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Twenty

Eliza liked Cora and Devonworth’s driver more than she liked Camille’s driver.

Camille’s driver had been employed by the Duke of Hereford for decades and was rather full of himself.

He’d been grouchy and had always looked upon Eliza and her sisters with marginal disdain.

She assumed he didn’t like outsiders, particularly American outsiders, and resented having to serve them.

Jones, Devonworth’s driver, was more relaxed and given to smiling.

He was in his twenties and had a boyish charm that she found very amusing.

The best part was that he enjoyed reading novels.

She’d found that out earlier in the summer when he’d seen her holding a book and had discreetly kept looking at it until he’d figured out the title.

Ever since then she made sure to bring him a book whenever she visited Cora and they would go out in her sister’s carriage.

Now that she had moved in with Cora, she found that she liked him even more.

Because he was less set in the ways of the British upper class, Jones was very good at minding his own business.

He thought nothing of taking Eliza to the British Museum and dropping her off without a chaperone.

To make certain he was occupied, she handed him a dime novel she’d brought from New York, Buffalo Bill Trails the Devil Head , before leaving him with the carriage.

He accepted it with good cheer, and she watched discreetly from the entrance to see where he parked the carriage down the road so that he could settle in to read.

Only when he was occupied did she veer away from the entrance to the museum.

He didn’t see her cross the road at the corner.

And he certainly missed it when she sprinted across the next street and around the corner to Montague Club.

She was here because she couldn’t be anywhere else.

Simon called to her, whether he knew it or not.

Ever since he’d had dinner with them last night and they had shared the private moment in the dining room, she had been consumed by him.

Her mother had noticed during the meal that there had been something between them.

Fanny had found her before bed and inquired about Eliza’s interest in him.

It had been on the tip of her tongue to confess everything to her mother.

The only thing that had kept her silent was that Simon had given no indication that he wanted to try to figure out a way forward for them.

It seemed impossible—probably was impossible—but didn’t they owe it to themselves to even consider the possibility?

The idea of them was foolish, but she’d never forgive herself if she married Mainwaring without talking to Simon first. It wouldn’t hurt to have one honest conversation about where things stood.

The attractive limestone building loomed across the road before her.

Several carriages were stalled out front, busy with the late-afternoon traffic of people arriving at the club.

Men in suits were loitering on the sidewalk, talking with one another before they went inside.

It might have been less crowded had she been able to come earlier in the day, but there had been a luncheon with the London Suffrage Society that she hadn’t felt she could miss.

Her only hope of avoiding detection was the kitchen entrance she and Jenny had used the last time.

The moment traffic let up, she hurried across the road.

From her vantage point at the street corner, she could see that the kitchen door was closed.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t be locked. She didn’t get a chance to find out, because as soon as she started down the sidewalk it opened.

Startled, she stopped walking. Simon’s tall frame emerged, and she did a quick about-face so he wouldn’t catch sight of her.

Almost as quickly, she turned back around.

She was here to see him, after all. There was no need to hide from him.

He wore a bespoke suit, the same type that he wore when working at the club.

It was different from what he’d worn the night they had gone to Whitechapel, which had been plain and hung looser on his frame.

She knew the suit was custom because of the fineness of the broadcloth and how it fit his waist and shoulders, emphasizing the narrowness of the former while drawing just snug enough against the latter.

He hadn’t yet looked in her direction, and she realized what had made her feel hesitant at his abrupt appearance.

There was a look of single-minded determination on his face.

He seemed concerned and carried a leather satchel.

He crossed the sidewalk in only a couple of long strides and hopped up into the carriage waiting there.

It took off at a fast clip before the door was even closed and before she could call out.

Wherever he was going, he was in a hurry.

She should go back to the museum, but she couldn’t look away from his carriage.

It had rolled to a stop at the intersection.

Where was he going so fast? She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was dreadfully wrong.

Her good angel told her it was none of her business where he was going, but her bad angel told her that something was wrong and he might need her.

She’d never seen him with such an expression on his face.

Should she follow him?

She paused, vacillating between going back to the museum and hailing a cab.

Of course she should go back to the museum.

There was always tomorrow. Yes, that is definitely what she should do.

But it wasn’t yet dark, and Jones didn’t expect her back for a couple of hours.

What harm would there be in following Simon? She’d never have to reveal herself.

No, she should definitely return to the museum.

It was the obvious choice. She turned around and started walking back the way she had come.

A hansom pulled around the corner, driving idly toward her.

She looked back at Simon’s carriage just in time to see it turning left.

Her decision made, she stepped out into the street to flag down the cab.

“Please follow that carriage,” she called up to the man before he could jump down and help her inside. Grabbing onto the handle, she pulled herself up and settled herself back against the seat.

The hansom took off and they were able to keep a fairly good pace.

She only lost sight of Simon once, but by then she had already recognized the narrowing streets and buildings in need of upkeep.

Simon was going to Whitechapel. But why?

She had gotten the impression that he didn’t wear his club attire on Whitechapel streets.

He had obviously left in a hurry. What would bring him here today?

When the cab came to a stop near Whitechapel High Street, the driver pulled to the side of the road and opened the hatch. His stern face appeared in the square opening above her. “I don’t drive here,” he announced.

“Fine, I’ll get out here.” She fumbled in her handbag and pulled out his fare.

His bushy eyebrows came together. “Are you certain, miss? This area—”

“Yes, I’m certain. Here.” She shoved the money at him and he shrugged and took it.

She fumbled her way out of the carriage and hurried toward the busy market. Panic began to overtake her because she didn’t see any sign of his carriage. It wasn’t dark yet, but it was late enough in the day that the streets were crowded. The White Hart pub was busy across the road.

A carriage had pulled up to the alley beside it, and she thought it might be his.

Montague Club’s carriages were unmarked for anonymity with no crest on the door.

It might have been anyone, but all the other vehicles in the market were either wagons or not as sleek and shiny.

Pulling her skirts up to her ankles, she hurried across the road, dodging carts, wagons, and manure as she went.

By the time she got there, the carriage was pulling off, but she saw Simon’s trim form disappearing down the alley.

He wasn’t running, but he walked very fast. She had to nearly sprint to keep pace with him.

He turned down two more alleys that were too narrow for anything larger than a cart.

Finally, his pace slowed as he came to a row of houses.

They were narrow and tall and made of brown brick.

He walked up to the front door at the third house and knocked.

A sign hung out over him, but it was so faded that she couldn’t tell what was written on it from where she stood hidden at the end of the block.

He glanced around as he waited, and she darted around the corner.

Again, she should have revealed herself, but something kept her silent.

By the time she peeked back around, the tall door had opened.

It had once been green, but the paint had long since faded and peeled away in sections.

She couldn’t tell who stood inside the door, but, man or woman, they were shorter than Simon.

He looked down as he spoke. The person stood back and allowed him to enter.

He swept off his hat as he stepped inside.

Once the door closed behind him, she hurried to the building.

She didn’t allow her good angel a say as she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

An older woman opened it. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back into a tidy bun and her black gown quite conservative with a high neck and long sleeves.

“Yes?” she asked when Eliza didn’t speak right away.

Eliza opened her mouth, but realized she probably shouldn’t ask for Simon. What had she hoped to find out anyway? Her impulsive flight to find him had overtaken her good sense.