With This Kiss (13 page)

“You don’t mean — has there been another fire?” Sarah looked aghast.

“No, not yet,” Julia rushed to reassure her. “But whoever started them may be active again soon.”

The younger woman studied her curiously. “How do you know that?”

Julia hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “My work occasionally brings me into contact with Mr. Chivers, Home Secretary of Scotland Yard.” Honest, she thought, yet sufficiently vague that the other woman might think she did his wash or scrubbed his floors. Bending the truth a bit, she continued, “Sometimes when you’re working in a great house, you hear things that you’re not meant to hear. Do you know what I mean?”

As eavesdropping and gossiping were pastimes as common among servants as drinking tea and pitching horseshoes, Sarah didn’t bother to deny it. She did, however, have the grace to blush slightly as she nodded her head.

Julia continued. “Last week I heard Mr. Chivers speaking with another gentleman. He said that letters have recently been circulated that appear to be coming from the man who set the original fires. Of course, it’s quite confounding. Everyone assumed that man died in Lord Webster’s fire.”

“I see.” The color abruptly drained from the younger woman’s face. Her gaze moved past Julia to the spot just inside the kitchens where her daughter sat playing with a wooden toy.

As Julia studied the small child, a thought suddenly occurred to her, one she hadn’t explored until just that moment. Where was the baby’s father? Leaning across the table, she said softly, “I’m going to be blunt, Miss Montgomery, because I can think of no other way to say what needs to be said. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“This is about Jack, isn’t it?”

Julia carefully controlled her reaction. “Jack?”

Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes as an expression of stubborn denial showed on her face. “Jack never set that fire,” she declared fiercely. “He never hurt anybody. He was as kind as they come, and brave too. He went back into the flames to save old Mr. Potter, that’s what happened. But… he never came out.”

“Was Jack the man they found in the ashes? The man everyone had assumed had set the fires?”

Sarah took a deep breath, then nodded tightly.

“I’m sorry.”

Heavy silence fell between them once again as Sarah fidgeted with her fingers. At last she took a deep breath and said, “Jack and I were going to get married right away, but when we found out about the baby, we decided to wait a bit so I could keep working.” She sent Julia a faltering smile and continued. “You know how it is. Make a little extra money so we’d get off to a better start.” She paused again, then let out a shuddering sigh. “He was visiting me the night of the fire.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t mean to lie about it, but I was so scared. If I had let on that I was in a family way and that Jack had been in my room that night, Lord Webster would have turned me out without a reference. Then what would I have done? What would have happened to my little Margaret? How would I have taken care of her?” She shook her head, studying the tabletop. “It seemed like the best thing for me to do was just leave things alone. My sister in Sussex helped me out for a while, but I had to find work again. There wasn’t anything else I could do.”

“If I were in your position, I might have done the same thing.”

Sarah lifted her gaze to Julia’s once again. An expression of pensive weariness shadowed her eyes, making her appear much older than her years. “Sometimes I wonder about it,” she said softly. “Jack’s out there lying in a pauper’s grave without so much as a stone to mark his name. And I keep waiting for another fire. Sometimes I wake up trembling in the dead of night, afraid I hear those fire bells ringing. I’m afraid that whoever really started those fires might just decide that he wants to start them again. Maybe if somebody knew that Jack wasn’t their man, they might have kept looking. They might have found who killed him.”

Julia let out a soft sigh. “We can’t change what’s past, Miss Montgomery. But there is something you can do now.”

Sarah studied her warily. “What?”

“Will you allow me to tell Mr. Chivers what you’ve just told me?”

“Tell Mr. —” Sarah looked appalled. “I can’t do that. If Lady Escher finds out, she’ll dismiss me for certain.”

“Mr. Chivers is a very discreet man; very kind as well. He won’t spread word of any of this to your employer; I can assure you of that.”

The younger woman looked away, her expression troubled. Minutes passed. Then her gaze fixed on her daughter once again. Very softly she said, “I heard that in that first fire four children were burned to death. One of them a little girl not much older than my Margaret. Another just a newborn babe.”

The fire that had occurred on Morgan’s property. “Yes,” Julia said.

“What if it happens again? What if more babies burn to death and I don’t do anything to help stop it?”

Knowing when to keep silent was as important a skill as knowing when to speak — in some cases far more so. As there was no reply that could possibly answer the depth of those questions, Julia held her tongue, waiting for Sarah to come to her own conclusions. Soon an expression of firm resolve showed on the young woman’s face. She turned and quietly said, “Tell him. Tell Mr. Chivers what I said. His name was Jack Wilcox. He worked as a smith at a forge down near Burn’s Alley. Tell Mr. Chivers I’m sorry for not talking about it earlier. If he needs to find me, I come here every day at this time to see my Margaret.”

Julia nodded. “Thank you, Miss Montgomery. I’ll let him know.”

Sarah smiled the first genuine smile Julia had seen since she sat down. “I’m glad,” she said. “I’m glad it’s finally out. Jack was a good man. He never set those fires. He deserves a proper stone.”

Julia thanked her again, then stood and left, making her way through the crowded room to the front entrance. As she stepped outside, she found herself temporarily blinded by the sudden glare of brilliant sunlight. The heat of the day was even more intense than it had been earlier. Too troubled by the conversation she had just finished with Sarah Montgomery to stand idly by and wait for Morgan, she strode purposefully down Chanhurst Lane, retracing the path they had taken earlier that morning. Three blocks later he fell in step beside her.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Some. You were right about her reason for leaving London; it was because of the child she carried.”

“So her nervousness at the time had nothing to do with Lord Webster’s fire.”

“Not entirely. Her lover was with her that night. It was his body that was found among the ashes. Miss Montgomery was too frightened to admit it at the time. Given the precariousness of her position, I don’t entirely blame her.”

He studied her in surprise. “She told you that much?”

Julia shrugged. “Apparently the lie has been weighing heavily upon her. She seemed almost relieved to be able to finally unburden herself. She’s been living in fear for two years now, afraid the arsonist would strike again unless she did something to stop him.”

Morgan nodded, an expression of dark contemplation on his face. “He’s alive, then.”

“Yes. I believe that should finally lay to rest the question of whether the letters I’ve been receiving are genuine. Lazarus is out there somewhere.”

They walked together a few more blocks in silence, both occupied with their own thoughts. After a few minutes Julia felt Morgan’s gaze on her. A quick glance in his direction confirmed that he was indeed watching her, studying her face with a look of somber curiosity.

“Yes?” she said, somewhat irritated at his scrutiny.

“You look upset. I would have thought you would be thrilled to be proven correct about Miss Montgomery’s deceit.”

“On the contrary,” she corrected, “I found her circumstances most distressing. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to be in her place — a young woman barely past childhood with a baby of her own on the way; her fiancé dead and her employment ended. She was terrified she would bring further ruin on herself if she spoke out and identified the man found in the ashes, terrified of what might happen if she didn’t.” Julia let out a sigh and shook her head. “She didn’t deserve to be put in that predicament.”

“No, she didn’t. But I don’t know that that justifies her silence. Two years were wasted — time that could have been spent hunting Lazarus.”

“No harm was done, was it? Lazarus himself was kind enough to announce his resurrection; Miss Montgomery merely confirms it.”

He made no direct reply, just a thoughtful murmur that might have been interpreted to mean anything.

They came to a busy corner and paused as a farmer’s dray rumbled by. Julia, who had been walking mechanically without taking any particular note of their direction, glanced around to gain her bearings. Down an alleyway to her left were Duck the Stairs and the Three O’Clock Inn, both popular taverns for local servants. Nicely timed.

“Well,” she said, sending Morgan a businesslike smile, “I believe that concludes our venture. If you continue north, you’ll run into Stafford Street. You should be able to hire a hackney there without too much difficulty.”

Morgan arched one dark brow and regarded her coolly. “Exactly where will you be while I’m running into Stafford Street?”

“As I explained earlier, I’m here to research my column. That will take me at least an hour, perhaps more. There’s no need for you to wait, however. In fact, I would prefer that you didn’t.”

“Nevertheless, I insist.”

“You’ll only be bored.”

“I’ll live.”

“Maybe you will,” said a gruff male voice from just over Julia’s left shoulder, “but I’m not so sure about the lady.”

She felt a strong arm lock around her waist before she could react — before she could even consider what the appropriate reaction might be. Then the tip of a blade bit into her ribs.

Three men seemed to materialize out of nowhere, crowding in tightly around her. Although she couldn’t see the man who held her, she could feel his brute strength as he pressed himself against her. Judging from the stench emanating from his body, bathing was not a ritual to which he had accustomed himself. His breath reeked of stale gin. The profuse sweat dripping from his skin served to plaster his thin clothing against hers, enabling her to feel every detail of his thickly muscled anatomy.

Swallowing her disgust, she quickly surveyed his partners. They were lean, hardened men dressed in rough, tattered clothing. Nothing about them distinguished them from any other man found in London’s East End — except perhaps their eyes. They had the cruel, hollow-eyed look of dogs that had been bred to kill for sport.

“I’ll take that purse you’re carrying, sweep,” said the man to her right. “Hand it over nice and slow.”

Her immediate reaction was not fear but outright disbelief. Preposterous. A robbery? On a busy street corner in the middle of the day? She had heard of such outlandish things happening, of course, but always to other people. Never had she dreamed that it might happen to her.

The man behind her shifted, inching the blade slightly deeper against her ribs. She let out an instinctive gasp as her pulse began to race. The fact that she had been correct in warning Morgan to be less conspicuous with his money was of no consolation now.

Her eyes darted to her surroundings. Nothing. The thieves had timed their action well. Granted, it wasn’t as crowded as it had been earlier, but there were still people milling in the streets and going about the business of their day. Unfortunately, the passersby continued to glide past them, evidently oblivious to what was occurring in their midst.

Her gaze fastened on an elderly man pushing a rickety cart that was piled with kindling. If she screamed, would he come to their aid? Although he might not provide much actual help, perhaps his presence would discourage the thieves from pursuing their audacious act. She had to try, she thought, opening her mouth to call out for help. Before she did so, however, her gaze caught Morgan’s. As though reading her thoughts, he gave a slight shake of his head.

She instinctively obeyed his silent command. Taking a deep breath, she scanned his face for some sign of what she should do. But as usual her husband’s expression was completely composed. He looked neither alarmed nor frightened. Merely alert, as though he were watching an event unfold that temporarily held his interest.

“Easy, gentlemen,” he said. “The money is yours.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his leather billfold, holding it before him. “But first,” he said with a small smile, “please be so kind as to unhand the lady.”

The man who had spoken earlier gave a deep guffaw. “‘Unhand the lady,’” he mimicked. Then his expression hardened. “We’re giving the orders here, sweep. You don’t want to see your lady friend sliced in two, you’ll hand it over. Now.”

“Very well.” Morgan extended his billfold. Before it reached the thief, the leather case slipped from his fingers, landing on the ground between them. “My apologies,” he said.

The thief let out a curse and began to reach for it. Apparently thinking better of it, however, he suddenly straightened, eyeing Morgan warily. “You pick it up,” he ordered.

Morgan shrugged. “Certainly.”

Calmly obeying the command, he bent low. His fingers brushed the pavement as he reached for his billfold. As he completed the motion, his gaze connected with Julia’s for a fraction of a second. But in that instant she read both tension and readiness in the smoky gray depths of his eyes.

Then he nodded slightly.

That was all the warning she had.

Morgan lunged forward, slamming his full weight against the shoulder of the giant who held the knife against Julia’s ribs. The impact of the collision sent them all reeling off balance. Julia didn’t miss the opportunity to gain her freedom. As they stumbled backward, she twisted away, moving out of her assailant’s reach. Grim satisfaction surged through Morgan. She was relatively safe — at least for the moment. If the woman had any sense at all, she’d run like hell in the opposite direction. Unfortunately his wife’s reaction — or lack thereof — was not something he could control. Not when-the giant wielding the knife recovered his footing and slashed his broad-bladed weapon through the air, barely missing Morgan’s midsection. The near miss gave Morgan two immediate goals: disarm the man and get him out of the fight. The first was relatively easily accomplished. Morgan feigned a stumble to his left, knowing the man wouldn’t waste an opportunity to strike at him again. It worked. As the giant thrust his knife forward, Morgan caught the man by the wrist and twisted down hard, causing the thief to emit a sharp grunt of pain as his fingers reflexively shot open. The knife clattered to the pavement.