Page 1 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

London—Winter 1827

S tiffening her lips, five-year-old Geneva Wimbley covered her ears with her hands and begged some unknown being to keep her mama from dying. She didn’t know what was wrong, but since she’d been confined to Mrs. Cornett’s abode, she knew it was bad. Mrs. Cornett lived in the flat beneath hers and Mama’s.

“She’s going to die, isn’t she?” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.

Mrs. Cornett patted her hand, leaving an imprint of flour from her bread-making. “Now, now, Geneva. You mustn’t be so odious regarding these matters.”

Geneva brushed off the flour and went to the grimy window that looked out over the street below, where debris blew about. The rain was welcome because it washed away a lot of the muck. “What will happen to me?”

“Your papa is expected back soon, dear. You don’t need to worry none.”

A shudder went through Geneva. Papa didn’t much like her. She would have to run away from home if Mama died. She couldn’t stay with her father. Every time he returned, the overpowering stench of being unwashed and that stinky gin reeked through the flat—she knew what it was because she’d overheard Mrs. Cornett telling Mrs. Barding, who lived across the hall.

Months ago, the smell had had Mama casting up her accounts. Eventually, she’d been able to hold down her piddling dinners. But her suffering now was worse. Much worse.

Geneva had to be ready. She’d have to take the ruby locket Mama had promised her without Papa knowing. Geneva had no doubt that Papa would toss her in the streets or sell her to one of the pickpocket handlers who ran the neighborhood’s really horrid places. “Do you have any books, Mrs. Cornett?”

“Books! Lordy, Geneva.” The rolling pin she held landed on the table with a thunk. “What do you want with books? Girls have no need for such nonsense.”

Geneva turned from the window, stunned by the hurt curling through her. “But my mama has shown me my letters and is teaching me words.” She planted her hands on her hips. “She told me I shall attend the same school she went to when she was a young girl.”

Mrs. Cornett came from behind the table, her flour-covered hands landing at her ample hips. “Why, I never! You shouldn’t tell lies, Geneva. It’s unseemly.” She shook her head and pushed back a strand of steel-colored hair from her forehead, leaving a streak of white. “And with your sweet, little mama on her deathbed.”

“ Deathbed !” Geneva ran out the door and pounded up the stairs in the dank, narrow hall to her own floor above.

A huge man in a vast, swirling greatcoat swept by her and pounded on the door of Mama’s and her small flat. He didn’t even wait for Mama to open the door—just kicked it in and slammed it in Geneva’s face. He hadn’t even seen her. Fear hurt her tummy.

He didn’t come back out like Geneva thought he would, and after a few minutes, she crept forward, cracked the door open, and peered in.

“Can’t ye see she’s in pain, ye blackguard?” It was a woman’s voice Geneva didn’t recognize.

The other voice was low, a gravelly timbre that would haunt Geneva forever, even though she had trouble making out his words.

Mama was panting. “I-I know she doesn’t belong to you, my lord, but please, have mercy… take her too, my lord. She deserves a better life than what that bastard I’m married to will give her.”

“Bah. It’s sufficient to say you didn’t have the sense to keep from letting things get this far and now I’m stuck with the consequences. I shall take this, however, for compensation. Send the girl to the Black Widow when she’s of an age. Hell, I’ll pay the exorbitant fees it’ll require.” Then he laughed.

It was a laugh that sent chills of black ice inside Geneva. Blinking back tears, Geneva forgot about Mama being in bed, about wanting a book, or about anything but dashing back down the stairs to the warmth and safety of Mrs. Cornett’s flat.

The older woman stood in the door with her arms opened.

Geneva dove straight into them. “You were right. Mama is on her deathbed.” Her voice was muffled against the older woman’s scratchy, woolen frock.

“No, child. I should’na said any such thing. It ain’t her time. Ye jes wait ’n see. Don’ fret now. Soon ye’ll have a playmate o’ yer own.” She patted Geneva’s shoulder. “Now, chin up, me sweet. Come an’ have a nice, warm piece a bread right from the oven.”

*

Northumberland, Winter—1827

A blistering wind swept through Stonemare that was more in line with the Earl of Pender’s sudden appearance than the open door behind him saturating Mrs. Knagg’s freshly polished floor with slashing rain.

Ten-year-old Noah Oshea, second son of the Earl of Pender, peeked through the crack from the library where he’d been immersed in The Sceptical Chymist by Robert Boyle. It was an old text in which Mr. Boyle introduced chemical elements. He’d already tried reading William Harvey’s De Motu Cordis on the motion of heart and blood in animals. Yes, the words were too hard to figure out, but he would read anything to blot out his mother’s screams that bellowed the halls. They were harsh sounds that echoed against the castle’s old stone covered with threadbare tapestries.

He hadn’t seen Mama. Not since she’d fainted at some pain growing in her stomach two days ago. Every time he approached Mrs. Knagg, their housekeeper, or the butler, Winfield, he’d been shooed away. The old castle was drafty and not in ideal condition for anyone, let alone someone not feeling well. Mama was likely to contract the ague. It wasn’t fair that Lucius, his older brother by three years, could live at school instead of home tasked with taking care of the estate that would be turned over to him as heir apparent. Noah firmed his lips and prepared to step back but made the mistake of looking up.

Papa was staring straight at him with a wicker basket hanging off his forearm. “Have a gift for you, boy,” he growled.

“I have a name,” Noah muttered under his breath as the familiar resentment pulsed through him. He didn’t dare back away, as Papa’s fist could fly out at will in a wallop that would leave his ears ringing.

A small, minute squeal emitted from the… basket? Hope swelled through Noah. A puppy ? A kitten ? He’d never been allowed a pet, no matter how he’d begged throughout the years.

Papa turned to Mrs. Knagg. “Don’t disturb us.”

She was a pillar of Stonemare. Her robust build and commanding presence held an air of stern efficiency. A few wisps of ash-brown hair had escaped the severe bun, but the usual sternness softened in her brown eyes. “Of course, my lord. But wouldn’t you care to see Lady Pender first?”

He turned toward the library, his strides long. “Later,” he barked—then paused. Papa turned back to the housekeeper. “Is the wet nurse in house?”

“Certainly, m’lord. We shall have need of her at any moment.

“And the midwife?” The minute the words were out of Papa’s mouth, Mama let out another bloodcurdling scream.

Noah couldn’t see Papa’s expression, but Mrs. Knagg’s wince was quite clear. “We’ve sent for her, m’lord, but in this weather…” Her voice trailed off.

Papa nodded and entered the library, shutting the door behind him.

The click was ominous and resounded throughout the chamber.

Papa strolled over to the chair near the fire where Noah had been sitting earlier. He lifted the tome left there after Noah had rushed away minutes earlier. Papa grinned, his teeth gleaming white through his unshaven face in the gloom like the devil himself. Glancing at Noah, he lifted one brow. “ Sceptical Chymist , eh?”

“Well, you won’t let me attend school,” Noah said, kicking at a sliver of paper, not bothering to raise his head. All he’d see was the regular criticism besides.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, boy, you aren’t old enough. You’ll go when you turn thirteen, just like your brother.” He set the book on the nearest table. At least he hadn’t tossed it in the fire.

“But that’s three whole years.”

Papa dropped into the chair. “Enough. Now, sit down. I need your help.” He placed the basket on the floor between his feet.

Noah did as he’d asked. First, because Papa had never needed his help before. Second, because he really wanted his own pet. Not a puppy that was forced to stay in the barn on cold, stormy nights like tonight.

Papa reached down and lifted the lid off the basket, then drew out a bundle wrapped in a dark blanket. It wasn’t moving and Noah’s hopes dashed. Papa leaned forward and set the bundle in Noah’s lap.

Noah tugged gently at the corner of a scratchy blanket, curious despite his displeasure. “What is it?”

“Don’t let it fall, for God’s sake.” At Papa’s harsh tone, the bundle jerked and rolled, bound for a worn-through rug that wouldn’t protect a flea from the hard wood beneath but for Papa’s quick reaction. He plopped it back on Noah’s lap and another less bulky package wrapped in brown paper slipped to the floor, exposing a delicate, gold chain. Papa swooped it up then stuffed it into his vest pocket then stood.

“What is that?” Noah asked him.

“Nothing that concerns you. Your duty is to the infant, goddammit.” He started for the door.

“What? A baby?” He sputtered. “You’re giving me a baby ?” Noah’s gaze fell to the bundle across his knees. All thought of that small parcel flew from his head. “What am I supposed to do with a baby?”

“I don’t want it. Throw it in the lake, for all I care. But if you do decide to keep it, you’d best feed it soon. Once it starts hollering, it’s not likely to stop.”

Well, Papa had been right about one thing. Once the baby started crying, the thing hadn’t stopped. Noah lifted it, trying to imagine a scared puppy or a sickly kitten, but nothing worked. He struggled to set it back in the basket, but even with the top of the basket closed, the ear-shattering sound could not be softened.

Noah was ashamed that even a fleeting thought of tossing it in the lake had occurred to him.

“What do I feed it?” he asked his father before he had reached the door. “Cream, like a cat?”

“Something like that.” At the door, his father looked over his shoulder at him. “And, Noah—”

Oh, no. Papa never addressed him by his given name. Mama had once told him she’d overrode Papa’s preference for Devlin because it sounded too close to “devil.” His brother Lucius hadn’t been so lucky, having been named after Lucifer. Noah looked up, still holding the howling child that indeed blotted out his mother’s screams.

“No one is to know the child is not your mother’s. You understand what I’m saying?”

“No,” he said bluntly.

Papa let out a tired sigh. “Your mother is giving birth as we speak. Everyone is to believe your mother birthed this one at the same time.”

“You mean like a dog or cat has more than one?”

“Exactly like that. I want no questions, son. The only people who will know the truth is you, me, and the wet nurse. Now, it’s time I see your mother. Find the wet nurse. She can help with that parcel you’re holding.”

Noah sputtered. “But, is it a boy or a girl?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. The wet nurse can tell you. Just give it a name and keep it out of my sight.”

*

London—1838

Geneva drudged up the stairs, three flights, to No. 26 Berwick Street. She entered the flat she hadn’t lived in for the last two years, having been at Miss Greensley’s School of Comportment for Young Ladies of Quality. She unpinned the black veiled hat and tossed it on the scarred piece of wood that served as a table for her, Mama, and Papa on the rare occasions he was home.

With Mama now gone, the place felt almost haunted. The dreary London weather did nothing to dispel the notion. Mrs. Cornett still lived on the floor below, but she was feebler now and Mrs. Barding, whose husband had expired long before Geneva had left for school, was now Mrs. Cornett’s constant companion. Neither had been able to make the miserable trek to Mama’s services.

Papa had, of course, but he’d opted to stop at The Rat and Bull for a “quick” drink. Geneva suspected he wouldn’t return home for the remainder of the evening. Something for which she was innately grateful.

Geneva set the kettle on the stove to heat and changed from the dreary, black dress to something more comfortable. She was due to catch the coach back to school over the weekend.

The door flew back and Papa stood in the doorway, his small, beady eyes glittering—with fury? Madness?

But Geneva knew better than to cower, allowing him the upper hand.

His meaty hands clenched and flexed with ominous intent. “Where is it?” he demanded.

Level head , she told herself, turning and pulling a cup from the cupboard. “Where is what?”

“The locket.”

Geneva reached into the back of her mind, memories swirling. Just like the greatcoat of the mysterious stranger who’d haunted her dreams since the age of five. “I’ve no idea to what you are referring.”

He started toward her, the thick-knuckled fist rising. “Don’t be usin’ that highfalutin’ tone with me. Yer mum ain’t here to protect ye no more.”

But Geneva’s reflexes were sound. She managed to contain her flinch and snatched up the closest weapon.

The knife used for carving mutton on the rare occasion meat was in the house.