Could it be that North was her admirer? It seemed too foolish to even contemplate. North would never do such a thing. Would he? And what purpose was he hoping to achieve by sending her such a missive now?
“My lady?” Janie’s voice was heavy with concern. “Are you quite all right?”
Clearing her throat, Octavia nodded. “I am fine. Who delivered this, Janie?”
“A messenger, my lady. Naught but a lad.”
As usual. It was always a young boy who delivered the notes, a different one each time, none of whom knew anything—or was prepared to tell anything—about his employer.
“What are you going to do?” Beatrice asked, her hand touching Octavia’s arm.
“Nothing,” Octavia replied, determined not to play along. Her admirer would
not
join the list of people she allowed to dictate her life. “I am not going to do a blessed thing.”
And even if she did want to do something, what could she possibly do without revealing the details of her past to either Spinton or someone else? Whom could she trust? No one. Not even North.
Not
yet
.
T
he offices of numbers three and four Bow Street were as unassuming as they possibly could be. They were sparsely furnished but clean, every inch of scarred wood gleaming with a highly buffed sheen. The early morning air was rich with the scents of polishes, waxes and lemon. An overlying whiff of tobacco hovered just above it all, followed by the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Soon the smells of London would invade this surprisingly quiet space. Unwashed bodies, the stench of the underworld, would creep into the pores of the people working there, pollute their clothes and hair, but for now Bow Street had yet to be brought down to the same level as the criminals it captured.
This was how North preferred to remember the offices, and why he chose this hour to answer the summons sent to him by Duncan Reed, chief magistrate.
“What can I do for you, Duncan?”
Seated behind a massive oak desk that was rumored to have belonged to Henry Fielding himself, Duncan Reed re
garded North over the rim of his coffee cup with the eyes of an old, wise wolf.
“Good morning to you too, North. Coffee?”
Flipping out the tails of his coat, North seated himself in one of the faded, but well-padded chairs in front of the desk. “Please.”
Duncan took a battered pot from the tray on the table behind his desk and tipped it over a chipped china cup. If the brew in it tasted anything like it smelled, North would be awake well into the next week.
Once he had a cup of steaming, fragrant black coffee in his hand, North leaned back in his chair and waited for Duncan to speak. He didn’t have to wait long.
The magistrate folded his long hands together on the surface of the desk. “I have heard that you have had dealings with an unfortunate by the name of Black Sally.”
North nodded, trying not to grimace as he swallowed the coffee in his mouth. “She is helping me with a murder case I am working on. Why? Did your boys bring her in?”
Duncan’s eyes were flat. “You could say that. One of my men was called in after she was found earlier this morning.”
Horror clutched at North’s chest. “Found?”
“In an alleyway in Whitechapel. Her throat had been cut.” Duncan’s voice was as void of emotion as his eyes, but he watched North carefully, weighing his reaction.
She was dead then. Poor Sally. North hung his head in benediction for the prostitute. These things were not uncommon on the streets, but that didn’t mean he was any more accustomed to such violence than he had been ten years ago. Then realization overcame him. He had assigned his own men to watch Sally. Why had he not heard from the one designated to follow her last night?
He looked up. This time Duncan’s eyes were bright with sympathy. “Your man was found not far away.”
North squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on the heat of the cup in his hands, willing that heat to flow through the ice in his veins. Harris was dead. He was only two and twenty and usually so careful. He took his job so very seriously.
“It appeared as though there had been a struggle,” Duncan’s voice cut through the numbness in North’s mind. “He put up a fight.”
Of course he had. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Harris had lost the fight. Sally had lost the fight. North had failed them both. Both of them had been his responsibility, and he let them down. His fault. His to live with.
“Thank you for telling me.”
Duncan nodded. “I wanted you to know before the rest of the city starts to hear about it. Do you have any idea who is behind it?”
North nodded. “Harker.” The man he had been trying to build a murder case against for the last three months. Bastard. This was one of those times when North wanted to say to hell with the justice system and go after Harker himself—with a pistol. A ball of lead between the eyes would put an end to Harker’s criminal career.
Duncan nodded. “We will be looking for him now as well.”
North’s gaze snapped to his former boss. “He is mine.”
Again Duncan nodded. “Understood.”
Setting aside his coffee, North raked both hands through his hair. “Goddamn. Poor Sally. Poor Harris.” His gaze went unseeingly to the wall behind Duncan’s head, and he sighed in sorrow and resignation. He would have to go to Harris’s mother. He should be the one to tell her that her youngest son was dead.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” Duncan asked. “Why do you continue to trudge along like this? A man with your convictions could do so much more at a higher level.”
Another sigh. This wasn’t a new topic of conversation.
Duncan, along with Wynthrope and North’s oldest brother, Brahm, had been trying for months—ever since he’d foiled an attempt on the regent’s life—to convince him to go into politics. Brahm had even gone so far as to suggest North become MP for the riding that went with the Ryland holdings in Somerset. And with Brahm a peer, North would be sure to get his ideas and hopes for changes to Britain’s criminal system heard. Changes such as a more organized countrywide police force.
But could he give up the satisfaction of being “hands on” to take a more behind-the-scenes approach?
Possibly. It wasn’t as though his current methods were all that spectacular. One only had to look at Black Sally and Harris to see that. Why would anyone think he could make a difference? Right now he certainly didn’t think he could.
He couldn’t even keep a whore alive. What could he do for an entire country?
It would mean facing society again. It might mean being granted entrance. It might mean acceptance. It might mean rejection as well.
“I will think about it,” he mumbled.
The expression on Duncan’s lean face was dubious at best. “That is what you always say.”
It was. North shrugged. What was he expected to say? He couldn’t even think right now, let alone think of anything intelligent to say.
“I have to go,” he said finally, rising to his feet. His legs were shaky—from the shock of hearing about Sally and Harris, no doubt. Over the years, North had seen plenty of death—victims, witnesses, criminals, and runners, but this was the first time he had ever lost one of his own men, and the first time he had failed to protect someone he’d sworn to keep safe. He felt the weight of their deaths as keenly as if he had run the blade across their throats himself.
“Do you need someone to take you home?”
North scowled. “I am not an invalid, Duncan. I believe I can survive the short walk back to my house.”
If Duncan was taken aback by his sharp tone, he didn’t show it. “Suit yourself. I will let you know what evidence we turn up.”
North nodded. There wouldn’t be any evidence. Harker would be certain of that. He would know that North would assume he was the culprit.
“And North?” Duncan’s voice stopped him as he reached the door. He turned, saying nothing.
“Be careful,” his friend and former employer urged, real concern coloring his tone. “If you press this investigation, Harker will eventually come after you.”
North’s hand turned the doorknob. He smiled bitterly. “I hope so.” Right now, facing Harker was the one bright spot in his life—the one thing he had to truly look forward to. Catching criminals—the ones who honestly deserved to be caught—was what kept him going, what made his job worthwhile in the end. Putting an end to Harker’s career would be the only way Sally and Harris’s deaths would not be in vain.
Outside the day was off to a bright and sunny start. It had rained the night before, giving the air a slight, fresh chill that was already losing ground to the warmth of the sun. Usually he loved these kinds of mornings, but the drying puddles beneath his feet were merely reminders that any evidence with Harris and Sally’s bodies would have been long lost, washed away with their blood, as insubstantial as their dying breaths.
God damn Harker. He would make him pay for this.
From Bow Street, it was a short walk back to his house. He walked slowly, his head filled with thoughts of Sally, Harris, and how he was going to nail Harker to the wall. His resolve
grew with the warming of the sun, and by the time he took a right on Russell Street, into the heart of Covent Garden, he was still struck full of mourning for both dead, but his complete sense of loss had been replaced by sheer determination. He would let neither Sally nor Harris die for naught.
The market was bustling with activity, as it always was. A sense of joviality mixed with the frustration of poverty as business started for the day. As usual, the sight of it buoyed his heavy heart. He would mourn Harris and Sally, but he would not let the hate and anger cloud his perception. There was good in this world, and that was what he worked for.
He exchanged some coin for wares with an orange girl and removed the peel as he neared his house, tossing the discarded rind into the gutter. He was home by the time he finished, his hands full of ripe fruit and sticky from his efforts.
He had just taken a bite of the orange, spraying his face with the sweet juice, when someone called out his name.
Turning on the steps to his front door, he was already reaching for the pistol strapped beneath his coat when he realized it was Lord Spinton calling out to him. The hand reaching for his weapon changed course smoothly, tearing off another section of orange with the same efficiency as it would have lodged a ball in the earl’s foolish skull. The man should know better than to sneak up on him like that!
But Spinton wasn’t the kind of man who would know better. He no doubt rarely socialized with men like North. Aristocrats didn’t have much reason to carry pistols on their persons, nor did they usually have reason to think of themselves as prey for a murderer.
Swallowing the pulp in his mouth, North graced Spinton with a forced smile. “Lord Spinton. You have returned. Why?” He hoped the earl didn’t keep him long. He needed to find out what arrangements had been made for Harris and Sally. He wanted to attend the funerals and do whatever he
could for their families. Right now that was more important than the earl’s jealousy over a few love letters.
“I am sorry to bother you, Mr. Sheffield,” Spinton apologized politely as he jogged up the steps toward North. “But you said I could come back if there were any developments in my case that might persuade you to look into Lady Octavia’s letters.”
If it had concerned anyone but Octavia, North would have told the earl in no uncertain terms to sod off. “I can spare you a few minutes. Come in.”
As usual, Mrs. Bunting met them in the foyer. She took Spinton’s hat and cane and offered them tea, which North refused with the added order that they were not to be disturbed. Inside the sanctuary of his office, he offered Spinton something stronger than tea.
Spinton shook his head. “Oh no. Too early for me.”
North simply shrugged his brows and poured himself a glass of whiskey, which he downed in one swallow.
“Now then,” he rasped, turning his attention to his guest. “What are these ‘developments’ you speak of?”
Turning his hat in his hands, Spinton graced him with an earnest gaze. “Last night, Octavia received another letter.”
“Were you there when it arrived?” Was that where he was coming from now? Had he spent the night in Octavia’s bed?
Spinton actually blushed. “I had returned home for the evening. No, I received word from Lady Octavia’s cousin this morning about the letter.”
“Not from Octavia herself?”
The earl blushed even darker. “I explained to you before that she does not see the letters as dastardly as I.”
North resisted the urge to pour another drink. He resorted to sarcasm instead. Hardly professional behavior. “What did this one say? That her eyes were like sapphires? Her skin like ivory?”
Spinton looked as though he would like to ask how North knew the color of Lady Octavia’s eyes and flesh, but he did not. “It said, ‘I know your secret.’”
North froze. Setting his empty glass on the table, he turned to face the other man. “What secret?” The secret of Octavia’s upbringing? That her mother had been an actress, a mistress to many men? Or that she and North had known each other—intimately—once upon a time?
“I do not know.” Real frustration etched itself on the earl’s face. “If Octavia has secrets, they are hidden from even myself. I can think of nothing that would be worthy of such a note, but I believe the author has blackmail in mind.”
North was in agreement. Such a cryptic remark was usually the precursor to some kind of extortion—he had seen it before. He had sworn to protect Octavia’s secret once before—promised deep within himself that he would do everything in his power to ensure she had the life she deserved. It was his duty to keep that promise. Perhaps he could do better by her than he had by Harris or Sally.
“I will have to see the letter,” he instructed. “And I will need to interview Lady Octavia.”
Spinton’s sigh of relief was audible. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Sheffield. I will speak to Lady Octavia this very morning. Can you come for dinner tonight?”
Not a good idea. He knew that. “Where?”
“Lady Octavia’s home in Berkeley Square.” He gave the direction. “Say eight o’clock?”
North knew Octavia well enough to blink at Spinton’s invitation. Normally he would check with her before accepting, but since Spinton was going to be heading to Octavia’s after leaving there, he couldn’t risk sending her a missive that the earl might see. It would raise too many questions.
“I will see you then.”
Spinton grinned, shook North’s hand, and took his leave. After he was gone, North sat at his desk, his boots propped up on the shiny surface, and contemplated what he had just done.
The decision to help Octavia—to at least determine whether the threat to her was real—had taken no consideration whatsoever. He would do anything for her, whether she asked it of him or not. No, for North the very real concern was whether she allowed him to help her.
He wasn’t going to give her much of a choice. There wouldn’t be much good in the world if Octavia wasn’t in it.
“I spoke to North Sheffield again today.”
Octavia froze, teacup poised halfway between her lips and its saucer. She couldn’t have heard Spinton correctly. He couldn’t have
that
little regard for her wishes, could he?