Chapter 11

C hapter 11

I dodged around a heavy-laden cart pulled by two work horses, careful to step over the muddy puddles last night’s rain had left behind. Thick clouds hovered overhead, threatening another downpour, but I was far from deterred. I would go about my task rain or shine.

I reached the door, checking the sign beside it. The Nag’s Head, it read in peeling letters. I grinned. I’d found it.

The execution of my plan had taken all morning, but it had been well worth it. I’d dressed once again in my plainest, hardiest clothing and traveled to the Wapping docks. I’d gone from one shipping office to the next, claiming I was looking for my brother, Tobias Higgs. I pleaded with the clerks to tell me if anyone by that name had ever worked as a lumper for their company, because our father had died and left Tobias an inheritance. There was no reason to hide from an inheritance, I reasoned.

I had little luck at the first half dozen offices but struck gold at Watson’s Trading Company. The clerk there had seemed rather taken with me, so I’d made certain to smile and toy with my hair a great deal. He’d spent a quarter hour poring over their ledgers, looking for any record of Higgs.

“Ah,” he’d said, squinting his eyes. “Yes, here he is. He was paid for unloading a shipment not a fortnight ago.”

My pulse had quickened. “Have you any means of contacting him?”

He’d shaken his head. “We hire men when we need them. He hasn’t come looking for work since then, it seems.”

I must have looked disappointed, because he went on eagerly, as if to placate me. “But,” he’d said, “the ship your brother helped unload is still docked. Undergoing repairs, it appears. Perhaps the captain might know something.”

The captain hadn’t, but the boatswain had. He’d pointed me in the direction of a nearby public house, The Nag’s Head, which he’d said many of the other lumpers frequented.

A public house I now stood in front of, the narrow windows clouded and dirty. I took a deep breath. Would I find Higgs inside?

I tightened my grip around my reticule. My pistol was inside, but I would try not to need it. I had to take only a quick glance around inside. If Higgs was here, I would fetch Mr. Denning to make the arrest. If not, I would retreat and watch the tavern from outside. I wasn’t terribly worried that Higgs would recognize me. The last person he would expect to see in such a sordid establishment was the lady he had robbed a few days prior.

I stepped inside, the door creaking. The plaster-and-wood ceiling of the taproom seemed to scrape the top of my bonnet, sagging at several points. Worn tables and chairs crowded nearly every inch of the space, though only a few were occupied at this time of day. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat filled my nose, along with other less pleasant aromas.

A skinny stick of a man in an apron glanced at me from where he served a round of drinks near the fireplace. He eyed me from head to toe. “You lost, girl?”

My eyes darted about, but the men hunched over their food and drinks, many with their backs to me or tucked away in shadowy corners. It was impossible to tell if any of them was Higgs. I hedged. “Oh. No. I was looking for my brother.”

The barkeep set down mugs of ale, the liquid sloshing out onto the table. “Your brother have a name?” he asked, moving around me to clear another table.

I took a few hesitant steps after him, casting quick glances at the patrons I passed, but none looked familiar. What was I to say? If Higgs was present, I could hardly give out his name and alert him. I hadn’t anticipated such an inquisitive barkeep.

“His name is ...” I swallowed hard. “That is, I am—”

“There you are, Patience,” said a voice behind me.

I froze. I knew that voice. Knew it well enough that my stomach flipped like a fish on dry land.

I turned. And there he stood—Mr. Denning. His forgettable brown wool jacket and cap failed at their jobs quite miserably, what with that imposing figure and those knowing eyes now fixed on me.

Then I realized what he’d said. Patience?

“My sister,” Mr. Denning explained to the barkeep, taking my elbow.

What was he doing? He was ruining my cover story. Because if he was the brother I was looking for, I had no reason to ask around after Higgs.

The barkeep nodded vaguely, not seeming to care in the slightest as he half-heartedly wiped the sticky surface of the table.

Mr. Denning tugged on my elbow, guiding me toward a table near the window. Why was he always tugging me somewhere?

“Patience?” I shot under my breath.

“Well, I could hardly use Verity,” he muttered. “Patience seemed close enough.”

As soon as the barkeep looked away, I pulled my arm from his grasp. Mr. Denning sat at the table and looked pointedly at the chair across from him. “Sit.”

“I am not a puppy.” I kept my voice low but did not bother to hide my flare of vexation.

“No, we’ve already discussed that you are quite clearly a woman,” he said mildly.

I considered leaving. Mr. Denning had stated plainly last night that he did not wish to work together. But my stubbornness refused to surrender. This was my lead. I’d done the work, and I would not give in.

I pulled out the chair and sat.

“Now,” he said, crossing his arms on the table, “as flattered as I am that you followed me here, I really cannot—”

“Followed you?” I stared. “Are you mad?”

He seemed unconvinced. “How else would you be here?”

“I made my own inquiries.” So far, this conversation was not at all to my liking. I glanced over my shoulder, but the barkeep was occupied behind the bar. “Inquiries which you just interrupted and likely ruined.”

“Me?” He bent forward, his large frame impossible to ignore. “I was here first, if you’ll recall.”

“And what is your plan?”

He tapped his fingers on the table. “Watching the pub for Higgs, clearly. But now I’ve a wandering sister to explain away.”

I narrowed my eyes. “A wandering sister who is not leaving. I’ve every right to be here, same as you.”

We were both leaning over the small table, eyes locked, our faces only a few inches apart. I refused to back away. But the way his gaze traced over me, evaluating, inspecting ... My skin suddenly felt too hot, my pulse quickening.

He pulled back. I forced myself to breathe, to act natural. He did not seem affected—not like I was.

“Very well,” he said shortly. “We shall say we are waiting for our ship to depart. No one should ask too many questions.”

His acquiescence took me aback. I was still up in arms. “That is it? I expected more of a fight.”

“At least this way, I know where you are. Better than you appearing when it least suits me.” He shrugged out of his jacket and slung it on the chair behind him. My eyes lingered on the firm shape of his chest beneath his waistcoat and shirt. I snapped my rebellious gaze away just as he settled back in his chair.

“So, we are working together, then?” I asked, peering determinedly out the window.

“Working together?” From the corner of my eye, I watched as he rubbed his chin. “For now, I suppose. Surveillance is always easier with two people.”

He was right about that. I grew restless easily. It would be good to have another pair of eyes.

“I assume Higgs is not already here?” I allowed myself another quick sweep of the tavern, but I saw no hint of black eyes or a hooked nose.

“An astute observation, Miss Travers,” he said dryly. “We’ll make an officer of you yet.”

I gave a short laugh. “I assure you that is not my life’s ambition, Mr. Denning.”

He opened his mouth, likely to ask what , then, was my life’s ambition, but I had little desire to discuss the subject, considering I did not even know that.

“Did you truly think I tailed you here?” I asked, more to distract him than anything.

Mr. Denning shifted uncomfortably. “You do seem to pay very close attention to me.”

Something clicked inside my mind. I stilled. Was this because he’d seen my sketch of him last night? Did he think ... Did he think me obsessed with him? That I followed him about London like a lovesick schoolgirl?

My expression was no doubt horrified, because his eyes leaped from wary to alert in seconds. “What is it?”

“I am not ...” But my voice failed, mortified by the words it was trying to convey. “You mustn’t think that I ...”

“Think what?”

I closed my eyes briefly. “I sketch everyone I meet, Mr. Denning. I promise it is no sign of any—any special regard for you. Though I am embarrassed that you saw my sketch before it was finished, because my skills were not fully represented, I assure you.”

He stared at me. Then he gave an unexpected laugh. “I must say, that is something of a relief.”

“A relief?” Ought I be offended by that? “Am I so repugnant?”

He coughed. “No, it isn’t that.”

I eyed him curiously, recalling what Drake had said about ladies being keen on Mr. Denning. “Has this something to do with your unwanted nickname?”

“What did Drake tell you?” he asked, grimacing.

“Nothing, I promise,” I said. “He is not one to break a confidence.”

He crossed one leg over the other. “It’s silly, really. Slightly amusing at best.”

I sat forward on my chair. “Do tell.”

A serving maid appeared beside our table, wiping her hands on her apron. “Somethin’ to eat?” she asked abruptly.

“A meal for my sister,” Mr. Denning said, placing the slightest emphasis on the last word.

The maid nodded and left.

“I’m not hungry,” I said archly.

“We must keep up appearances.”

“Appearances?” I was wholly skeptical. “I think we are already in trouble there if we are to be brother and sister. The two of us look nothing alike.”

Once again, his eyes flicked over me. “No,” he agreed, “we certainly do not. But I doubt you would prefer the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“In a place like this, what else might our fellow patrons assume you to be?”

Now it was my turn to redden as his meaning became clear.

“You are simply trying to distract me.” I leaned my forearms on the tables. “I do believe you were about to share an amusing anecdote.”

“Was I?”

“Come now,” I said. “We might be here for hours. I could do with a laugh.”

“And laugh you shall,” he said dryly.

I raised my eyebrows expectantly.

“Oh, very well.” He sighed. “It was a few months ago, right after I was promoted to officer. I was crossing Blackfriars Bridge when I heard a scream. A party was out on the river for a pleasure cruise, and one of the young ladies had fallen overboard.”

I was immediately interested. “And she could not swim, of course.”

Mr. Denning’s cheek tugged as if he hid a smile. “No, she could not swim. And apparently, neither could any of her companions. I went in after her and pulled her to shore.”

“I see. A damsel in distress.” I struggled to keep a straight face. “I imagine she was most grateful.”

“Ah, well, yes,” he said, tugging at his cravat. “I’m afraid that she ... she took a liking to me.”

“A liking?”

He exhaled. “Yes. It was rather absurd. I cannot think why.”

I certainly could. If Mr. Denning had saved my life—pulled me from the river, knelt beside me with eyes filled with concern, handsome and dripping—well, I could not think of any woman who would not be affected. The image alone was enough to send heat curling into my stomach.

“In any case,” he went on, “she began appearing at the most inopportune moments, bringing me food and small gifts, insisting on showing her gratitude. Drake was at the office when she came once and heard the whole story from her.” He grimaced. “He was the one to coin the name ‘Sir Chivalry.’”

I grinned. “It all makes perfect sense now. But forgive me if I cannot feel too terrible for you, having a young lady dote upon you.”

“I am not opposed to doting in general,” he said. “But it did get tiresome once the others—”

He stopped, aghast. But it was too late.

“The others?” I asked, positively delighted. “There were more?”

“Deuce it all,” he muttered.

“Did you save all of their lives?” I propped one hand under my chin.

“No, of course not,” he said. “One had her reticule stolen by a footpad. Another had a missing cat—”

“A cat!” I had trouble keeping my voice down. Oh, but it was so amusing. “I did not know Bow Street dealt with stolen cats.”

“We don’t,” he said rather flatly. “But apparently, it became a pastime among a certain set of young ladies to distract me from my real cases.”

I could easily see it. I knew the type, spoiled and bored girls of the ton with nothing better to do. They would love the challenge of flirting with a handsome Bow Street Runner, a forbidden temptation to ladies of their status.

“And are you still tripping over these damsels?” I asked. “I saw no sign of any at the office the other day.”

“No, quite thankfully, that nonsense seems to have faded away.” He crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his shirt pulling against his muscled forearms.

I tipped my head. “Is that why you were so alarmed thinking I’d followed you here?”

He looked a bit chagrined. “Perhaps.”

“Well, you have nothing to fear from me,” I said. “Romance is the farthest thing from my mind at present. Even if it weren’t, I daresay there are better ways of catching a suitor.”

“Perhaps running men down on the street while pursuing a thief?” His eyes glinted.

“Ha,” I said dryly. “That usually creates the opposite effect, I’m afraid.”

“Only for those of a weak constitution, Miss Travers.”

“Oh, none of that formality,” I said. “Please, call me Patience.”

He laughed, and the sound was so unexpected that I had to catch my breath. His laugh came from deep within him, full and unbounded—a laugh I might have heard much sooner had our first few meetings not been so very complicated. But it was his face that held me captive, brought to life by his wide smile and the fine lines about his eyes. Handsome, to be sure. But something more. Something real.

My heart clenched, and I had to look away.

The maid returned and set a plate and mug before me, leaving without so much as a word. I lifted my fork and poked what I thought was a meat pie, its crust hard and dense. The drink—perhaps a watery switchel?—appeared little better, seeming to have bits of ... something floating on the surface.

“Eat your fill, dear sister,” Mr. Denning said, eyes bright with restrained mirth.

I pushed the plate away from me. “Thank you, but I have no desire for an early grave.”

“You might have fooled me,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled my plate to him.

“You cannot eat that,” I protested. “It will make you ill.”

“I hate to let food go to waste.” He picked up the pie and took a bite. He chewed, then coughed.

“As bad as it looks?” I asked pointedly.

“No, no,” he said, taking a swig of switchel to wash it down. “It is delightful. Do have some.”

“One of us must be well and able if Higgs shows up,” I said. “You’ll be incapacitated if you eat any more.”

“You would be surprised what I’ve learned to stomach over the years.”

“A strange thing to take pride in.”

“One does what one must. Not all of us have such talents as you.” He leaned his elbows on the table. “Speaking of talents, I must ask ...”

I grew unaccountably nervous. “Oh?”

He paused before continuing, his expression curious. “Why did you have those drawings with you last night?”

I balked. It was not the worst question he might have asked me—there were so many things I was keeping from him. But it struck close to my heart, a personal disappointment I hadn’t yet had time to examine, considering all that had happened since yesterday.

The front door opened, and my neck twisted to look, glad for a reason to avoid Mr. Denning’s eyes. But it was an older gentleman, hunched and gray—not Higgs.

I turned back, clearing my throat. “The drawings were ... That is, I brought them for an acquaintance.”

“Not me, I assume.”

I gave a little laugh. “No, though that was likely clear from my reaction last night.”

“Indeed.” He paused. “Who were they for?”

I sighed. He’d told me about his nickname. I supposed I owed an answer in return. “Do you know Mr. Lucas Allett?” I asked. “The portraitist?”

He nodded. “Lady Harwood has mentioned him.”

“Well, he was to be a guest last night,” I said. “We met a few days ago, and he saw my sketch of Higgs. He seemed to think I showed promise and asked me to bring more of my work to the party.”

Mr. Denning leaned back in his chair, one arm stretched forward on the table. “I didn’t know you had such aspirations.”

“I don’t,” I said quickly. “That is, I didn’t . But when an artist like Mr. Allett takes an interest, it is difficult not to want ... more.”

And I had wanted more. Even in the space of one day, my thoughts had begun to shift and change, wondering if this was it —a new path for my life. I could be an artist like Mr. Allett. I enjoyed drawing, even if it did not quite fulfill me as much as investigating.

Mr. Denning appraised me, his eyes soft. “But he did not come.”

“No.” I tugged at the sleeve of my pelisse, restless. “I missed my chance.”

But he immediately shook his head. “Life does not work like that. Your future is not dependent on a single chance meeting.”

That captured my interest. “Then what does it depend upon?”

“Your choices. Your abilities. Your determination.” His lips bent up. “The last of which you seem to have in spades.”

I did not know how to react. I hadn’t expected such a sentiment from him.

“Besides,” he said, “I’ve seen your talent firsthand. Mr. Allett would be a fool not to seek you out.”

Oh, how I tried not to blush, to stop the heat spreading up through my neck and cheeks. My first instincts were to bat his compliment away, make a jest, change the subject. But there was something so sincere in his expression that I did none of those things. “Thank you,” I said instead, my voice quiet. “That is kind of you to say.”

He looked into my eyes for another second, a second that felt longer than it should have. His brow was furrowed as though he was trying to see beyond what I was showing him to the truth beneath.

But the odd thing was that I wasn’t hiding any truth. Not about this. He knew something about me that I hadn’t told anyone else, not my mother or grandmother or Elizabeth.

It was the strangest feeling, the realization that this man whom I’d known for less than a week had seen one of the most intimate pieces of my life. I ought to feel the edge of panic that came whenever I shared any part of my true self with another. Yet my nerves remained steady, my emotions calm.

“I teased you earlier,” he said, “about becoming an officer. But from what Drake has said about you helping your brother with his thief-taking cases, perhaps that is not far from the truth.”

Dash it all. Now I was panicking.

“It was a foolish dream,” I said quickly. “Never serious. I simply wanted to be like Jack.”

“And yet you’ve managed to dog my steps every second of this investigation.” Mr. Denning spoke matter-of-factly. “That is no accident.”

I did not meet his eyes. He knew too much. He would not be satisfied with a lie. “I did have ambitions,” I managed. “I thought I could make a future.”

“A female thief-taker?”

I quirked my lips to one side. “Yes. I know it sounds ridiculous. But for a while, I was successful. I had a growing clientele, mostly women, and I was good at what I did. I enjoyed it.”

“But no longer?”

My lungs tightened. This I would not tell him. “No,” I said, my voice holding a ragged edge. “I’ve since learned that it is not the life for me. I took this case for Elizabeth’s sake, but I won’t be taking any others.”

I examined the taproom again, though no one had entered or left in several minutes. But it was something to occupy my eyes instead of darting them to Mr. Denning like I desperately wished to.

He said nothing for a long minute, the hum of voices and clattering dishes from the kitchen filling the space between us.

“She is lucky to have a friend like you,” he finally said.

I had no response to that. I’d run out of words. I’d spoken too many truths and almost-truths, and it frightened me. It had never been like this before with anyone else. But there was something in the intensity of his eyes and voice that made me trust him. Made me want to tell him more.

Which was why I pushed back my chair and stood, heart pattering.

“I am going to check the street,” I said, tightening the ribbons of my bonnet. “A short walk. I’ll be back.”

Mr. Denning stood as well, and I thought for a moment that he would protest, insist that he be the one to patrol, but he only asked, “You have your pistol?”

I raised my wrist, my reticule swinging with the weight of my small pistol. “Yes.”

He nodded. “Keep a close eye.” Then he took his seat again without another word. Heavens, if that didn’t make me like him more.

Fresh air , I told myself. That was the cure for this warmth that spread like melting butter throughout my body. A brisk walk in the spring air would do the trick.

What a liar I was.