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

1847

“G eneva, have you completed the Call to Arms for Education Reform ?” Miss Hannah Ruskin, sister of Baron Ruskin, and also fellow Miss Greensley’s Academy graduate, as well as one of her dearest friends, looked up, her blue eyes questioning.

Geneva Wimbley and her group of cohorts from Miss Greensley’s had created their own secret club: The Clandestine Sapphire Society , and they were on a mission: to further education for the masses with training for teachers, as well as a demand for better working conditions that included factory workers and others in need of basic human rights, food, shelter, clothing. The objectives also included promoting social justice and equality. Geneva, Hannah, along with Lady Abra Washington, and the Duke of Rathbourne’s only child, Lady Meredith Jephson—now Lady Perlsea, Geneva reminded herself—had tired of those who stole from the poor to raise their own statuses, only to mock those they treated so abhorrently. Meredith had wed three years prior and her arrogant, overbearing husband had banished her to Cornwall due to some sort of agreement their fathers had struck when the viscount and Meredith had been just children. It was so archaic.

Geneva missed Meredith terribly and it had been quite some time since she’d heard from her friend.

“Of course. How else am I to pay the rent? I’m just wrapping up. How does this sound?” She set down her pen and picked up the sheaf of paper and read, “‘ In the quest of superiority in education, ’tis crucial we recognize the vital roles of educators. Instructors are not merely conveyors of information; they are the future of this great country. Mentors, guides, and inspirers of young minds. I implore you to support the quality of education, as it can only be as strong as the caliber of those from whom they learn. ’Tis with this conviction that the entire British population advocate for greater training across the board .’”

Hannah put her hands together, wheat-colored curls bouncing and infectious grin curving her lips, exposing a playful dimple in her left cheek. “Bravo! Bravo!”

Geneva rose from her chair and gave a grand bow from the waist, grinning back. “Thank you.”

Her friend took her cloak from the peg near the door, then set her bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons beneath her chin.

“Where is your maid?” Geneva worried about causing trouble for her friends. The baron in particular could be an issue.

“Downstairs, waiting in the carriage.” Hannah tugged on her kid gloves and strolled over.

Geneva signed the document with their standard signature of “CSS” and, after sanding the carefully worded papers, she folded the small stack and tied them with a piece of twine. She rose from the table and made a great show of officially handing the small packet to her friend.

“Excellent.” Hannah slipped it into her oversized reticule. “I’ll stop by the printer’s on my way home. What’s next?”

“An article on supplying instructors with more beneficial tools and resources. I vow it’s a shame women are not allowed in Parliament. The world would be a much better place, I’d wager.”

With a scowl, Hannah said, “Yes. I do believe it would.” She paused a beat, studying Geneva until the hair on the back of her neck raised.

“Is something wrong?” Geneva asked slowly.

“A date has been selected.”

The breath escaped Geneva in a rush. “I know he’s your brother, but Abra—”

Hannah touched her arm. “I think they’ll be happy, darling.” Another scowl touched her lips. “It’s that blasted stepmother of hers who’s kicking up the fuss.”

That was true enough. Abra was the daughter of Marquess Westbridge. Her mother had been from Jamaica. To hear Abra speak of her parents’ marriage, it had been a love match for the ages, but sadly, her mother had perished in childbirth along with an infant sister some years ago. Long before Abra had begun attending Miss Greensley’s School. Her death had devastated both her and her father.

Certainly, it had been natural for Lord Westbridge to remarry, but his current wife was determined to marry Abra off to the Marquess of Martindale. The man had recently inherited his title. He was a horrid man.

Hannah was convinced that her brother, Lord Ruskin, and Abra held an attraction for one another and were perfect together. Geneva wasn’t so sure and feared for her friend being treated less than she deserved. Baron Ruskin was decidedly the better of the two.

Clutching her reticule, Hannah opened the door. “We’ll talk soon. Get some rest, my friend. Those dark circles beneath your eyes will not cure themselves. Au revoir , love.”

The decisive click of the latch behind her friend reverberated through the flat, leaving exhaustion—mostly from her own thoughts and unending expectations—hitting her full force. She slid from her chair at the scarred table to the hardwood floor and stretched her body out, closing her eyes. Abra’s stepmother was nothing but a social-climbing, bitter woman who resented Lord Westbridge’s first wife’s child.

With a deep breath, Geneva drew in the ancient smells that permeated the walls. The fragrance wasn’t what she would call pleasant , per se. More like… familiar, bringing to mind Mama’s and her gentler times together when Papa had been away at sea. She basked in the quiet—

From the flat next door, Mr. Pickler yelled at his poor wife. Again . Her own walls vibrated with his fury— almost quiet, then. She slammed a fist on the plank out of frustration. There was something odd in the sound. Hollow. Her heart tipped in an erratic thump, but Mr. Pickler’s words were spiraling into a widening cone.

With tired determination, Geneva came to her feet, taking up the knife she’d brandished against her father eight years ago. She held it within the folds of her skirts before slipping out into the darkened corridor and pounding on the Picklers’ door.

The yells came to an immediate stop. Seconds later, the door crashed back and Mr. Pickler’s large, bulking form blocked her entry. The stench of gin nearly felled her to her knees. “Wot do ye want?”

She clenched her teeth and spoke through the putrid smell. “To see Mrs. Pickler.”

“We’re talkin’,” he growled.

Standing her ground, Geneva had learned early on, was the only way to deal with such bullies. “Still, I insist on speaking with her. I suggest, sir, you sleep off your stupor.” She shoved her way past him, her fingers tightening on the wooden hilt of the knife.

To Geneva’s greatest relief, Mrs. Pickler was none the worse for wear. The stubborn compression of her lips was reassuring. She stood at the table wielding her own knife over a loaf of freshly baked bread. “Ah, Miss Wimbley, I expect you’re hungry,” she said, slicing into the loaf, releasing a stream of steam.

Geneva’s stomach grumbled in a most convenient and timely manner. “I am, indeed, Mrs. Pickler.” She took one of the two chairs. More like collapsed in to.

Mr. Pickler glared at the two of them but muttered something unintelligible before disappearing into the curtained-off, makeshift bedchamber. Within seconds, his snores filled the flat.

“He’ll sleep it off and be back to his charmin’ self in no time,” Mrs. Pickler said with a sharp grin. Her thin, wiry frame belied a lifetime of hard work. The hazel eyes were clouded by weary dullness and her graying hair, streaked with white, was pinned up in a messy bun, though stray wisps had escaped to frame her face, softening her prominent cheekbones. “I ’preciate yer angel-like tendencies, dear.” Her bony fingers held up the knife.

Geneva took her own knife from the folds of her skirts and laid it on the table with a small laugh. “Thank you, Mrs. Pickler. I am relieved to hear that.”

Mrs. Pickler pushed a plate in front of Geneva then plopped a jar of currants down. She took the chair across from her guest. “Ye work too hard, gel.”

“Work too hard?” she murmured. Perhaps she did.

“Ye think the women in this buildin’ don’ know wot yer about?” She shook her head, smiling. “I see yer titled friends a comin’ an’ a goin’.”

“Oh.” What was she supposed to say? “I, er, wasn’t aware…” Her voice trailed off.

“’Tis a good thing yer doin’. Ye’ll git no arguments from me. Now, eat up. Yer thin as a rail.”

Thirty minutes later, Geneva reentered her flat bearing a nice, warm gift.

“Good. You’re back. I let myself in,” Lady Abra Washington said unnecessarily. Geneva had given her friends keys to the flat due to the clandestine nature of their endeavors.

She stood in Geneva’s tiny kitchen with one hand on an open cupboard door. Her maid, Pasha, was seated on the sagging settee near the windows that overlooked the street below. Abra glanced over her shoulder, her hazel-brown eyes going straight to the borrowed plate from Mrs. Pickler with another large slice of bread slathered with currant jam. She dropped her hand. “Fresh bread? Is that”—she swallowed—“for me?” She glanced at Pasha. “I mean us?”

“Of course it is. That stepmother of yours is a horror acting as if you hoard every crumb you put in your mouth.” Geneva strolled to the table and set it down, then dropped the knife with a clunk . “I vow, if I ever have the opportunity to drag that woman into an alley—”

Abra’s eyes shot to Pasha then back to Geneva with a lifted brow, cutting her off. “Ah. Mr. Pickler was drinking, I take it?”

“Yes.” Geneva tilted her head, considering the knife she’d plunked down. “You know? I don’t believe we need worry over Mrs. Pickler any longer. That woman is resourceful and can take care of herself.”

“You doubted her? I never have. Not for a moment.” Abra cut the bread in half, then strolled over and handed the plate to Pasha. She took a large bite and her features relaxed into pure ecstasy. “I would kill the man myself if she promised us bread on a daily basis.”

Geneva grinned. “I feel the same.” She knelt on the floor and began lightly tapping the planks in a systematic manner.

“What are you doing?” Abra asked around another bite.

A grim smile touched Geneva. “I thought I heard a hollowing earlier.”

“Really?” Abra’s chair scraped back and she went on her knees too, starting in another area, mimicking Geneva’s actions. “When was this?”

“Right before Mr. Pickler began his rantings. Hannah had just left for the printer with the Education Advocacy pamphlets. Which reminds me—she mentioned a date had been set—”

“Listen,” Abra interrupted urgently. “Here.”

Geneva stilled and Abra tapped again. “That’s it.”

“You think it’s a secret compartment?”

It was the only hope Geneva could harbor after all these years. To prove having a legacy, the promise from her mother, had perhaps been wishful thinking. “Let’s see. It’s an odd place if it is.” The flat was on the third floor of this Berwick building. But where else could her mother have hidden a ruby locket? At times, her mother’s words and the man in the swirling, black cloak seemed nothing other than some reoccurring nightmare. And perhaps it had been. Still, her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.

Abra jumped up, quickly returning with an oil lamp set at its brightest setting. “Look, there’s a space between the slats.” She retrieved the knife, pried the plank open, and set it aside. “There’s something there,” she whispered.

Geneva’s hands shook with disbelief and longing. “Truly? After all these years?” She reached in with trembling fingers and pulled out a wooden keepsake box. Carved leaves bordered all four sides. Etched atop in an elaborate design was Emily Renee . “Good heavens. I-I didn’t dream it,” she whispered. Dust filled the carved-out crevices and came off on Geneva’s fingertips. “My mother’s name was Emily.” There was even a key in the keyhole. She ran a fingertip over the dull metal.

“Open it.” Abra’s impatience jarred her.

“Oh. Right.” She turned the key and lifted the lid. The creak sounded more like a squeal. It was the most precious sound Geneva could ever remember hearing.

Inside, she found a delicate, lace handkerchief yellowed with age. Silk ribbons that were stiff and almost unbending, faded pink and a blue one softened to grayish purple. A distressed sachet that had long since lost its scent and an empty perfume bottle. Geneva pulled the stopper and put it to her nose. Lemon verbena. “I-It still smells like her.” Overwhelming emotion stung the backs of her eyes. She grappled for control.

There were no trinkets. Or if there had been, they’d likely been sold off years ago. There was also… “No ruby locket,” she said. At the moment, she couldn’t have cared less. This was a legacy of sorts she’d never expected to have. The gravity of that manacled her chest.

“That top part is just an insert. Perhaps the locket’s underneath,” Abra said.

Nodding, Geneva lifted the wooden insert. Abra was correct. It was another compartment designed to hold letters, she supposed. There was only one. As if handling the queen’s jewels, Geneva took the note and unfolded it. She’d never seen her mother’s writing before, but whose else could it have been?

Lord Pender,

I beg of you, please. Things have turned most dire. My husband

The words were marred here. By tears?

is a violent man. You must do something to save my Gen …

Again, a blur.

All that is precious to me is in your hands. Everything in my posse—

That was where the letter stopped. Geneva lifted her head, her own vision obscured, and met her friend’s eyes, which were filled with concern. She looked down at the letter. A splash plinked on the paper. Geneva flipped it over, but the backside was blank.

“What does it say?” Abra asked.

Geneva handed it to her and brushed away a tear. Now was not the time to blubber like an infant.

“At the least, we have a name,” Abra said. Then, scowling, added, “Lord Pender is a scoundrel along with that libertine son of his. Every time I think how he deserted Meredith in the wilds of Cornwall, I’m angry all over again. I vow, their reputations know no bounds.” She folded the missive over and handed it back. “What do you wish to do?”

Geneva’s determination firmed. “Find my locket, of course. Now that I know it truly exists.” At least, she hoped that was the case. She came to her feet, swooping up the box from the floor, then stopped. “Is there anything else in there?” She waved at the floor.

Abra dipped her head, then looked up. “Nothing. Oh, wait.” She reached down then brought out her hand and opened her palm. “A pearl earbob.”

Black edged Geneva’s vision. She fell back to her knees, hardly able to catch her breath.

Abra grabbed her hand and plopped the pearl into it. “The other one must be here somewhere.” She bent over the opening, blocking it from Geneva’s sight. “Blast. There’s nothing—wait. There is something.” She reared back and traded the earbob for another key. This one, small and rusty, left marks on Geneva’s hand. Abra held the earbob to the lamp, studying it from all angles. “I don’t know much regarding the value of jewels and such, never having so much as a chain to wear about my neck, thanks to my dear stepmother, but… this appears significant to me. What do you propose to do with it?” She held the earbob out in the flat of her hand.

It was a singular piece of delicate yet striking craftsmanship; its age was evident in the faint patina and whispered of a storied past. The pearl itself was lustrous though slightly irregular in shape with a soft, creamy sheen that caught the light and glowed with an otherworldly beauty. Its surface bore the subtle mark of time with tiny imperfections that only enhanced its authenticity and rarity. Geneva couldn’t pull her eyes from it and responded without hesitation. “Sell it. We shall need the blunt.”

A searing hatred pierced her that was ages old. If she had to describe it, it would have resembled something like a large, black greatcoat smothering her senses, blinding her, muffling all sound. Suffocating her ability to breathe. “Let’s set this plank back in place. We’ve plans to make.” She tightened her fist around the piece of metal she still held and stopped, peering at her very good friend. “If you… will you accompany me?”

Abra’s straight, white teeth gleamed in a huge grin. “Just try to stop me.”

“What about the evil stepmother?”

“I’ll tell Papa we are to visit Meredith. He trusts me implicitly.”

“But… if he learns the truth, he might quash our friendship.”

“You let me handle Papa,” she said with a wave of her hand.

A rush of gratitude filled Geneva. “Of course, Pasha—”

“Adores you.” Abra glanced over to Pasha who was watching them, eyes wide. “Don’t you, Pasha?”

“Of course, my lady,” she dutifully responded, though Geneva detected a gleam of excitement in her eye.

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t managed to fool Abra’s parents before. They could now as well. “All right,” Geneva said softly. She leaned over and gave her a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she whispered. No one had a better friend.