“We try to leave, we most likely die. We stay, we try for justice, and we might just live. Even if I do die at the end of a hangman’s noose, I’ll go to my death knowing I did everything I could to give Esme justice for her husband’s death.” Gwynnie blinked, feeling tears prick her eyes. “I stood by that night and listened to him die, Ma. I didn’t help him when I could have done.”
Emlyn stood straight and nodded once. “As you wish. We shall stay. Any ideas about where we go from here?”
“Just one. Though I do not imagine he will be pleased to see us.”
CHAPTER 26
Gwynnie thrust the short metal rod firmly into the lock. It gave way beneath her touch and the door swung open. Staring into Tombstone’s office, she felt her mother peering over her shoulder.
“A fine room he keeps,” Emlyn muttered, striding past Gwynnie and into the office. “I never trust a man who is too tidy.”
Gwynnie didn’t comment. She followed her mother in and closed the door behind them. On a table beside the desk was a flagon of mead, the honey-scented liquid glistening in the remnants of sunlight that shone through the window. Emlyn poured out a glass and passed it to Gwynnie. Consumed by thirst, Gwynnie lifted the glass to her lips and gulped. All day they had been hiding, avoiding the kitchens as people were more likely to know their faces there, so they hadn’t eaten a single thing.
“Gwynnie,” Emlyn cautioned.
Gwynnie lowered the glass and shrugged. “I am elegant, am I not?” She slurped the mead pointedly. Emlyn just shook her head. She chose the chair behind the desk and sat back, sighing deeply and looking in danger of going to sleep. Gwynnie sat on the desk itself, picking at the manchet bread that had been left out on the tray beside the mead.
They didn’t have to wait long for Tombstone to arrive. On the other side of the door, he thrust his key into the lock and made a sound of surprise to find it unlocked, then the door swung open.
“What the…? Who are you two?” He marched into the room, then came to an abrupt stop as Gwynnie took off the footman’s hat and dropped it onto the desk, her hair falling around her ears.
“Good evening, Tombstone.” Emlyn was the first to speak, pulling off her yeoman’s hat and dropping it beside Gwynnie’s. “I have talked mostly to your employer in the past. I have a feeling this is the first time you and I are seeing each other properly.”
Tombstone’s eyes shifted between Gwynnie and Emlyn. “Do you have any idea what is happening? You are both wanted for the attack on Mistress Battersby. Even Pascal is now starting to question if you are responsible for more — if you did indeed kill Master Battersby.”
“We did not.” Gwynnie’s voice was firm as she chewed on the manchet bread. “Though I should have done more for him than I did.”
“I beg your pardon?” Tombstone stepped forward and snatched the bread out of Gwynnie’s hand, then the flagon that she was still drinking form. “What are you wearing?”
“You were looking for two maids, were you not?” Gwynnie reminded him. “How else were we supposed to dress?”
“This is mad, mad,” Tombstone whispered to himself, running his hands through his coppery hair.
“He’s debating whether to turn us in,” Emlyn said to Gwynnie, nudging her in the back with her goblet. “He might get his position back if he does.”
“I do not think he will.” Gwynnie looked at Tombstone. “You believed me when I told you what truly happened to Esme Battersby, did you not?”
Tombstone paced around the room, evidently unable to stand in one place for long. “Who are you?” he asked.
Gwynnie smiled. It was the most perceptive question he had asked her. She knew what answer she had to give. Right now, the truth was their best chance.
“My name is Gwynnie,” she said softly. “My mother and I have been known by many names. Thieves, cutpurses. They called us jades once. You were not so flattered by that one, were you, Ma?”
“No, I was not.” Emlyn took a hefty gulp of mead. She was evidently finding it hard telling a stranger what she knew after keeping her occupation a secret for so long.
“Some call us the Shadow Cutpurses.”
Tombstone’s jaw dropped open. He stared at Gwynnie, his eyes wide.
“I told you he wouldn’t believe us,” said Emlyn, breaking the silence.
“You are…?” Tombstone hesitated, shaking his head a little, then his eyes drifted down over their clothes and he grunted, as if holding back a laugh. “Hiding in plain sight.”
“Lots of people do not notice maids,” Gwynnie explained. “Just as they do not notice footmen or yeomen. We are just always supposed to be there.”
Tombstone returned the flagon of mead to the desk and Gwynnie snatched it up again. She managed just one swallow before he took it out of her grasp. “I did not say you could steal my mead.”
Gwynnie let him take the flagon back from her, but while he was distracted, she managed to steal another piece of manchet bread.
“Why are you here?” He glanced between the pair of them. “You could have taken your chance in the flood by now. You must know that I have to take you to Pascal and Cromwell. I have no choice.”
“You do have a choice,” Emlyn said as she put down her goblet. “You can either let us go or arrest us for stealing.”
“From what I know, one of the Shadow Cutpurses is wanted for more than just theft.” He leaned across the desk. “One of you killed a man, years ago.”
Emlyn met his gaze. “That was not Gwynnie.” Her voice was cold. “You want a thief with blood on her hands, you look to me. Not my daughter.”
The silence stretched, as if Tombstone couldn’t quite believe Emlyn had so willingly confessed to her crime. Gwynnie was shocked too, though she knew at once why her mother had said it. She wasn’t going to risk Gwynnie being arrested for murder.
“You intend to arrest me for murder?” Emlyn asked. “As well as larceny?”
“Yes,” Tombstone asserted.
“This was a bad idea.”
“It was the only idea we had left,” Gwynnie reminded her mother. She nudged Tombstone on the arm, knowing she had to tell him everything. “I stole Fitzroy’s jewels.”
Tombstone shifted his focus to her. “Your mother was your distraction, talking to the yeoman so you could sneak into the tower.”
