“If I tell you,” she began, the four simple words sending her pulse soaring, “you must respect my wishes. The problem is mine. If you mean to help me, you will not treat me like a hapless female incapable of mopping up her own mess.”
A smile touched his lips and he nodded. “And you will accept that my experience with crooks and villains gives me an insight you do not possess.”
Not wanting to wrangle over who was wisest, she focused on the one thing lacking in this alliance. “We need to learn to trust each other. I suspect honest communication is the key.”
Mischief shone in his eyes. “How honest would you like me to be?”
“As honest as you have been tonight.”
He put his hand over his heart. “I can do that.”
She dared to let hope blossom in her chest. Upon hearing her story, he may reconsider his position. Even the best enquiry agent would struggle with the lack of clues. Yet instinct said Mr Chance had the brains and brawn needed to help her with this problem.
“I’m not entirely sure where to begin.” Her fingers shook as she ran them over the lid of her sewing box. How strange that one tiny piece of paper could destroy a person’s life? “Perhaps this is the best place to start.”
He observed her closely as she gripped the sides of the box in her hands. She rested the soft pads of her thumbs on the two fleur-de-lis decorations. If one pushed them simultaneously towards the centre, and with the exact same pressure, the hidden drawer clicked open.
Mr Chance inhaled sharply at the sight of the velvet-lined compartment. “You’re right, Miss Darrow. You’re a master of illusion. I suspected a hidden cavity but never found one.”
“I bought it from a man at the Bartholomew Fair. He said it was a lovers’ box, somewhere a lady might hide secret letters.” She removed the three folded notes—all a mere one-inch square and sealed with a different wax or stamp—and placed them on the coverlet. “If only he’d said it was a sewing box, then it would not have sparked the idea that became the cause of all my woes.”
“We need light.” Mr Chance took a friction match to the oil lamp on his chest of drawers and the candles on his nightstand. He returned to the bed, retrieved one note and held it between his long fingers as if it were as innocuous as a sweet biscuit. “Am I to understand you didn’t write these letters?”
“I am paid to be a messenger, sir.”
“Paid? By whom?”
“My clients. It began with Lady Summers complaining about her nosy maid. I offered to deliver a note for her and accept a reply.”
If only it had stopped with one simple transaction. But Lady Summers was a veritable gossip and responsible for an influx of new clients visiting the shop. None cared about the design of their new gowns, only that Eleanor act as a courier for their sordid missives.
“As there are three notes, I assume they’re not all from Lady Summers.” A frown marred Mr Chance’s brow as he examined the tiny paper folds. “Whoever wrote them has very little to say.”
“They had no choice in the matter. If I am to hide a note in the pocket or hem of a garment, it must be small.”
“And the shades of wax and different stamps?”
“Are a means of identifying the sender.”
Mr Chance gave an appreciative hum. “It’s a rather ingenious way of making money, Miss Darrow.”
“Not so ingenious. It has become a troublesome venture made worse by public demand. Many of my clients are harridans posing as respectable ladies. A woman harbouring a secret can be merciless.”
“I cannot disagree,” he said, the words as bitter as bile.
“One client threatened to ruin me when I failed to deliver a note on time. She insisted on telling those who would listen that my designs are outdated.” More than that, she had complained the material was of inferior quality.
“That’s the gamble one takes in the game of deception. I trust you have a valid reason for playing with schemers.”
She explained the rising cost of silk, ruined shipments and the constant pressure to please the rich. “It was my father’s dying wish that I should succeed in this business.” It was a demand, not a wish. “It’s why I accepted a job from an anonymous source.”
The stranger had twisted her arm quite literally.
The fiend—dressed in black and wearing a hooded cloak—had appeared from a darkened corner of the yard. He had grabbed her from behind, plastered his gloved hand to her mouth, a metallic smell overpowering the earthy whiff of leather, and given her an ultimatum.
You’ll deliver my notes where and when I tell you.
If they fail to arrive, you’ll die.
If they arrive open, you’ll die.
If you tell anyone, you’ll die.
“Ah, now we’re getting to the crux of the problem, Miss Darrow.” Mr Chance captured her chin and insisted she look upon his handsome visage. “Your trembling lips tell me all I need to know.”
“And what is that?”
“You’re afraid of this person. You presume they’re responsible for the damage at the shop. Is that why you need the box? Is that why you came to play nursemaid during my recuperation?”
She doubted he’d appreciate the truth, but he needed to hear it.
“If we’re to learn to trust each other,” she began, “I must confess that I fled the shop fearing I was the intended target.”
The crack of pistol fire had preceded his sister’s scream. Remorse had flooded her chest like a relentless tide, yet her first thought was for her own survival.
He released her chin as if he’d scorched his fingers on a brazier. “I knew you’d not nursed me out of loyalty or guilt.”
“I sat at your bedside, made you a healing broth and cleaned your wound because I was genuinely sorry for what happened. Once I learned why you were shot, I knew it was safe for me to return home. Had you not stolen the box, I would have had time to deliver the notes, and we would not be standing here now.”
