A Lady's Secret Weapon (7 page)

The matron’s smile was gentle. “We prefer to keep the boys’ minds occupied much of the day. Too much idleness can lead to wickedness.”

“Is it not normal for young boys to be wicked?”

“To a degree,” Matron said. “But with so many boys occupying a small space like Abbingale, we curtail their natural tendencies as much as possible.”

“What occupies them so thoroughly that I do not even hear the hum of low voices?”

“Walk with me, won’t you, Mrs. Henshaw?”

“Of course.” Sydney followed the matron down a long, narrow corridor, which led to an even narrower staircase. They ascended the stairs, with Mrs. Kingston leading the way and Mrs. Drummond following behind Sydney.

Shadows thickened and the air turned stale, as if fresh air had not entered the upper floors for months. Years, even.

“Watch your step,” Mrs. Kingston warned, when they approached a small landing that led to another set of stairs. “Cassie has not made it up here yet to light a lamp.”

Had Sydney not been looking ahead, she would have missed the faint halo of light spilling out onto the landing’s floor. No sooner had she squinted her eyes for a better look, then the light disappeared.

Once she reached the landing, she could not locate a door or an opening of any kind. She saw nothing but a shadow-drenched wall. She hesitated, fighting a sudden urge to drop to her hands and knees and investigate the source of light.

“Is something the matter, Mrs. Henshaw?”

Tearing her gaze away, Sydney glanced up to find Mrs. Kingston studying her with an open yet slightly bewildered expression. She cursed beneath her breath. She knew better than to be so careless. If something was going on at Abbingale, one of these two women could be involved. Anything she saw here that was out of the ordinary, she had to be more circumspect in her interest. Now she would have to redouble her efforts as the wealthy twit.

Ducking her head, she molded her features into a look of chagrin. “You will think me a silly goose.”

“Not at all, ma’am. Did you see something of concern?”

Sydney let out a nervous laugh. “Not really.” She waved her hand around. “I daresay if this landing had been properly lit, I would not have been reminded of my elderly Aunt Lucille’s house.”

Matron stared at her for several silent seconds. Then she ventured, “Aunt Lucille’s house?”

“My aunt was quite frugal, so any chambers not in use were closed off. On occasion, this meant shutting off entire floors.”

A large sigh sounded from behind Sydney.

“Go on, please, Mrs. Henshaw.”

“As you know, when an adult forbids a child from going into a particular place, that’s where she most wants to be.” Sydney shared a smile with the matron. “So I tiptoed my way up to the third floor and came across a landing very similar to this one. And that’s when I found it.”

“Found what?”

“The secret chamber.” She paused to allow her words to sink in and watched the matron’s face for any telltale sign of guilt. “So, you see why I hesitated on your landing.”

The woman’s expression did not falter. “I’m not altogether sure I do.”

Sydney clasped her hands together and released an excited laugh. “I was looking for the door to your secret chamber.” She whirled around to see the nurse’s reaction. “Is that not the most gothic notion?”

Mrs. Drummond swallowed hard, and Sydney noticed the woman’s face was recovering from having lost every ounce of blood. “It sounds a bit far-fetched, if you ask me.”

“Your tale is quite intriguing, Mrs. Henshaw,” Matron said, pulling Sydney’s attention forward again. “But, I assure you, we have no secret chambers or skulking villains at Abbingale. Just a group of boys in need of care and a small, dedicated staff.”

Sydney nodded. “I did warn you about thinking me a silly goose.”

Mrs. Kingston started up the stairs again. “No one here thinks that of you. It’s a lovely story, but you do not need to worry about the boys. They’re in good hands.”

Had the matron hoped to steer the conversation away from a sensitive subject by not addressing the possibility of a hidden chamber? Sydney had detected no artifice in the woman, nor condescension. Every word the matron had uttered was kind and gave the appearance of being genuine. Quite unlike her counterpart. Could the matron’s calm solicitude and caring nature be nothing more than a convincing ruse?

Maybe the woman simply thought Sydney’s story was so unbelievable as to not warrant more discussion. Entirely possible. As for herself, Sydney was rather proud of the tale. Who knew she had the ability to string together several nonsensical thoughts on cue
and
make them relevant to the situation?

Sydney smiled at the matron. “I will try to keep your words of reassurance in mind.” Falling in behind Mrs. Kingston, she ascended the staircase. They had ventured no more than a half dozen stairs when the press of gloom settled on her shoulders and prodded at her mind.

Had Sydney’s purpose been anything other than gathering information on the inner workings of Abbingale Home and search for links to Latymer, she would have still been shaken by the realization that something was wrong here. Everything seemed too perfect and yet off-balance.

“Here we are.” Mrs. Kingston pushed open a door and gestured Sydney forward. “The boys should be finishing their writing lesson.”

Inside, six rows of five desks filled the schoolroom, most containing a uniformed child. In front of the individual desks stood a long bench, seating a handful of the youngest boys. Another bench, about a foot higher and with a raised edge, stood before them. Although Sydney could not see the surface of the higher bench, she knew it was likely painted black and covered with sand. Such was a common practice for children learning their alphabet. When their stubby, uncoordinated fingers sketched letters in the white sand, the black background would reveal their efforts to greater advantage.

At Sydney’s entrance, little heads swung her way, the boys’ features impassive and pale. Varying in ages between five and thirteen, they appeared terribly innocent, with their hair combed back and controlled by some type of taming agent and their hands clasped before them.

“Mrs. Henshaw,” Matron said, “may I introduce you to Abbingale’s schoolmaster, Monsieur LaRouche. Monsieur, Mrs. Henshaw, a potential benefactress.”

“Welcome to Abbingale,
madame
,” he said with a nod. “I hope you are finding everything satisfactory.”

The schoolmaster was a handsome man, with thick blond hair that curled at the tips and eyes a piercing deep blue. Though he stood at a level with her, his square shoulders and erect stance gave him an air of confidence normally reserved for gentlemen of greater height. She found herself staring at his mouth, not because of the fullness of his lips, though. No, her gaze remained riveted on his mouth, hoping to hear more melodic words slip between the seam of his lips.

Though his surname was French, his voice carried a trace of Italian and he spoke perfect, unbroken English. The combination was hypnotic and soothing. Rich and sensual. Dark and dangerous. They were all there, entwined between each syllable and flowing beneath the surface. Mesmerizing in a disturbingly intimate way.

Sydney shook herself free from her odd trance and sent the schoolmaster her most beatific smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, monsieur.”

“Gentlemen,” LaRouche intoned. “Say hello to our guest, Mrs. Henshaw.”

As one, the boys scooted off their seats and bowed toward Sydney. “Good morning, Mrs. Henshaw.”

Their flawless greeting felt more like a monastic chant, one they’d performed countless times until every note was a symphony unto itself. Rather than be inspired by the work involved in perfecting their greeting, Sydney shivered. Trepidation, cold and seeping, settled into her bones.

“Good morning,” she said. “Please sit. I did not mean to disturb your studies.”

They faced forward and slid back into their seats. No one spared her a glance, no one made a sound. They sat there, waiting, with patience unnatural to children their age. Sydney’s gaze scanned their faces, seeking some indication life existed behind their porcelain masks. Not a single glimmer. Not one.

Heartsick, she started to turn away and collect what information she could from this section of the facility. That’s when she caught the lightning shift of another’s gaze. She moved forward, her back to the women and schoolmaster, feigning interest in their lesson by stopping beside each student. Between one boy and the next, she glanced up in time to catch the shift again. Clear green eyes latched onto hers, and Sydney’s stride faltered.

For no more than a second, a mere spit of time, she was pulled into the boy’s desolate existence. Fear and helplessness swirled around her in layers of impenetrable black and wisps of blood red. Then he blinked, and the disturbing veil disappeared, jarring Sydney.

She stared at the green-eyed boy, desperate to read something besides bleakness in his expression. But he refused to meet her gaze again, as did all the others. Her attention drifted down to the sheet of paper resting on each of their desks, perfectly positioned in its center. Depending on the boy’s age, the sheet reflected an appropriate level of learning. A child of five practiced his uppercase and lowercase letters, where a child of nine prepared short essays.

Sydney made a full circle before halting near the matron and schoolmaster. Knowing they expected her to remark upon the boys’ studies, she said, “Quite impressive. They are taught reading, writing, and their numbers, I take it.”

“Yes,
madame
,” LaRouche said. “As well as history and geography.”

She turned to the schoolmaster. “Any languages?”

Even though she knew her airy mask was in place, the schoolmaster studied her as if he saw not her guise of empty-headedness, but the intelligence-seeker beneath.

“A smattering of Latin and French,” he said finally.

“Truly?” she asked. “I should like to come up and practice with them sometime. I’m afraid my French is quite abysmal.”

He inclined his head. “It would be our pleasure to have you join us.”

“Shall we proceed, Mrs. Henshaw?” Matron asked.

She did not want to leave the boys, yet she itched to be quit of this place. If she had such a strong aversion to what was going on here—whatever that was—how must these innocents feel? “I am ready when you are, Mrs. Kingston.”

“Gentlemen,” LaRouche said. “Say your good-byes.”

Like a faithful cuckoo clock, the boys scooted out of their seats, bowed, and chimed, “Good day, Mrs. Henshaw.”

Amidst the chant, Sydney caught a muffled cry of pain. She searched their young faces, trying to locate the source, but they all looked on without expression. Her attention settled on the green-eyed boy and noticed a flush of red carpeting his cheeks that wasn’t there a minute ago. She tried to catch his eye again, but he focused on something beyond her shoulder.

“Good day, gentlemen,” she said.

Mrs. Drummond filled her vision. “After you, ma’am.”

The moment she stepped across the threshold, Sydney lifted her hand to say farewell to the schoolmaster, but he was not where he had been. She located him striding slowly along the rows of small chairs. When she made to say good-bye, Mrs. Drummond’s countenance once again filled her vision and the doorway.

The nurse’s thin lips slanted up into a poor excuse for a smile. “Enjoy your tour.” She closed the door in Sydney’s face, but not before Sydney saw the schoolmaster stop near the green-eyed boy.

Heart pounding, Sydney stood staring at the wood panels, trying to make sense of the last ten minutes. In her bones, she knew something was amiss. But what exactly? The young boy was clearly miserable, but perhaps he had only just arrived and had not yet settled into his new life. He might even be the unfortunate Mrs. Drummond spoke of earlier. If that’s the case, everything must seem frightening to one so young.

“Mrs. Henshaw,” Matron called. “Are you coming?”

Sydney pressed her fist against her mouth and drew in a deep breath before whirling around. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Kingston, I should like to finish the tour another day.”

“My apologies,” Matron said. “Have we taken up too much of your time?”

“Not at all.” She rubbed her temples. “An annoying headache is coming on, I’m afraid.”

“Then let me see you to your carriage.”

“Thank you.” It wasn’t until Sydney reached the bottom of the stairway that the niggling voice in the back of her mind, the one that had been there since the moment she had stepped foot inside the schoolroom, finally calmed. The calm did not last long, though, for it opened the door to her instincts.

And they were screaming.

The only thing Ethan hated more than being a drunkard was being a flower girl. Especially one wearing a long, tattered cloak over a decades-old dress and scratchy petticoats that made him itch in inconvenient places. His shoes were no better. They were made from a scrap of thin, worn leather that did nothing to repel sharp, painful objects.

With excruciating care, he wheeled his rickety cart, filled with half-dead posies, along the side of the street near Abbingale. All morning, he had wandered up and down the street, viewing the boys’ home from different vantage points. Though he was no closer to identifying Giles Clarke’s whereabouts, he now held one valuable piece of information: Abbingale was more than a home for orphan boys.

During his three days of observation, he had caught sight of no fewer than four boys emerging from the lower level of the house and three entering the lower level, and they had all taken the same circuitous path down White Horse Lane, coming and going. Where did they go? And from whence did they arrive? He had made two attempts to follow the boys, but both times they had buried their wee bodies in thick market crowds and disappeared. Though he had stayed with them long enough to realize their destinations had not been the same. Interesting.

Pushing his cart, Ethan continued to make his way toward Miss Hunt’s idling carriage, where her two footmen conversed while awaiting their mistress’s arrival. He hunched his shoulders into a severe curve, made sure the cloak covered his big hands, and then added a ponderous limp. When he was within hearing distance, but not so close as to draw their suspicion, Ethan set his cart down and listened.

“Any more from his lordship?” Mick asked.

“Not yet.”

“Do you think he’s toying with Miss Hunt, or is it all just a coincidence?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

“How’s she holding up?”

“As well as can be expected.” Mac stared at the stone edifice of Abbingale Home. “This scheme concerns me.”

“What is she going to do if things aren’t what they seem?”

“Fix it, of course.”

Mick groaned. “She can’t put all the wrongs in London to rights.”

A short silence followed. “Don’t be so sure,” Mac said. “She’s an extraordinary and determined woman.”

The servant’s praise of Miss Hunt created an uncomfortable pressure in Ethan’s chest. The man’s belief in the proprietress went much deeper than a mere employment arrangement. His kind of loyalty stemmed from years of witnessing one victory after another, of following her into the bowels of hell and emerging unscathed. Of never experiencing profound disappointment. The kind of disappointment that taints one’s opinion after a single act of impulsive independence. An opinion that can’t be changed no matter how hard one tries. And tries.

Ethan blinked back the barrage of self-pity, disgusted by his lack of focus. He cast a sidelong glance at Miss Hunt’s footmen. Their conversation stirred his troublesome curiosity. He wanted to know more about this gentleman toying with the proprietress and what business she had at Abbingale that would cause her servants concern.

Mick caught his eye and winked. The unexpected action startled Ethan, causing his skin to flush with heat like a damned schoolgirl. He cursed and hunched shoulders.

“How’s business today?” Mick asked, strolling forward.

Pretending to fuss over his flower cart, Ethan turned his back on the footman. He hoped the long hairpiece and kerchief he’d secured around the crown of his head would hold up to close scrutiny. “Not so good, sir,” Ethan said in his best crone’s voice. “Best ye buy yer lady a couple posies to help out an old woman.”

The footman stopped near the cart. Ethan felt the man’s gaze, inspecting him from head to toe.

“You’re a big girl, aren’t you—?”

“Gabby,” Ethan said with a huff. “So I’ve been told before. Do ye want a posy or not, sir?” He braced himself.

“My apologies, old girl,” Mick said, his voice softer. “I didn’t mean to scrape an old wound. Do you have a pretty bunch that will put a smile on my lady’s face?”

“They all will, sir,” Ethan scratched his oversized midsection. “Though them yellow ones ought to make her swoon.”

“You’re sure?” Mick asked, clearly not impressed with the bundle’s drooping heads.

“A bit of water will snap ’em right out of their wee nap.” Ethan grabbed the pathetic bunch and thrust them at the footman, careful to keep his hands hidden. “Ye have Old Gabby’s word on it.”

“Tell me, Gabby.” Mick accepted the posy and tossed a shilling onto the cart’s bed. “Hear much about the goings-on in the boys’ home?”

Ethan snatched up the coin, a generous sum for a half-dead bundle of flowers. The footman had much to learn about wooing information from women, or from anyone for that matter. One should never give up the coin before receiving the desired details. Otherwise, the informant has no real incentive for helping. Ethan had learned that a long look, full of promise, topped with the flash of a shiny coin was the most effective combination in intelligence gathering.

“One hears all sorts of things,” Ethan replied.

Another shilling clattered onto the cart. “What kinds of things?”

Scrunching up his face, Ethan said, “Boys coming and going at all hours of the day.”

“Anything else?”

“Some say there’s more going on than taking care of orphans in that big old building.”

“Any guesses as to whom or what they’re talking about?”

Ethan narrowed his eyes. “What business does your lady have in there?”

The footman’s gaze shifted to his brother before answering. “She’s considering making a donation. But my gut tells me you’re right about that big old building.”

“Could be nothing but a bout of indigestion.”

Mick grinned. “Ever come across the name of Latymer in your travels?”

Ethan’s mind froze around the name. Could Latymer be that common? Was this nothing more than an unlikely coincidence? He didn’t think so on either account. So, what possible reason could this footman have for inquiring about Lord Latymer, the same man the Nexus were hunting?

“Latymer?” Ethan said in his crone voice. “What’s that? A quack’s potion?”

Chuckling, Mick said, “Not quite, Gabby, my girl.” He pulled out a card. “If the name comes up, let me know. I’ll buy a whole cart full of your posies.”

“That important, is he?”

“Oh, yes. Hear anything else interesting?”

“How many more coins you got?”

“That was my last one.”

“Then I ain’t got nothing else.”

Instead of being irritated by Ethan’s surly response, Mick’s eyes twinkled. “Gabby, old girl, I’ll be right over there,” he pointed to a spot near his brother, “if you think of anything else.”

“Ye come up with some more silver, ye Irish rogue, and I’ll think about taxing my poor memory.”

Using the wilted posies, Mick saluted Ethan-the-flower-girl and sauntered away.

Not wanting to press his luck, Ethan grabbed the cart’s handles and set off in the opposite direction, grumbling under his breath about cheap scapegraces who were too handsome for their own good. His comments were met with a bark of laughter.

Beneath his grousing, Ethan’s mind was aflame with possibilities. The one that surfaced again and again was the idea that Miss Hunt was one of them. One of the Nexus. Why else would she be using an assumed name and looking for Latymer? Only one person would know for certain, and Ethan refused to ask Somerton for anything at the moment. Even if he weren’t seething with rage over his loss, Ethan doubted the former chief would confirm the identity of one of his operatives. He protected them all like a lion protected his pride. And like a lion, he found it was sometimes necessary to safeguard the pride from one of their own.

Abbingale’s front door bolted open, drawing Ethan from his extraordinary train of thought. Glancing back, he saw Miss Hunt storm through the opening and fairly run down the front steps. Her face was pale and frozen, as if a sudden movement would shatter her countenance into a thousand tiny shards.

Dropping the cart, he took several long, swift strides in her direction. Realization slammed into him, and he jerked to a halt. The violent action jarred his bones and rattled his brain. Like a greenling agent, he’d broken cover to comfort a woman in distress. The oldest, most deadliest tool one enemy could use against another. Ethan’s straight back melted into an uncomfortable curve and he bent low, as if plucking a coin from the street.

Straightening, his gaze sought out Miss Hunt, and he felt a measure of relief to see the proud lines of her proprietress’s mask shoving their way to the fore. What had she come across inside Abbingale to illicit such a response? He contemplated the reasons why while he ambled back to his cart, thankful the footmen had been focused on huddling their mistress into the carriage and not on the deranged flower girl barreling toward them.