Chapter 3

C hapter 3

Even with all the commotion of the robbery, I still managed to arrive home before Mama. It was fortunate—I wasn’t prepared to answer the questions she would send my way.

My hands shook as I undressed, and I knew they did not shake from the cold. No. It was the familiar fear that crept in, an unwelcome visitor.

Why had I run after the man? Had I learned nothing? I’d behaved like the old Verity, who acted without thought. That Verity had learned hard lessons about risk and reward, and the difference between bravery and foolishness. They were not lessons I was keen to repeat.

I took a steadying breath. I knew I had to be more careful, but tonight could have ended much worse. We’d all lived, at least. And yes, the thief had gotten away, but that was the reality of life. Sometimes injustices could not be fixed.

If only injustice didn’t burn in my chest like the whiskey I’d once “borrowed” from Jack’s room, then had vowed never to drink again.

There was also the matter of Mr. Denning. Would he keep my secrets? I was inclined to believe he would. There had been something in his eyes there at the end ...

A familiar urge tugged at me, and I knew myself well enough to realize I would not sleep until I’d put a pencil to paper. I climbed from bed and lit a candle, then sat at my desk, where my drawing supplies waited for me.

I should draw the thief. His face was fresh in my mind, and a sketch might prove useful to Bow Street. But here in the darkness of night, with the cold air wrapped around me, I had no desire to re-create the man who scowled at me from my memories.

Instead, I pictured Mr. Denning’s deep-set eyes, the emotions caught in their depths, and my pencil roamed free. Within ten minutes, I set it down and inspected my sketch. Not perfect, yet there was a fascinating discernment in those eyes. It stirred within me a knowledge of this man that I had no reason to have.

Now I was being absurd. As Grandmama often said, “Logic leaves after midnight.”

I returned to bed and closed my eyes. I settled into my breaths, into the comfort of the familiar, and I slept.

“Good morning, dear,” Mama chirped when I entered the dining room the next morning. “You are up early.”

She sat across from Grandmama at the table, a teacup perched near her mouth, her dark eyes taking me in. Grandmama did not acknowledge my entrance, fixated as she was on her porridge.

“I might say the same to you.” I skipped the covered trays of food and moved straight for the tea. Little sleep and a heavy dose of Mama’s dramatic energy never went well together. I loved my mother, but the woman could be downright exhausting, particularly early in the morning. Not to mention that my body ached from my collision with Mr. Denning last night. I needed fortifying.

Mama smiled. Somehow, even at eight o’clock in the morning, her hair was intricately arranged, her emerald-green morning dress perfectly pressed, and her cheeks and lips touched with rouge. One would never know she’d had even less sleep than I.

“I’ve an appointment with Mr. Webb,” she said, naming the manager of the Theatre Royal. “The man keeps ungodly hours.”

“As do actresses,” I observed.

“Speaking of, did you enjoy the performance last night?” Mama tipped her head as I added an obscene amount of sugar to my tea.

How strange to think that even a decade ago, no one in London had known Mama’s name. She’d spent the first half of my life touring with small country troupes, and it had been pure luck that the manager of the Theatre Royal had seen her perform in York and hired her on the spot. Mama’s sudden rise to fame might have bothered some, but I was quite used to it. I had no desire for attention, which Mama could not account for, and I generally watched the results of Mama’s success with passive amusement.

“Oh, it was most disappointing,” I said, pretending sincerity. “No fainting ladies that I could see, and not one shouted proposal. What will the papers write about?”

Mama laughed. “You are wretched. Who raised you?”

I took a sip of my too-hot tea to hide a smile. “Only the triumph of Drury Lane.”

Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “At least the news sheets have that correct.”

My stomach soothed by the tea, I filled a plate with toast and jam. I sat beside my grandmother, kissing her softly on the cheek. “Good morning, Grandmama.”

“Is it?” she grunted. “Perhaps you might not think so when your back aches as if you just brought in the harvest.”

“You never did say why you are awake so early,” Mama interrupted. “And after such a late night.”

I avoided her eyes. I would tell Mama about the events of last night eventually—I’d never been good at keeping secrets from her; she always ferreted them out somehow—but now was not the time. She hadn’t yet recovered from the incident in January, and there was no point in worrying her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said instead. “There was a bird outside my window.”

“What kind of bird?” Grandmama interjected.

“A magpie,” I improvised.

She stabbed her fork at me. “Was it alone? How many were there?”

It was always a gamble with Grandmama. One never knew what the right answer was, depending on the folklore she clung to.

“Two,” I lied, taking another sip of my tea. “Yes, there were two.”

Her eyes lit up. “How interesting.”

“What is interesting?” Mama looked lazily amused.

“Two magpies denotes marriage.” Grandmama eyed me closely. “You haven’t been hiding a beau from us, have you, girl?”

I laughed. “Hardly.”

She sniffed and turned back to her porridge. She did not like it when I poked fun at her superstitions. “Just be glad it wasn’t one magpie.”

I dared not ask why. Sometimes it was best to leave things be.

Mama sent me an appraising look over her tea, as if she knew something was not quite right with me. Thankfully, she left soon after, instructing me to keep an eye on Grandmama. It wasn’t that Grandmama wasn’t able—it was that she was mischievous . One never knew what sort of trouble she might get into. Just last week, she’d embroiled herself in a quarrel with a neighbor, something about a missing basket of biscuits.

I, however, had an appointment as well. I passed Mama’s instructions on to our housekeeper, Pritchett, who knew well enough how to handle Grandmama, and at a quarter to nine o’clock, I slipped out of the house.

Bow Street was only a few minutes’ walk from our home, a convenience Jack had enjoyed when he’d lived here. I sighed as I started down the street. Had it been only a year since he’d married and left London? I adored Genevieve, my sister-in-law, and heartily approved of Jack’s choice. But if I’d known what a hole his absence might leave in our lives, I might not have been quite so eager in encouraging their romance.

Jack and I were two of the same. Though he was a few years older than I, we’d always been close. Mama was perpetually absent, working and touring, and our father ...

Well, we did not often speak of our father, the Right Honorable Earl of Westincott. What was there to say about a man whose only continuing connection to me was financial obligation? But illegitimacy had had the unintended effect of bonding Jack and me together more than most brothers and sisters. The secrecy, the whispers, the story that our navy captain “father” had died twenty years ago. Who else could understand as well as Jack?

While his marriage was a good thing—a wonderful thing—it did not help the absence I felt in my heart.

I arrived at No. 4 Bow Street, the redbrick facade looming over me, just as the Harwoods’ carriage came to a stop on the street. Elizabeth descended, looking pale and perhaps a little ill, but she approached with a smile. “Thank you for coming. It’s a relief since you know so much more about all this than I do.”

“Of course.” I glanced at Sir Reginald helping Lady Harwood from the carriage. He had a white bandage wrapped around his head, mostly hidden by his topper. “Your father is well?”

She made a noise of annoyance. “Perfectly well. He’s been snapping at Mother’s fussing all morning.”

“Miss Travers.” Lady Harwood approached, looking around in some confusion. “Did you come alone?”

I quickly assumed a look of naive innocence. While Mama had spent years meticulously crafting her public persona—rejecting the stigma of a London actress by portraying herself as the loving mother, the grieving widow— I was far less concerned with my reputation. I had too much to do to bother with a chaperone.

And fortunately for me, with Mama perpetually absent because of performances or rehearsals, Grandmama had taken on the role of indifferent guardian, and she far preferred the comforts of home to trailing about London after me. But I had to tread carefully with Lady Harwood.

“Yes, most unfortunate,” I said, sighing. “Mama had a meeting at the theatre, very important, not to be missed. And I live only a short walk from here.”

I did not bother to add that I thought it ridiculous that a woman of my age—a sage, old twenty-one years—and my relatively low social status needed a constant chaperone. Neither did I explain that Covent Garden was one of the tamer locales I frequented.

Lady Harwood’s brow dipped in disapproval, but she had no chance to protest as we followed Sir Reginald inside the Bow Street magistrate’s court. I looked cautiously about. It was strangely quiet inside the main office, most of the officers undoubtedly out seeing to their individual cases.

“Ah, Mr. Nettleton,” Sir Reginald proclaimed, spotting the hulking man across the office.

“Sir Reginald.” Nettleton moved to greet us. “How is your head?”

“Fine, fine,” Sir Reginald said brusquely. I had to stop a smile. Men. Heaven forbid they admit a weakness.

“Good.” Nettleton waved forward. “If you’ll come this way.”

We followed him to an interview room off the main office. The others filed in, but I paused at the doorway. I had so many memories of this place. Bringing Jack lunch, laughing with the other officers, dreaming of one day being like them. At least, in my own way.

I swallowed hard. How easily things could change.

“Good morning.”

I spun. Mr. Denning stood just behind me, and if I was not mistaken, there was a glint of amusement in his eyes at startling me. How had he? I was usually quite alert. I blamed my night of tossing and turning.

“I trust you are well this morning,” he said, his gaze traveling my face. “Miss ... ?”

I’d forgotten he still did not know my name. I could hardly avoid it forever, but a little intrigue never went amiss.

“Very well, Mr. Denning,” I said, indifferent and aloof. “And ‘miss’ will do nicely, thank you.”

He exhaled a short laugh and opened his mouth.

“Denning,” Nettleton barked from inside the room, interrupting quite perfectly.

I offered Mr. Denning a polite smile and breezed through the doorway.

Mr. Denning followed me inside and closed the door. I sat beside Elizabeth but turned my attention to Nettleton.

“Thank you for coming.” He sat behind the table and placed his hands flat on the surface. “I—”

“What news have you?” Sir Reginald interrupted.

Nettleton stopped. “News?”

“Of the thief,” Sir Reginald said impatiently.

“Since last night?” Nettleton raised his brows. “We’ve not been so fortunate.”

I understood his amusement. Short of the thief turning himself in, there were few developments that were possible in such a short amount of time.

Sir Reginald frowned. “But we will discuss our plan of action.”

Mr. Denning leaned back against the closed door, crossing his arms as he observed the conversation, expression difficult to read.

It was only with curiosity that I eyed him, of course. Not with female interest, certainly, even if I noticed that his brown hair had a hint of auburn to it or that his crossed arms caused his waistcoat to stretch over his long and narrow chest.

“Yes, indeed.” Nettleton cleared his throat. I wondered if he’d hoped we would not come at all. He consulted the notebook before him. “I daresay you are hoping to reclaim the goods that were stolen from you. A gold watch, cravat pin, a ruby necklace—”

“My reticule,” Elizabeth cut in, sitting forward.

He glanced at her, irritated at the second interruption. “Was there anything of substantial value inside?”

She flushed but did not look away. “Well, no. But it was sentimental.”

Nettleton gave a dismissive shake of his head. “We can try to track down your belongings through rewards and advertisements, focusing on the items of greatest value. Then—”

“I don’t care about my cravat pin.” Sir Reginald sat at the front of his chair, indignant. “I want to catch the man responsible.”

Nettleton looked as if he wished to handcuff the next person who interrupted him. “Unfortunately,” he said sharply, addressing us as though we were all unintelligent goats that had wandered into the magistrate’s office, “we’ve limited resources, and—”

“Surely you cannot have more pressing cases than that of a violent madman attacking innocent people in plain sight.” Sir Reginald seemed truly baffled as to why Nettleton was not falling over himself to solve this case. “We were all nearly murdered last night. Such despicable thieves should not be allowed to freely wander the streets.”

Nettleton glared back, taking offense where it was likely quite intended. Mr. Denning pushed himself away from the door and moved toward the table.

“Of course, Sir Reginald,” he said. “We have no intention of doing nothing.”

His voice was so perfectly calm and steady that Sir Reginald was caught off guard, his mouth parted.

“However,” Mr. Denning went on, “there are certain obstacles in this case that make it more challenging.”

“What sort of obstacles?” Lady Harwood spoke for the first time, clutching her reticule in her lap. “What is so challenging about finding a common thief?”

Mr. Denning paused as if to gather his thoughts, and I understood. Investigating a crime was never as straightforward as the wronged parties wished it to be.

“Lady Harwood, Sir Reginald,” I said soothingly, thinking they might understand better if it came from me. “The difficulty is that the thief was common. In a robbery such as last night’s, it is hard to even know where to begin. We have very few clues, and he might have left Town, for all we know.”

Everyone turned to me with varying expressions of surprise and disbelief. Oh no. I’d meant to explain, to clarify, but instead, I’d made myself an object of curiosity to these acquaintances who hardly knew me. Well, save for Elizabeth, whose eyes were wide and slightly alarmed. She, at least, knew some of my history.

I coughed, hoping she would keep quiet. Her parents need not know that I’d spent many of my formative years engaged in helping Jack with his cases—and taking on a few of my own.

“That is to say,” I amended, “we should be thankful for any help the officers might give us in locating our stolen things.”

Sir Reginald did not seem satisfied in the least. “Is it not your duty to pursue such criminals?” he demanded of the two men. “No matter the difficulties?”

Nettleton stood, thick knuckles braced on the table. “Our duty is to pursue what the magistrates and the chief officer assign us to pursue. We’ve more cases than you can imagine and little time to waste on such as this.”

He left something to be desired in his manners, but let it not be said that Nettleton was cowed by a title.

“A magistrate.” Sir Reginald latched onto the word. “I demand to speak to a magistrate.”

Nettleton’s eyes burned, but Mr. Denning looked unfazed. “Yes, certainly,” Mr. Denning said pleasantly. “Mr. Etchells just arrived for morning hearings. I am sure he’ll have a few moments.”

“I’ll fetch him,” Nettleton muttered under his breath, no doubt grateful for any chance to escape. He gathered his papers and stomped from the room.

“While we wait,” Mr. Denning said, fixing his gaze on me, “perhaps I might interview the young miss? We did not have the chance last evening.”

Lady Harwood waved her hand absently, turning to speak to Sir Reginald in a whisper, their faces tense. Though I understood Nettleton’s reluctance to take on the case, neither could I blame Lady Harwood or Sir Reginald for their reactions. I’d been there last night as well. I’d felt the cold cut of fear as the thief had watched us with those hardened eyes, finger light on the trigger. Death had been a moment away.

“Miss?”

I tore my eyes from Lady Harwood. Mr. Denning waited expectantly at the door.

I stood and followed him to the main office. He gestured for me to sit at a small desk, and I did, clasping my hands in my lap and trying to look like a genteel young lady who would never touch a pistol, let alone carry one on her person. Appearances were everything, after all, and people were quick to believe what they wished to believe. If Mr. Denning was like most men, he would be keen to put me back inside the box labeled “Proper Miss.”

I would let him. Better to be underestimated.

I looked up at him, still standing on the other side of the desk. His eyes were fixed upon me, his irises a dark brown that brought to mind a collection of manly things—stained mahogany desks, a bottle of aged scotch, worn leather saddles. It made me wish to dabble more in paints so I might try to capture the exact color.

“What would you like to know?” I asked, straightening.

He prepared paper and ink to record my answers. “A great many things, but perhaps we might start with your recollection of the theft.”

As he sat, a middle-aged gentleman strode by, bespectacled and distinguished. Mr. Etchells, no doubt. He seemed not to notice us, absently smoothing his waistcoat before he entered the room where the Harwoods waited. I could hear the murmur of voices inside before the door closed. Perhaps if I hurried this interview, I could return to listen in.

“Very well,” I said, facing Mr. Denning again. “I daresay my account is similar to the others’. We were leaving the theatre and walking to our carriage when the thief stopped us with his pistol and demanded our valuables. I thought of calling for help, but the risk seemed too great.”

“Did you consider using your pistol?” He spoke indifferently, but the way his pen hovered over the paper made me think him quite the opposite.

“No, of course not.” I refused to be embarrassed. “It wasn’t loaded. Besides, I assumed he would leave us be once he had our goods. A pair of earrings is not worth one’s life.”

“A proverb to live by,” he said dryly as he scratched away at the paper. “What happened next?”

I eyed him. Had that been a joke? “After he took our valuables, he struck Sir Reginald with his pistol and ran. I instructed Elizabeth to go for help and told Lady Harwood how to tend the wound. Then, as you know, I followed after the thief.”

“Indeed,” he said, still writing. “And did you get a good look at the man?”

This was where I was eager to help. I knew it was a near impossibility for Bow Street to track the thief down, but an accurate description would at least give them a chance.

“Yes.” I sat forward in my chair. “He had a weathered face, like a sailor or coach driver. Someone who spends much of his time out of doors. I would place him in his middle thirties. He wore a large hat, so I cannot guess at his hair color, but he had a rather prominent nose. Large and bulging. And a thin neck. Surprising, with the weight of that nose. And his eyes—” My voice cut out. Mr. Denning had stopped writing and was staring at me. I pulled my chin back. “I am sorry. Was I speaking too quickly?”

He shook his head, sitting back in his chair as he inspected me. “No. I simply don’t know if I’ve ever heard such a detailed description of a criminal.”

My cheeks warmed, though I wasn’t embarrassed. Was I pleased, then? That seemed odd, considering the strangeness of his compliment—if it was a compliment.

“I am observant, that is all,” I said.

I’d allowed the comings and goings of Bow Street to fade during our conversation, but now my ears picked out a familiar voice from behind me.

“As I live and breathe. Can it be little Verity Travers?”