn’t need his key as his manager, Alfred, a trusted man he’d brought from Wapping, was already there and had the door unlocked. As soon as he entered, Thomas heard the men speaking.
“If that’s all then,” the delivery man was saying.
“That’s not all,” Thomas said, his deep voice cutting through the room and causing all three men to turn and look at him. Alfred nodded at him, but the two delivery men frowned.
“Who’s this, then?” the taller of the delivery men asked. Both men were tall and lanky. They didn’t have the kind of profession that lent itself to stoutness. The one who spoke wore a brown cap over his brown hair.
“This is Mr. Gaines,” Alfred said. “The owner of Bond Street Coffee & Tobacco.”
Both delivery men looked him up and down, probably not used to a black man owning a shop on Bond Street. Gaines wasn’t quite used to it either. But there were upwards of twenty thousand black men and women in London, and just like the rest of the populace, some were wealthy, others poor; some lived to serve and others to be served.
“A pleasure, Mr. Gaines,” the brown-capped delivery man said with a nod of his head. “We’ve finished unloading your goods. All we need is a signature and the payment.” He gestured to the paper Alfred held.
Gaines took it from him. “I’ll just have a look first.”
“Your man already approved it,” the other delivery man said. He wore a black cap dusty with soot.
“No one is paid until I approve it.” Thomas made his way to the large sacks holding the fragrant tobacco leaves. The scent was so familiar that he felt a rush of confidence. In Virginia he had been a slave on a tobacco plantation. He’d planted, tended, reaped, and dried tobacco. He knew good tobacco.
He opened one of the bags and lifted out a handful of the leaves, holding it up to the light of one of the small windows in the back room, which was stacked with bags of coffee and now tobacco. In a few hours, the space would be bustling with his workers, sorting and packaging the coffee and tobacco for sale in the shop. Others would grind the coffee beans for the coffee room.
Gaines examined the light brown leaves. He held them to his nose, inhaling the earthy scent of them overlaid with just the slightest hint of spice. He could imagin
e the leaves as they had been when picked, bright green in the black hands that had plucked them. These leaves had been hung to dry and cure, then carefully bundled and packaged and sent on a ship to England. It was good tobacco. He could tell by the feel and the smell.
He dug deeper into the sack, pulling out more bundles, making certain what was underneath was the same quality as that on top. When he finished one sack, he went to the next.
“Is he planning to look through every bag?” one of the delivery men asked. “We have other stops to make.”
“It won’t take long,” Alfred said. “Mr. Gaines is particular.”
The deliverymen grumbled but waited.
Finally, Thomas had gone through the bags and returned, paper in hand. “I’ll sign, but I’m not paying this price.” He pointed to the total at the bottom of the invoice. “That bag over there is only three-fourths full and the leaves at the bottom are old and crushed. I’ll pay half for that one or you can take it back and I’ll just take the others.”
“What are you talking about?” the brown-capped delivery man said, looking offended, though Thomas had seen the slight twitch of his lips. He’d known that bag was poor quality. It was why he’d put it in the back.
“That’s my best offer. And tell your employer if he wants my business, he’d be wise to send his best from now on. Alfred, I’ll leave the details to you.” Thomas handed his man the invoice and strode to his office. It was on the first floor of the shop and could be accessed from stairs in the back room. It had a window that looked out onto Bond Street and Thomas went straight to the window as soon as he’d closed the door behind him. Thomas opened the shutter on the window and peered down at the street, just now beginning to bustle with shopkeepers sweeping their stoops and rolling down awnings. Across the street and diagonal was The Greedy Vicar, a pub where Thomas had eaten a few times. His coffee room served lighter fare, but he liked to sample the competition. It was a pleasant enough place, but he had the advantage of novelty on his side. At least for now.
He heard a tap on the door and turned as Alfred entered. “Sir, I want to apologize for not—”
Thomas waved a hand. “Come look out this window, Alfred.”
The manager crossed the room, past the desk with its teetering papers, the assortment of chairs, and the cold hearth. “What is it, sir?”
Alfred stood at his side, his pale hands clutched together. He was an older man of perhaps fifty, and he was intelligent and trustworthy. He’d lived in Wapping all his life and had a wife and four children there. He had two days off a week and would go home at every opportunity. Gaines had rooms in Wapping as well, but he didn’t care if he ever went back for more than the time it took to look in on his businesses there.
“Did you ever think we would be here, Alfred? That we would have our own shop on Bond Street? This is the most famous street in the world, and here we are.”
“It’s quite an accomplishment, sir, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”
Gaines looked at him.
“Ever since you first hired me as a waiter, I knew you weren’t like other men. You’re shrewd but kind.”
Thomas made a hissing sound. “Don’t spread that rumor about.”
Alfred smiled, his cheeks turning ruddy with pleasure. “No, sir. I suppose it helps that you know your tobacco so well. And your coffee. I’ve never known a man to take such a keen interest. So I can’t say I’m surprised.”
The two men stood at the window, looking out over their little square of the street until Thomas’s eye was drawn by a bright blue turban. Most of the bonnets were white or drab, dull colors, but this turban was blue as the sky on a clear winter day. He watched the woman in the turban move closer until she stopped across from the shop—his shop—and paused. She looked up at the sun, perhaps gauging the time, and Thomas felt his brows arch.
Her skin was a lovely shade of umber, her eyes wide-spaced and inquisitive. She had a long neck and, now that he was looking, a long slim body as well. It was hidden under a blue serge dress that was too big for her, but he could imagine her long legs and small waist.
“I’d better go down, sir,” Alfred said. “Our people will be here soon.”
Gaines nodded then forced himself away from the window and the lovely young woman just as a group of Mrs. Sinclair’s students passed by, obscuring her from view. He had a stack of documents to read and organize. When he sat at his crowded desk, he did miss Wapping. He’d had a filing system in place there, but here he’d had to start over. Right now he had everything in three piles—important, very important, and extremely important. He needed a clerk to come in and file everything for him. But he’d have to worry about that another day. He didn’t have time for clerks and filing when his extremely important stack was so tall.
He lifted the first document and began to read.
RAENI SMOOTHED THE clean white apron over her blue dress and tried to keep up with the woman behind the coffee room’s counter. Mrs. Price spoke quickly and moved even quicker. She rattled off instructions that made Raeni’s head spin. Although, her head might have been spinning simply from hunger and exhaustion. She’d slept on the floor of a church last night and had nothing to eat since yesterday afternoon when she’d spent her last penny on an old bun.
She struggled to listen carefully to Mrs. Price’s directives. Raeni couldn’t afford to lose this position. It didn’t help that Mrs. Price had tried to turn her away when she’d applied. It had been the kind manager, Alfred Miller, who had given her a chance.
But Mr. Miller oversaw the coffee shop, which sold coffee by the pound and tobacco as well. Raeni was stuck on the other side of Bond Street Coffee & Tobacco, and in a few moments her side, the coffee room, would open and begin serving. Despite the fact that Raeni had grown up around servants, she had not much experience serving herself. Her life in Jamaica had been so different from life here in England.
“Did you hear me, Miss Sawyer?” Mrs. Price asked sharply. The use of her formal name tore Raeni’s thoughts away from her reminiscences.
“Yes, Mrs. Price. I’m to seat customers and allow Caroline to serve.”
Caroline was a white woman in a gray dress and stiff apron. She was young and pretty and poured coffee with a flourish.
“Then go stand by the door,” Mrs. Price ordered. “And stand up straight. Mr. Gaines doesn’t like his employees to slouch.”
Raeni hadn’t met this Mr. Gaines, but she didn’t like him already. Mrs. Price had a long list of things he didn’t like. In addition to slouching, Mr. Gaines did not approve of tardiness, loud voices, smiles that showed too many teeth, or dust. The coffee room was immaculate, so clean in fact that Raeni wished she’d been able to sleep on this floor rather than the dusty old church floor. But beggars couldn’t be choosy, and right now she was one misstep from beggary.
Raeni took her position at the door and not a moment too soon as two men approached. She opened the door, causing the little bell above it to tinkle, and said, “Welcome to Bond Street Coffee & Tobacco.”
The men, dressed in the clothing of clerks barely acknowledged her, but followed her to a table, their conversation about Old Man Lofton barely slowing.
“Enjoy your coffee,” she told the men, as she had been instructed. The next two hours passed similarly. There was a steady stream of men, and a few ladies, in and out. Raeni sat the ladies well away from the shop area, which was separated from the coffee room by a partial wall, and sat the men closer so they might wander over to purchase tobacco after their refreshment. Her head had stopped spinning, but her throat was dry from repeating the same phrases time and again.
Caroline moved efficiently and her smile never faltered, but Raeni could see the tables were almost all taken. Caroline was looking about with an expression bordering on panic. At that moment, Mrs. Price beckoned to Raeni, who left her post and rushed to the counter where Mrs. Price took the customers’ orders and relayed them to the cook. Very little needed to be cooked. Most of the items
offered were pastries and biscuits, which were made ahead of time, but Mr. Gaines had also added soup to the menu and that must be kept warm. And then, of course, there was the constant brewing of coffee.
“Yes, Mrs. Price?” Raeni asked.
“Go see to those men over there.” Mrs. Price pointed to a table of three men Raeni had seated a few minutes before. Mrs. Price turned and went back into the kitchen, and Raeni stood still for a moment, unsure of what she was to do.
She took a calming breath. She’d been watching Caroline all morning. It seemed easy enough. She plastered a tight smile on her face and made her way to the table. The men were speaking, and she wasn’t certain if she should interrupt or wait until there was a pause in the conversation. She stood awkwardly at the table. It seemed so easy for Caroline. Mrs. Price came back out and glowered at her, her dark skin shiny from the heat of the kitchen. Raeni cleared her throat. When the men paid her no attention, she cleared it again.
One of the men looked at her.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “What would you like?”
He gave her a slow smile. “What are you offering?”
She ignored the insinuation behind his words. “We have coffee, pastries, soup, and bread.”
“Just coffee,” the man said. The other men said they’d have the same and went back to their conversation.
That had been easy enough. Raeni moved to the counter where Mrs. Price waited. She had to dodge Caroline, who carried a tray heavy with a silver coffee pot and several pastries. “The men will have coffee,” she told Mrs. Price.