CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
July 23rd, 1812
Exeter, Devonshire
NELL HALF-WOKE WHEN Mordecai Black coaxed her back into her nightgown, but she didn’t fully wake until much later. There was no sign anyone else had been in her bed; the second pillow, the one he’d lain on, was smooth. Nell reached out and turned it over. The fabric was rumpled and a single short masculine hair clung to it. She touched the creased linen with her fingertips, touched that hair. Mordecai Black’s hair. Mordecai Black, who had held her for most of the night, who had dressed her in her nightgown again, who had turned over his pillow when he left.
I love you, Mordecai.
This time yesterday she’d been certain she was going to marry him—and then he’d ordered her from Exeter and her certainty had vanished—and now she was certain again. Utterly and absolutely certain. The certainty had come during dinner, when he’d looked at the peas on her plate, looked at her face, then come around the table and hugged her. Because he’d known she needed to be hugged. Black could be domineering, but she no longer minded. She loved him just the way he was, kind and generous and occasionally overbearing, perfect and imperfect at the same time.
We are all of us imperfect.
The door opened quietly. “Ma’am, you’re awake.” Bessie advanced into the room, her expression anxious. “How do you feel? Are you all right?”
“Of course I am. Why should I not be?”
“When you didn’t wake earlier I thought you might be ill.”
“What time is it?” Nell looked for the clock. “Good gracious! It’s past ten o’clock.”
“Mr. Black said to let you sleep as long as you needed. He said to tell you he’s gone to Turnagain Lane and he’ll be back for luncheon.”
“Oh,” Nell said. “Good. Thank you.” She felt a little sleepy, and wholly disconcerted. Ten o’clock! She hadn’t slept so late since her London Season, when the balls had gone on until two in the morning.
“I have a tray prepared, if you’d like your breakfast in bed.”
Eating breakfast in bed was another thing Nell hadn’t done since her Season, but she was hungry. Famished. “Yes, please.”
Bessie brought in the tray—and a newspaper. “Mr. Black said you’d want to see it.”
Their advertisement was on the front page. £10 REWARD! it proclaimed.
Nell read the newspaper while she ate, then she dressed in the mismatch of clothes, half her own, half borrowed. She carefully counted out the last of her shillings and sent Bessie to buy the items she lacked: chemise, petticoat, garters, shoes, a spare pair of cotton stockings, a bonnet, and the lightest stays the maid could find.
Bessie departed cheerfully. Nell went down to the private parlor, not at all cheerfully. She had to write a new letter to Georgie—and she wasn’t looking forward to it. Not only did she have to tell her cousin that she had no idea where Sophia or Hubert were, she had to confess that she’d chosen her wish poorly.
Nell sat down at the little writing desk. Control of fire. What a singularly useless gift to have.
She laid out a fresh sheet of paper, uncapped the inkpot, dipped the quill in . . . and frowned at the paper until the ink dried on the quill.
A candle in its holder sat on the writing desk. Nell studied it warily. Could she make the candle burn? Would doing so almost kill her?
After a moment, she laid the quill down. Her heart began to beat faster. It’s only a candle, she told herself. One tiny flame. Even so, she was conscious of a prickle of fear as she reached out and touched the wick with one fingertip.
I didn’t die yesterday; I won’t die today.
Nell inhaled a shallow breath and said, “Burn.”
The candle sprang alight.
Nell jerked her hand back.
The candle continued burning, a bright little flame.
Nell conducted a mental survey of herself. There had been no sensation of heat. No sapping of energy, no faintness. Her heartbeat hadn’t faltered, her lungs hadn’t seized up. She examined her clothing. The seams weren’t singed at all.
Encouraged, she touched the stem of the candle. “Stop.”
The candle obligingly stopped burning.
Nell did it several more times. She discovered that she didn’t need to touch the candle to set it burning. Snapping her fingers was enough. She imagined telling Georgie that. My wish is extremely useful. I can light and snuff my chamberstick without needing to get out of bed.
Nell pulled a face—and heard her father’s silent admonishment in her ear: Ladies do not make faces, Eleanor. It is uncouth. Go to your room.
She shook her head, banishing his voice, and frowned at the candle and wondered just what control of fire meant. Obviously she could start and stop fires, but what else? Could she control what burned and what didn’t?
Nell snapped her fingers. “Burn.” Then she picked up the sheet of paper and held one corner to the candle. It flared alight.
“Don’t burn the paper,” Nell told the flame firmly.
The paper snuffed instantly, despite the merry golden flame licking at it.
Nell held the paper in the flame for a whole minute, but the paper didn’t catch alight again. Thoughtfully, she laid it back on the desk. Then she said, “Don’t burn me,” and held her hand over the candle.
The flame didn’t burn her either, not even when she brought her palm close enough to touch the wick. She felt no pain, no discomfort, nothing except a warm, tickling sensation. Her palm, when she inspected it, was no pinker than usual.
“Hmm.” Nell turned to look at the fireplace. A fire was laid in the grate.
Dare I?
Nell pushed back her chair and went to kneel in front of the hearth. She looked at the lumps of coal for a long moment, considering her next move. One, or all? Prudence, she told herself. She focused her attention on one coal at the top of the pile and said imperatively, “Burn.”
The coal burst alight.
Nell stared hard at the flames and told them they weren’t to spread. They obeyed her.
She sat back on her heels and observed what she’d done: a whole fireplace filled with lumps of coal, but only one was burning.
She imagined demonstrating this feat to Georgie—Look at this impressive gift I’ve chosen. Ta-da!—and imagined Georgie’s giggle.
Nell snorted under her breath. No, impressive wasn’t the word for it. Absurd, perhaps?
She worked with the single coal for several minutes, quenching the flames, reigniting them, making them burn hot and high, damping them to a gentle glow. Then she allowed the flames to spread, first to one coal, then two, then half a dozen. Finally she set every coal in the fireplace burning, coaxed the flames to roar high up the chimney, then to sink low, then to snuff themselves altogether.
Nell conducted a mental survey of herself: she didn’t feel breathless or faint and her heartbeat was quite steady. She examined her gown. The seams were perfectly fine.
She set all the coals burning again. “You will not burn me,” she told the fire firmly, and then she reached her hand towards the flames.
Nell tensed for stinging heat, but all she felt was a warm, pleasant sensation on her outstretched fingertips. She warily immersed her hand in the fire. The sensation spread along her fingers and thumb, across her palm, up her wrist. When the flames were licking almost to her elbow, Nell stopped.
Her heart was beating rather fast, not because it was a strain to do this, but because it looked so odd, so wrong. Her flesh should be burning. She should be in agony. But instead she had this: a warm tickle as the flames murmured over her skin.
Georgie wouldn’t giggle if she could see this. She’d be wide-eyed, silent, horrified.
Nell shivered, and told the fire to extinguish itself. It did instantly.
She climbed to her feet, a little shaken. There were more tests she should do—if she put her gloved hand in the fire, would the glove burn or not?—but she’d had enough for one morning.
Soberly, Nell returned to the writing desk. She dipped the quill in ink again, drew the sheet of paper with its singed corner towards her, and told Georgie about yesterday’s events.
We will find Sophia soon, I am certain of it. The advertisement ran in the Flying Post today and will be in the next issue of the Gazette. But that doesn’t help you to discover what happened to Hubert. I am very sorry.
As for this gift I have chosen, I can’t see it being very useful. It’s a trick, nothing more. If my gown were to catch fire, then I would certainly be able to put it out. I think it quite possible that I could walk through a burning house unharmed. But how likely is it that either should happen?
Nell frowned, and reread the last paragraph, and continued: Do you remember what your mother told us about our ancestors who wished for healing gifts? How some were careful and shepherded their strength, while others tried to heal too many people and died. I think that control of fire is similar. I think the magic draws on my own physical strength, and the more I ask of it the more it takes from me. Yesterday’s fire was huge, Georgie, and stopping it took everything I had in me. I had no strength left to breathe. My heart had no strength left to beat. And for several seconds I was actually dead.
I think I was lucky. I think that if the fire had been any bigger, my heart wouldn’t have started beating again. So I need to be careful. I have a gift that isn’t really useful at all—but that could also kill me.
I know your mother has told you this countless times, but be careful what you choose.
I will write again when I have news of Sophia.
Yours,
Nell
MORDECAI BLACK RETURNED to the inn shortly after midday. He came into the parlor, huge, magnificent, and sweaty. “Hot out there,” he said, stripping off his gloves and tossing them on the table.
“Did you have any luck?” Nell asked. She sealed her letter with a wafer and put it to one side.
“Your sister and Lizzie were lodging in Turnagain Lane until about six weeks ago, when Lizzie’s finances suddenly improved. She took rooms just off the High Street. Sophia moved with her.”
“Her finances improved?”
“Reading between the lines . . . I think Lizzie may have acquired a wealthy patron.”
“A patron?” It took Nell a moment to understand what he meant. “Oh. She became someone’s mistress?”
“I think so,” Black said. “I have her surname now, and a good description. I spent the last two hours going up and down the High Street, asking after them both. I can’t find anyone who remembers Sophia, but several people have seen Lizzie recently. She’s well-dressed. Very fashionable. Shouldn’t be too hard to find her.”
AFTER LUNCHEON THEY took a hackney to the High Street. Once there, Black began halting people, showing them Sophia’s sketch. “Have you seen this girl? What about a girl named Lizzie Wellsford? She’s pretty, with brown curly hair, about eighteen years old.” They worked their way along the street. Black talked while Nell scanned the flagway, looking for Sophia, looking for Lizzie.
Black spoke to shopkeepers and street vendors and urchins and all manner of people. In front of the Reid & Houghton confectioner’s shop, he found a crossing-sweeper who’d seen Lizzie several times. “Good-lookin’ lass. The sort yer notice, if yer know what I mean.”
“Did you see where she came from? Where she went?”
The crossing-sweeper considered this question for a moment, leaning on his broom. “Came from over there,” he said, with a nod of his head to show where.
“Thank you,” Black said, and gave the man a coin.
They crossed the street. Nell examined faces while Black asked his questions. On the next corner, an urchin lounged, watching them intently. Because he wants to pick our pockets? Or because he knows something?
“Mordecai . . .” She touched Black’s arm. “Over there.”
He walked across to the boy. “Have you seen this girl?” he asked, holding out the sketch.
“No, sir.” The boy had freckles and ginger hair and no front teeth.
“What about a girl called Lizzie Wellsford? Brown curls. Pretty. Lives around here.”
“No, sir.”
Black frowned down at the boy. “I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I? Cricklepit Street, wasn’t it?” His eyes narrowed suddenly. “Do you know where Billy English is?”
The urchin didn’t reply; he ducked his head and darted off.
Nell and Black exchanged a glance. Black shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I saw him in Cricklepit Street.”
Ten minutes later, when Black was showing the sketch to a knife grinder, the urchin reappeared. Nell watched him watch them.
Next, Black spoke to a brisk woman carrying a basket. The boy sidled closer.
“You think you’ve seen Miss Wellsford in Gandy Street?” she heard Black say.
“Half a dozen times,” the woman said.
Nell turned to look at her, but the woman was already bustling off.
“Did you hear that?” Black said. “Gandy Street.”
“Where’s that?” Nell asked.
“Just up there,” Black said, and nodded at the next corner. “Come on.”
The urchin darted forward and tugged at Black’s sleeve. “Please, sir. I know some’un who’s seen ’er.”
Black halted. “Seen who?”
“The girl in the picture,” the urchin said. “My frien’ knows where she lives.”
“Where’s your friend?”
The urchin pointed.
“Gandy Street?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well,” Black said. “Let us speak to your friend.”
THE URCHIN LED them to an establishment on the corner of High Street and Gandy that advertised itself as a silversmith’s shop but which Mordecai’s eye told him was merely an expensive pawn shop, selling a miscellany of trinkets and jewelry and silver plate that people had been forced to part with. Its custodian was a little man with sharp eyes and a wide smile.
Mordecai showed the man the sketch. “I understand you know where this girl lives.”
“In this very building,” said the man, and he opened a door at the back of the shop, revealing a dark corridor.
Mordecai felt suddenly uneasy. He didn’t like the pawnbroker’s welcoming smile and sharp, cold eyes—or that dark corridor.
He glanced at Eleanor. Her face was alight with eagerness and urgency. She gave a tiny, imperative nod, telling him to hurry.
Mordecai hesitated, and inspected the pawnbroker. He was a little fellow, a Jack Sprat. I could swat him as easily as I’d swat a fly. Even so, Mordecai slid the sketch back into its pasteboard folder, tied the ribbons, and tucked it inside his waistcoat. Now he had both hands free. “After you,” he told the pawnbroker.
“Oh, no. Young Joe’ll take you along. Show the lady and gentleman the way, Joe.”
Mordecai felt foolish for his uneasiness. What had they to fear from a child? Chickenheart, he told himself. Imagining dangers where there are none.
He followed the lad along the shadowy corridor, down a flight of stairs, and then along another even more shadowy corridor. Mordecai’s unease returned. “You, Joe. How far are you taking us?”
“We’re there, sir,” the boy said, and he rapped loudly on a door and opened it.
The room was not quite a cellar. Daylight came from a dirty window set high in the wall. Mordecai glimpsed a dark courtyard through the grime—which told him they were in the warren of backstreets and courts behind the High Street. The room was sparsely furnished, containing nothing more than a table and three wooden chairs.
He stepped cautiously inside.
The room had an occupant, but it wasn’t Sophia Wrotham. It was a man, short and wiry, with sandy hair and weatherbeaten skin and a nose that looked as if it had been broken several times.
“There’s been some mistake,” Mordecai said. “We’re looking for Sophia Wrotham and Lizzie Wellsford.”
“No mistake,” the man said. “Get goin’, Joe. Shut the door.”
Joe closed the door. Mordecai heard his bare feet scampering away.
“You know where Sophia Wrotham and Lizzie Wellsford are?” Mordecai asked.
“I know where the person yer lookin’ for is.”
“Where?”
“Right in front of yer,” the man said, with a fierce, feral grin. “I’m Billy English.”
This was Billy English? The criminal from the West Quarter that everyone was afraid of?
Billy English looked tough—a man who knew how to fight, who enjoyed fighting—but he was a foot shorter than Mordecai and nearly a hundred pounds lighter. To Mordecai’s eye he wasn’t intimidating at all. Even so, he didn’t want Eleanor anywhere near him. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from the man’s gaze. “Someone told us you knew Lizzie Wellsford. That true? You know where she is?”
“Never heard of Lizzie Wellsford,” Billy English said. He laughed, a hoarse, barking sound. “An’ if I knew, I wouldn’t tell yer.” His expression hardened. “Yer been askin’ questions about me, an’ I don’t like that.”
If he’d been alone, Mordecai would have knocked some manners into the fellow. With Eleanor Wrotham looking on, he couldn’t. He merely gritted his teeth, turned to the door, and opened it.
The corridor was no longer empty. Two men stood there. Men as large as Mordecai himself.
Billy English barked his hoarse laugh again. “I tole you,” he said. “I don’t like folk askin’ questions.”
“Nell,” Mordecai said quietly. “Stand back.” His heart was beating fast. Every muscle in his body was taut. There was bright, razor-sharp clarity in his mind. He knew what he had to do.
No hesitation.
No rules.
Fight to kill.