“But you won’t because you know I speak in earnest.”
Daventry returned, though he lingered outside the door, giving Theo the split second needed to release Miss Darrow.
“D’Angelo is leaving now. I’ll inform you of the situation once he has visited the barrow boy.” Daventry pointed to the notes in the secret drawer. “Well, are you opening them or using them as bait?”
“Miss Darrow must decide what’s best.”
“Agreed.” Daventry picked up the note sealed with green wax. “I’m confident when I say a gentleman’s wife or daughter sent this. Green wax is reserved for the clergy and members of government.”
Miss Darrow cast Theo a nervous glance.
That’s when he knew the sender’s identity.
“Lady Lucille wanted the note taken to an address in Finch Lane, Cornhill,” she said. “I was supposed to deliver it weeks ago. When she came to the shop last Friday, I lied and said I had delivered it myself.”
Theo didn’t grit his teeth or silently curse the deceptive Lucille Bowman. It amused him to know she manipulated Wrotham like a virtuoso did a tuned fiddle. “If you agree, Miss Darrow, we may as well open the note.”
Daventry handed it to her.
Without hesitation, she broke the seal. A frown marred her brow as she squinted to read the small writing. “Hyde Park. Noon Wednesday. At the Achilles statue.”
Theo recalled the times the lady had sent him secret letters. They had met on the Row early one morning, met one afternoon at the British Museum to observe the exhibition of Tantric objects. He would not hear from her for weeks, and then another letter would arrive.
Aramis was right in his observations.
Theo was more in love with the idea of besting the aristocracy than with the lady herself. He was more annoyed at being treated as an inferior than of losing something precious.
“It’s as I suspected.” Theo couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. “Lady Lucille has another fool dangling like a marionette.”
“It would appear so,” Daventry said.
Miss Darrow retrieved the letter sealed with red wax. “The image of the laurel means this belongs to Mrs Langdon.” She opened it carefully. “Same place Wednesday evening. That’s all it says.”
Most people used Miss Darrow’s service to conduct illicit liaisons. If they wanted a note back, they merely had to ask. The theory meant there was but one line of enquiry to pursue—finding the villain who attacked her in the yard, made threats and turned her shop upside down.
“We will focus on Pickering,” he said, resisting the urge to break the black seal and read the scoundrel’s missive. “As all the notes are passed through him, we will persuade him to give us a name.”
Daventry’s gaze flicked between them. “Have a care. Something tells me there’s wickedness afoot, and I’m not talking about the immoral exploits of the ton.”
“What is there to fear?” Theo would keep Miss Darrow in his sights until they had the devil in custody and she could return to her shop.
“You’d do well to remember one important fact.” Daventry’s tone carried the weight of his warning. “Only the dead keep secrets.”
Chapter Six
With the rear entrance of Eleanor’s shop boarded to prevent intruders, they had no choice but to park the carriage outside the premises on New Bridge Street.
She shuffled to the edge of the seat, impatient to alight. Debtors’ prison awaited her. Salvaging the silk and Chantilly lace might raise enough funds to keep her from the Marshalsea.
“What’s the hurry?” Mr Chance opened the door and was first to the pavement. He extended his hand. “Allow me to assist you.”
The man was a monument to contradiction. Despite being a dangerous rogue who co-owned a gaming hell, he possessed a gentleman’s breeding. Goodness lay beneath his sinful facade. It was an attractive combination.
“Time is of the essence. There’s not a second to lose.” She poked her head out of the carriage and glanced left and right. The villain could be lurking in the vicinity, waiting to pounce.
Was that why she shivered?
Was she scenting danger?
“It’s four hours until your appointment with Pickering and his mobile library.” Mr Chance’s warm fingers grasped hers, his gaze falling to her ankles as he helped her descend. “We’ve plenty of time to attend to matters here.”
“We should avoid drawing undue attention.” The hairs on her nape prickled. Someone had their beady eyes fixed on them. Living with a distrustful father taught one to have a second sight.
“You fear the villain might be stalking the premises?”
“Yes, if he is keen to retrieve his note.”
“But you’re to deliver the note today. The damage caused to your property was to ensure you kept the appointment.” His gaze moved to the loose curl escaping her simple chignon. “I’m only grateful he took his temper out on the cabinets and not you, Miss Darrow.”
Although Mr Chance had seen her without a bonnet before, she felt a little naked beneath the weight of his stare.
“Doubtless he meant to frighten me.” The villain wasn’t her only problem. “The local shopkeepers will demand to know what happened last night. Gossip spreads like wildfire. Mudlarks who scour the Puddle Dock raided the cobbler’s yard last month. They will suspect the same happened here.”
Indeed, as she retrieved the door key from her pelisse pocket, the silversmith hurried across the street, calling her name.
“Miss Darrow. Thank heavens you’re well.” Mr Franklin—a man of thirty with wavy brown hair and a countenance that left her clients drooling—had thrown his coat on in a hurry, for the collar was askew. “I saw two constables searching your premises early this morning and haven’t slept a wink.”
