Lining the boy’s palm with another coin, Theo sought to clarify an important point. “Are they related? We were told Emily’s parents were dead.”
Beaming like he’d been touched by Midas, the lad said, “The other Mr Rogers drowned and left the house to his brother. Jack Rogers moved here a year ago with his wife.”
“What about Emily’s mother?” Eleanor’s tone carried a desperation Theo didn’t quite understand.
Glancing over his shoulder, the lad lowered his voice. “Mrs Crane said Ivy went off with the captain of a merchant ship when Emily was eight. She came back but died of a fever five years ago.”
Eleanor paled. “Ivy?” The tremble in her voice mirrored the panic evident beneath her pretty visage. “Ivy was Emily’s mother’s name?”
The answer was a curt nod. “Mrs Crane said the name suited her, said she clung to any man with two legs and would choke the life out of him if she could.”
Confused about the relevance and why Eleanor inhaled sharply, Theo suggested they visit the Red Lion to confirm the facts. “We must speak to Emily and her uncle.”
“Happen you’ve got a death wish, mister.” The boy sized Theo’s muscular frame. “Rogers has the devil in him when he’s had a skinful of rum.”
“I can rouse the devil without downing liquor.” Knowing the boy would welcome another coin, Theo made a request. “Should you see anything untoward at the Rogers’ house, send word to Miss Darrow’s shop in New Bridge Street. Should the news prove accurate, I’ll reward you for your time and trouble.”
Hope shone in the lad’s eyes like a lone star in the darkness. “You’ve a kind heart, mister. Happen the Lord will send a chariot to take you to the pearly gates.”
“Not everyone would agree,” Theo said. Some lords called him the devil’s spawn. Some said his heart was as black as coal dust. He handed the boy his calling card. “In case anyone should question how you came by the sovereigns.”
They left Eastcheap and headed towards Billingsgate.
Eleanor hugged Theo’s arm and walked as if swamped by the weight of a burden. Each trudge seemed an effort. What had brought about this melancholic mood? Her spirits flagged at the mention of the name Ivy.
“Perhaps you should tell me what’s wrong before we find Emily.” He felt her body shiver against his. “Is it that Emily lied about her parents?”
Eleanor took a deep breath, but her voice quivered when she said, “It’s probably nothing more than a coincidence. My mother was called Ivy. It’s funny how something as simple as a name can stir painful memories.”
Not just a name. The catch of sunlight in golden hair often brought his mother’s image crashing into his mind. The smell of violets tugged at his heart. He could not eat a macaroon without seeing her popping one into her mouth. The memories were few but frequent. A bittersweet pill that was hard to swallow.
Eleanor was not so fortunate.
“Doubtless you feel responsible for Emily. You may see something of yourself in her. Her skill as a seamstress. Her troubled family life.”
“Emily has suffered far more than I have. She lost her mother twice. I wish she had spoken to me about it. I understand how grief can rule one’s life.”
They walked in silence, past the Monument and the church of St Magnus, towards the Red Lion tavern. The hanging sign creaked back and forth in the wind like an omen warning them away. One did not enter a public house full of drunkards and hurl accusations.
“We’ll sit and order drinks. Hopefully, Emily will serve us.” Theo stopped outside the oak door and faced her. It was barely five o’clock, yet the noise of rowdy conversation and boisterous song spilled onto the street. “Promise me something.”
She blinked in surprise. “Anything.”
The answer sent his mind spinning in a different direction, but their lives depended upon focusing on the task. “Should there be an altercation, you must consider your own safety, not mine.”
A frown marred her brow. “I would rather meet my maker than see you hurt because of me. Should we encounter trouble, we will deal with it together.”
Most men would stamp their feet in protest, their tempers frayed, eyes wide with alarm. Yet he understood the need to fight for one’s survival. He didn’t think she was foolish, just wonderful and brave.
“Promise me something else,” he said, stroking her arm.
“Yes?”
“If you hit anyone, tuck your thumb over your middle finger when making a fist.” He demonstrated. “I don’t want you to break your hand.”
Her mouth curled into a smile, her eyes sparkling with an irresistible blend of mischief and determination. “If only I had an iron skillet. There’s no danger of breaking one of those.”
In awe of her resilience, he cupped her cheek. “Once we’ve gained a confession and this is over, I shall take you to the Olympic to watch Madame Vestris’ parody of Macbeth. Instead of witches, Macbeth stumbles upon gossiping matrons.”
“Does one go by the name Mrs Dunwoody?”
“I hope not. The matron enjoys predicting my downfall, and the witches’ prophecies tend to come true.”
They laughed again.
Now she was more at ease Theo cricked his neck, straightened his spine and led Eleanor into the Red Lion tavern.
Three unkempt sailors occupied the first table, clouding the air with pipe smoke. Their tanned, leathery skin suggested they’d returned from the West Indies, not a port in Hamburg or Rotterdam. The men watched Eleanor as if starved of female company.
More men stood around the oak counter, a distinct odour of fish wafting from the vicinity. An older fellow used his tankard to keep a map open on the table next to the hearth.
Theo met the landlord’s gaze and gestured to an empty table by the bow window. They’d barely sat down when a petite woman with auburn hair hurried towards them, wiping her hands on her pinny.
“What can I get for you good folks?” Emily said, not bothering to look at them properly until Eleanor whispered her name.
“Emily.” Eleanor glanced covertly around the taproom. “Is your uncle here? We were told we could find you both at the Red Lion.”
“Miss Darrow,” Emily said just as quietly. She stiffened as if to move might alert Satan’s minion. “What are you doing here?”
