CHAPTER THIRTY

July 24th, 1812

Exeter, Devonshire

 

IN THE MORNING Nell no longer had a headache, although her head was tender where Billy English had struck her. She fingered the lump and thanked God for the wig she’d been wearing. “Has Mr. Black woken, Bessie?”

“Yes, ma’am. For a few minutes.” Bessie placed a pitcher beside the washstand, then opened the chintz curtains. Daylight streamed into the little bedchamber.

“How is he?”

“Mr. Phelps said he’s a bit befuddled, but that’s only to be expected. He said it’s nothing to worry about and Mr. Black will be right as rain in a week, mark his words.”

“I hope so,” Nell said. “I hope so.”

She climbed out of bed and washed. The bruise at her throat, where English had half-throttled her, had darkened overnight. When Bessie saw the size of it she was horrified. “Ma’am! You could have been killed.”

“Very easily,” Nell said soberly.

Bessie brushed out Nell’s hair, pinned it up, and hid it beneath a turban. “Shall I buy another wig for you, ma’am?”

Nell thought about the few pennies in her reticule. “Not today.”

“Or . . .” Bessie hesitated. “Perhaps we could tell the servants here that you decided to dye your hair brown?”

Nell turned to look at her.

“Only, I don’t know if Mr. Black will like it, ma’am.”

“He probably won’t,” Nell said. “But I like it.” She touched the turban wound snugly around her head. A foolish fashion, and far too hot for this weather. “I’ll speak to him about it.” If he will speak to me at all.

She examined the clothes she’d worn yesterday, hoping the spencer and gown were repairable. They weren’t. Nell rubbed her brow and sighed. She needed another bonnet, a new spencer, and at least one more gown, preferably two.

She hadn’t enough money for even the bonnet.

I shall have to sell Mother’s pearl brooch.

It was a task she didn’t feel up to coping with today.

Nell went down to the private parlor for her breakfast. She detoured past Mordecai Black’s door and hesitated for a long moment, gripping her hands together, unable to bring herself to knock. Would he remember yesterday’s events?

Resolutely, she took a deep breath and knocked.

Walter opened the door.

“Is Mr. Black awake?”

“No, ma’am. But he was awake earlier.”

Nell’s heart gave a treacherous skip of relief. “How was he? Does he remember what happened yesterday?”

“I can’t say as to that, ma’am, but Mr. Phelps reckons all he needs is a few days in bed and he’ll be good as new.”

“Oh. Good.” Nell turned away, and then turned back. “Walter? How did it go with the parish constable?”

“I handed over the letter, ma’am, said it was urgent, and got out of there as fast as I could. No one followed me back here. I made sure of it.”

“Thank you, Walter.”

Nell ate a desultory breakfast. She was sipping her tea when Bessie peeped in the door. “Mr. Black’s awake, ma’am, if you’re wishful to see him.”

Nell put the cup down with a clatter. “He is? Oh. Good.” She pushed back her chair and stood, feeling absurdly flustered.

She went up one flight of stairs and tapped on Black’s door.

Walter opened it. He gave her an unfootmanlike grin. “He’s awake, ma’am.”

“May I see him?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Nell moistened her lips, inhaled a shallow breath, and entered the bedchamber. Please don’t let him remember.

Black was sitting up in bed. He didn’t look befuddled; he looked alert—and one glance at his face told her that he did remember. Those dark eyes were unsmiling.

Nell halted in the middle of the bedchamber. She felt cold, as if all the blood had drained from her body. She clutched her hands together and said awkwardly, “How are you?”

“Phelps insists I stay in bed today.”

Phelps, at his post beside the bed, gave a nod. “You’re not getting up ’til tomorrow at the earliest.”

Black grimaced faintly, but didn’t protest.

“How do you feel?” Nell asked. “Does your head hurt?”

“A little. But I’ve had worse headaches in my life.”

“Oh,” Nell said.

There was a moment of awkward silence. Black was looking at her with eyes that held wariness and suspicion and mistrust.

Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true. I’m not a monster. I didn’t set fire to Exeter. But she couldn’t utter those words, not with Phelps and Walter in the room.

Nell swallowed, and clutched her hands more tightly together. “Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you.”

Nell felt an urge to burst into tears—and an equally strong urge to run from the room, to put an end to this horrible, stilted conversation. She managed to do neither. She was a Wrotham, and Wrothams didn’t cry in public or run from rooms like heroines in melodramas.

“Very well. I shall leave you, then.” She inclined her head courteously. “I’m glad to see that you’re almost restored to yourself.”

“Thank you,” Black said, equally courteously.

The urge to cry became stronger. Nell turned away, walking as her father had taught her: calm, unhurried, ladylike. Walter smiled at her as he opened the door for her.

Nell stood for several moments in the empty corridor, eyes closed, hands pressed to her face. She was trembling. She felt sick. She wanted to cry.

She raised her head at the sound of footsteps. One of the serving-men came up the stairs, carrying a tray. On it was a tea set and a plate of bread-and-butter. Invalid’s food.

Nell retreated to her own bedchamber. Bessie was there, mending the spencer. She looked up from her task. “Do you want something, ma’am?”

Nell swallowed. “I don’t think that spencer’s repairable.”

“I’m good with a needle,” Bessie said cheerfully.

“Oh, well, if you wish to try.” Nell backed out of the room and went down to the private parlor. Once there, she locked the door.

And then—safe in her privacy—she cried.

 

---

 

MORNING BECAME AFTERNOON. Nell had no appetite for luncheon. “You look pale, ma’am,” Bessie said. “Perhaps you’d like to rest?” But Nell didn’t want to sleep any more than she wanted to eat. What she wanted was something she couldn’t have: for Mordecai Black to forget what had happened yesterday.

He fears me.

Tears welled in her eyes. Nell blinked them back.

“Are you certain you don’t wish to lie down?” Bessie said anxiously.

“I’d like to wash my face,” Nell said. And I’d like for yesterday not to have happened.

Bessie went downstairs for warm water. Nell stood at the window, hugging herself, looking out over Exeter, shrinking from what needed to be done.

She had to sell her mother’s pearl brooch, leave the inn, and find lodgings somewhere else. But even though she knew it was necessary, she couldn’t bring herself to it. It was too daunting, too frightening.

Bessie returned bearing a pitcher of steaming water, her face alight with excitement. “Oh, ma’am! Have you heard the news?”

Nell shook her head.

“They’ve found two dead men in a room off the High Street. Criminals!”

“Oh,” Nell said.

Bessie poured water into the washstand bowl, and glanced at Nell. “They’re the ones that attacked you, aren’t they?”

Nell nodded.

“Mr. Black killed them, didn’t he?”

Nell nodded again.

“I’m glad!” Bessie said stoutly. She put down the pitcher, hesitated, and then said, “Ma’am . . . they found four more folk buried in one of the old water tunnels. Three men and a woman. Murdered!”

So the constable had looked further. “I’m not surprised,” Nell said.

Bessie handed Nell a cloth to wash her face with. Her expression was sober. “It could have been you buried down there.”

“But it wasn’t.” Nell dredged up a smile. “Thanks to Mr. Black.”

 

---

 

NELL WENT BACK down to the parlor, where she sat and did nothing, hugging her misery to herself.

How quickly life could change. This time yesterday she and Black had been setting forth. She’d been certain the end of her search was in sight, certain she was about to be reunited with Sophia.

Nell stared at the cold fireplace, and as she stared she formed a resolution. She would find Sophia today.

She’d go to Gandy Street and ask questions of the passersby. She’d find Sophia, and then she’d sell her mother’s pearl brooch and get on with the life she had planned.

Nell rose to her feet, full of determination, but before she reached the door one of the inn servants knocked. “Mrs. Trussell-Quimby? Visitors for you.”

“For me?” Nell said blankly—and then she felt a stab of panic. Constables coming to interrogate her? “Who are they?”

“Two gentlemen and a lady, ma’am.”

Not constables, then. Nell’s panic faded. Visitors? For me? And then she realized who they must be: people who’d seen the advertisement in the newspaper and had come to claim the reward. People who knew where Sophia was. Her pulse gave a leap of excitement. “Show them up!”

“Yes, ma’am. Here’s the gentleman’s card.” The servant handed her a small rectangle of white card.

She took it and glanced at it—and then stared. “The Earl of Cosgrove?” But the servant had already departed.

“The Earl of Cosgrove?” Nell said again, perplexed. Why on earth would an earl be coming to claim a ten-pound reward?

She hastily smoothed her gown. Calm, she told herself. But her pulse was tumultuous with hope.

The servant returned and ushered three people into the room. Both the men were tall, both in their thirties, both striking in their looks. The lady was striking, too. Not so much for her looks, but for her poise and her elegance. She looked almost regal.

Nell was suddenly aware of the shabbiness of her gown. The turban felt ridiculous on her head.

“Mrs. Trussell-Quimby?” one of the men said. “How do you do? I’m Lord Cosgrove.”

Nell curtsied politely. “My lord.” She frantically sorted through her memories. Had she met him during her London Season? She didn’t think so; his was a face not easily forgotten—strong, stern.

“May I introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Reid?”

Nell curtsied again.

“You are Mrs. Trussell-Quimby?” Cosgrove asked.

“Yes, sir.”

The lady’s eyebrows lifted slightly at this, as if she knew Nell was lying, but Nell knew she’d never met the woman before; she would have remembered that regal elegance.

Her father’s lessons came to her rescue. Even if she looked dowdy, even if the turban were absurd, she knew how to behave as a lady. “Please be seated. Would you like refreshments?”

“No, thank you.”

They settled themselves, the Reids on the green sofa and Cosgrove in an armchair by the fireplace. Nell perched on one of the dining chairs. “You’ve come about the advertisement, I take it?”

“Advertisement?” Cosgrove said. He looked as perplexed as Nell felt. “No. We’re here about the fire.”

Nell stiffened slightly. “Oh? What about it?”

Cosgrove glanced at Mr. Reid. So did Nell.

“I have a number of businesses in Exeter,” Mr. Reid said. “Bakeries. One of them is on Alpers Street.”

Nell had a sudden flash of realization. This was the man behind the Reid & Houghton bakeries.

Reid didn’t look like a man who owned bakeries. There was nothing of the shop about him. His voice was well-bred, his manner quietly authoritative.

“My bakery escaped the fire, but it was a close call. Very close. The fire was only four buildings away when it went out.” Reid looked at her. His eyes were a very light gray. Piercing. Nell had the sensation that he was able to see inside her head. “Odd that, don’t you think? That a fire of such magnitude should just extinguish itself.”

“A miracle,” Nell said. She gave Mr. Reid a cool half-smile. It was an expression she’d perfected years ago. Courteous. Ladylike. Faintly aloof. Usually it masked boredom; right now it concealed alarm. What did these people want with her?

“My men were attempting to save the bakery from burning,” Reid said. “One of them says he saw a young lady run up to the fire—to within touching distance, he says—and when she did, the fire stopped.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

Panic took root in Nell’s chest. She lifted her eyebrows slightly. “Oh?”

“He said it was like magic.”

Nell permitted herself an amused smile. “Magic?” She was aware that Cosgrove was watching her keenly, and Mrs. Reid, too, that three pairs of eyes were focused intently on her face.

“Impossible, of course,” Reid said.

“Impossible,” Nell agreed.

“He said the woman fainted, so he helped her up and brought her to her lodgings.” Reid made a gesture with one hand, indicating the inn. “Here.”

Nell couldn’t think of anything to say. She took refuge in her aloof smile again.

“Was that woman you, Mrs. Trussell-Quimby?”

“Me?” Nell managed a disdainful laugh. “Of course not.”

Reid and his wife exchanged a glance. Mrs. Reid gave an infinitesimal shake of her head.

Reid looked back at her. “So, you didn’t stop the fire, Mrs. Trussell-Quimby?”

“Of course not,” Nell said again. She took refuge in cold hauteur. “Your man sounds as if he’s been imbibing too freely, Mr. Reid. I wouldn’t give any credence to his claims if I were you.”

“Sergeant Ackroyd is a very reliable man,” Reid said mildly.

“Sergeant Ackroyd?”

“I employ invalided soldiers,” Reid said, and Nell suddenly realized that Reid had been a soldier, too. Everything about him—that authoritative voice, the keen gaze, the military bearing—said that he’d been an officer.

“If I may?” Mrs. Reid said, and Reid sat back slightly on the sofa, ceding the conversation to his wife.

Mrs. Reid smiled at Nell. “So you don’t believe in magic, Mrs. Trussell-Quimby?”

“No,” Nell said. Her panic was growing. She remembered the way Mordecai Black had looked at her, as if she was a monster. She remembered Lady Dalrymple’s warning: Never tell a soul. She remembered that a witch had been hanged in Yorkshire not three years ago.

Was that was Cosgrove and the Reids intended? To expose her as a witch? To see her hanged?

“Do you believe in Faeries, Mrs. Trussell-Quimby?”

“Of course not!”

“Or Faerie godmothers?”

“No,” Nell said firmly. She rose to her feet. “Faerie tales have nothing to do with the real world. Now, if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

Her guests didn’t rise. Nell was aware of a silent message passing between them—a glance, a nod.

Mrs. Reid looked up at her. “I have a Faerie godmother,” she said, quite matter-of-factly. “Her name is Baletongue. She granted me a wish on my twenty-first birthday, and I chose to be able to hear truth from lies.”

Nell stared down at the woman.

“Please sit, Mrs. Trussell-Quimby . . . and tell us your real name.”

Nell fumbled for her chair, and sat. She felt quite numb with shock.

“It was you who stopped the fire, wasn’t it?” Reid asked.

Nell stared at him. After a moment, she nodded.

“What’s your name?”

Nell looked at the Reids uncertainly—Dare I trust them?—and then glanced at Lord Cosgrove. She heard Lady Dalrymple’s warning in her ears. Never tell a soul.

Cosgrove smiled at her. “My wife had a visit from Baletongue, too. She chose metamorphosis.”

Metamorphosis? The ability to change shape?

Nell felt a sudden, intense curiosity to meet Lady Cosgrove. She bit her lip, and then blurted, “My name is Eleanor Wrotham. Miss Wrotham.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wrotham.” Cosgrove leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze intent on her face. “Please, will you tell us what happened two days ago?”

Nell looked at the three of them, at the friendliness on their faces, the eager curiosity, and hesitated.

These people are my kin. They won’t betray me.

She took a deep breath and said, “It was my twenty-third birthday, the day of the fire. I was waiting for Baletongue to come.”

She told them about Sophia being missing, about seeing burning rooftops from her window, about Baletongue’s arrival. “So I chose control of fire instead. What else could I do when people were dying? Only it didn’t work as I thought it would. I had to get close to the fire to stop it, and it almost killed me.” She told them how she’d collapsed, how her heart had stopped beating for a moment. “I think it’s like the healing gifts. I think it takes from you, and if you’re too ambitious, if you aim for too much, it can drain all the life from your body.”

Mrs. Reid nodded. “One of us is a healer. Her husband is very careful how much she does.”

Questions gathered on Nell’s tongue. “She told her husband?” she said, and, “How many of you are there?”

“Three. Four, counting you. And yes, our husbands know—although perhaps they wish they didn’t.” Mrs. Reid glanced at her husband, her expression wry. Reid returned the glance, equally wryly.

“Do you know of any others?” Cosgrove asked.

Nell bit her lip.

Mrs. Reid’s eyes brightened. “You do!”

Never tell a soul.

But these people were family. “My aunt and cousin,” Nell said. “But my cousin hasn’t chosen yet. Her birthday is next month.”

“For heaven’s sake tell her to be careful!” Mrs. Reid said urgently. “There are gifts that can destroy a person.”

Nell nodded. “I know. Being able to hear people’s thoughts. It sends you mad.”

“Foretelling, too,” Mrs. Reid said. “My great-great-grandmother wished for that—and killed herself because of it.”

Nell blinked. “Why?”

“Because she knew the fate of every person she met. She knew when they would die, what catastrophes would befall them. She knew when her husband’s heart would stop beating. She knew that her sons would both die young. Her gift drove her mad—and she knew it would, even before it happened, because she couldn’t not know. Just as she knew she would commit suicide—and how and when.” Mrs. Reid grimaced. “It sounds all very well to know the future, but it’s a burden, not a gift.”

Nell grimaced, too. “I’ll write to Georgie today and tell her.”

“Your sister will presumably receive a wish, too?”

Nell shook her head. “We’re half sisters only.”

“You said she was missing. Tell us about her.”

So Nell told them everything. She left nothing out. She told them about her family’s disgrace and her broken betrothal to Roger Lockwood-Smith, the new Lord Dereham. She told them about receiving Sophia’s letter and her frantic journey to London, about Roger’s refusal to help—and Mordecai Black’s unexpected assistance.

Cosgrove stirred when she mentioned his name.

Nell tensed. Was Lord Cosgrove one of Black’s detractors? “You know him?”

“Very well,” Cosgrove said. “I’ve often sparred with him.”

Nell relaxed. Lord Cosgrove was a friend of Black’s. She continued with her story: Seven Dials, the journey to Exeter, the disguise she had worn, the days searching. The only things she left out were Black’s offers of marriage and their sexual intimacy. Lastly, she described yesterday’s events: Billy English, Black’s reaction to her magic.

The Reids and Lord Cosgrove listened intently. Reid’s face revealed the least. He was focused on her words, but utterly expressionless. Cosgrove frowned while he listened, his eyebrows drawing together. Mrs. Reid’s face was the most expressive. Her eyes widened and her lips parted in horror. “Goodness!” she said, when Nell had finished. “It sounds as if you’re lucky to be alive.”

“We are.” Nell touched the bruises at her throat, hesitated, and then said, “If I hadn’t been there, Mr. Black would have won. I distracted him. Slowed him down.” The very reason Black had given for not taking her to the West Quarter—and he’d been right. She remembered the knife blade pressed to her throat, remembered Black standing unresisting while Fitch bound his wrists. But for me, he would have fought his way free.

“How is he?” Cosgrove asked. “You said he was struck in the head?”

“Several times,” Nell said, and shivered in memory. “He’s better than he was yesterday, but not well enough to leave his bed.”

Cosgrove’s frown returned.

“He saw you set fire to the boots?” Mrs. Reid asked. “And the door?”

Nell nodded, and clenched her hands in her lap.

“And his reaction was . . . not favorable?”

“He thinks I’m a monster,” Nell said, and tears filled her eyes. “He thinks I started that fire two days ago. He thinks I’m evil.”

“Did you tell him about Baletongue?”

“How can I?” Nell cried. “He won’t believe me. No one would!”

Both Reid and Cosgrove grimaced faintly. They exchanged a glance. Cosgrove pushed to his feet. “I’ll have a word with him.”

“What will you tell him?” Reid asked.

“The truth,” Cosgrove said.

Reid frowned.

“I’ll tell him about Baletongue, and Charlotte. But not about Letty or Merry.”

“Is that wise?” Reid asked.

“Black’s a good man. If he gives his word, he keeps it.”

“You trust him enough to tell him about Charlotte?”

Cosgrove nodded.

“You may tell him about me if you wish,” Mrs. Reid said.

Reid turned to her. “Letty—”

“I agree with Cosgrove.” Mrs. Reid smiled at her husband and took his hand. “Black’s a good man. Dreadful reputation, of course, but he’s nowhere near as, ah, as black as he’s painted. I’ve never heard him lie—and that’s not something I can say about most members of the ton.”

Nell assimilated this statement. Mrs. Reid clearly moved in the best circles.

Reid frowned at his wife. He was holding her hand quite tightly.

“I trust him, Icarus.”

Reid sighed. His expression became resigned. “Very well. Tell him.”

Cosgrove turned to the door. Nell stood. “Shall I come with you?”

Cosgrove shook his head. “Best not. Where’s his room?”

Nell told him, and watched him leave the parlor. Desperate hope flowered in her chest. Believe him, Mordecai.

She sank back on the chair and forced her attention to the Reids. They were still holding hands. “Who are Charlotte and Merry?”

“Charlotte is Cosgrove’s wife,” Mrs. Reid said. “And Merry’s her cousin. They’ll be very glad to meet you. You must visit once you’ve found your sister.”

Nell shook her head. “My reputation—”

“I agree with Black on this,” Mrs. Reid said. “A runaway sister does not ruin a person.”

Nell looked down at her lap. She pleated a fold of muslin. “I’ve been traveling with Mr. Black, and that does ruin a person.”

“Mrs. Trussell-Quimby is clearly ruined,” Mrs. Reid said. “Miss Wrotham, on the other hand, is not.”

Nell glanced up at her.

Reid leaned forward. “You said you think your sister might be in Gandy Street?”

Nell nodded.

“I know the neighborhood well,” he said. “I own the confectioner’s shop on the High Street. Perhaps you saw it?”

Nell nodded.

“I’ll ask my men to put out the word,” Reid said. “I’d like to see that sketch of her. And tell me everything you know about the girl she’s with. What’s her name? Lizzie Wellsford?”