Page 20

T he last three days had been something of a mess. If Abe’s father were present, with all his endearing Aberdeen-isms, he would have called the whole affair a “swim in drumly waters.” And then Rosalind, bless her, would say, “Da, no one knows what that means.”

Abe made a mental note to write to his family. It had been too long.

He could add a blank page to his rapidly growing pile of work in the first-floor study. What damage could one more page do, after all?

The morning after Freddy’s fuddling had seen the arrival of Mrs. Harrison, who found them both mostly clothed and asleep in the little sunroom near the front door.

Abe resented, on some level, that he appeared to have been part of whatever debauchery she assumed went on in this house the night before, but Freddy had looked so relieved to not be alone in his shame that he hadn’t corrected her.

He’d even taken a hearty swig of the charcoal water she prepared, as though he, too, needed to recover from a particularly nasty bottleache, and rather than getting up and about his day like he had planned, he’d sat in the dark room as she drew the curtains for them and put on a fortifying broth.

Honestly, it hadn’t been a bad day. Everyone needed rest now and then.

The timing had just been unfortunate. Abe had to bottle the burst of energy the previous night had gifted him, in hopes of using it later, and sit in shadowed silence with a man who probably found even the act of thinking too painful to consider for half the day.

By the time their well-meaning housekeeper ushered them upstairs to bathe and nap, he was actually ready to just give in to the siren song of lethargy until the sun came up again.

The second day had allowed him to escape the house after breakfast, in search of the impersonator calling him or herself Francis Aiden, which had resulted in nothing but dead ends and bad weather.

He’d stopped by Bow Street in an attempt to speak discreetly to Silas about his concern over Freddy, but Silas was never in these days. As much as Abe trusted Cresson, it didn’t seem right to leave such information for a relayed message, and so he’d simply resolved to try again later in the week.

And the third day … well, the third had been the murkiest of them all, and it had only just begun.

Mrs. Harrison had arrived earlier than usual that morning.

She’d resolved to send Freddy out to the market in pursuit of ingredients for the night’s dinner.

She had decided, after witnessing his little fall from grace, that more complex tasks would help distract his mind from the lure of bad habits.

Abe thought this was sensible enough, and he wasn’t going to lie, Freddy’s sauces and gravies were coming along very nicely. He’d even started making their meals on Mrs. Harrison’s days off. They were a bit rustic, but the man seemed to have a firm grasp on flavor already.

How many people could say their breakfast had been prepared by an earl? Abe enjoyed the novelty of it very much, but he also enjoyed it silently, so as not to compromise his good fortune.

The urge to needle Freddy, it turned out, was far weaker than the urge to eat quality meals on Sundays.

It was the series of events that started the instant Freddy had vanished around the sidewalk corner that had been the issue.

First, the post had arrived. It was a mighty addition to his stack of neglected papers, but the headline on The Standard had been impossible to ignore: HIGH SOCIETY JEWEL THIEF DETAINED BY BOW STREET RUNNERS .

Damn it.

He had become far more invested in solving that blasted case than he should have allowed. It was also his most effective tie to Millie Yardley. Not only had he lost the sorely needed fee for solving the case, but he had now lost his pretense for courting a woman he was completely smitten with.

He didn’t even read the article, tossing the newspaper with frustration and disgust on his study chair and slamming the door to the room as though he could banish the information from existing in his vicinity.

Then the doorbell rang.

He had been in his bedroom, drying his hair, when the bell chimed. It took him a moment to orient himself, and pulling his bracers up over his shoulders, he hurried down the staircase, one side of his shirt still waiting to be tucked into his waistband.

He’d expected a client, or perhaps Freddy had forgotten his key.

Instead, he’d reached the landing to hear a very tense exchange between clipped female voices.

“I don’t understand why he is buying vegetables like some common kitchen boy, is all,” came a breathy, higher-pitched voice. “He is a peer of the realm.”

“He’s a young man who needs some guidance in his life, I say,” replied Mrs. Harrison, not bothering at all to lower her volume. “Might call it mothering, even.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Indulgence leads to ruin,” Mrs. Harrison replied with a haughty sniff. “Discipline refines character.”

Abe found his step speeding up in triplicate to stop whatever the hell was happening at the door.

“Lady Bentley!” he boomed, loud enough to startle both women from their adversarial stances. “What an unexpected pleasure!”

Mrs. Harrison had been akimbo in the doorway, like she’d need to be taken down by a battering ram before she’d let the other woman through. Lady Bentley had drawn herself up to her full height and was staring down her narrow nose at the housekeeper with murder glinting in her light eyes.

Now they both turned to him with a sort of baffled sheepishness. “Please, come in,” he said with a pointed widening of his eye at the housekeeper.

Mrs. Harrison pressed her lips together so hard that they turned white, spun on her heel, and marched back into her kitchen. She said nothing, but somehow her opinion of the whole matter remained very, very loud.

Lady Bentley relaxed her shoulders and stepped over the threshold, shaking her head like she’d just had an out-of-body experience.

“Come to my office,” Abe said, guiding her into the house and kicking the door gently shut behind her. “I will have some tea brewed.”

“No need, Mr. Murphy,” she replied. “I couldn’t possibly stomach a thing. I need to speak to my son urgently.”

“I’m afraid Mrs. Harrison was correct,” he said apologetically, closing his office door and moving to clear the stack of papers from the desk. “Freddy is out on an errand.”

He sat directly on the copy of The Standard .

“Who is that woman?” Lady Bentley asked, raising her brows. “She wasn’t here last time I visited. How dare she imply I am a poor mother?”

“I’m certain she’d never be so brazen,” he replied uneasily, the sheets of newspaper crinkling under his bum. “I will, of course, have words with her if you wish.”

“I think you’d be wise to rein her in before she offends one of your clients,” Lady Bentley said with a lift of her narrow shoulder, “but it is not my concern today. I have received a troubling contact from a gambling establishment this morning, attempting to collect a debt incurred by my son some two nights ago.”

“Ah.” Abe grimaced.

“You are not surprised,” she observed with a resigned nod. “It is not a substantial debt, Mr. Murphy. I am not concerned about the amount. I am far more concerned that it is the start of another cycle of poor behavior from my son.”

“Did the collector say Freddy named you as guarantor?” Abe asked, a sinking feeling in his chest.

“He said my name was frequently mentioned until access to the hell was granted. It was not a well-known establishment. Small mercies, I suppose.” She sighed, lowering her eyes to her hands in her lap.

“Perhaps your impertinent servant is right, and I should not indulge him or assist in any way, but I cannot simply leave my son to the wolves, Mr. Murphy, no matter how flawed he may be.”

“I’d never suggest such a thing,” Abe replied earnestly. “It was a misstep. I won’t pretend it wasn’t, but in the same breath, I do not think it is the first of a series of missteps.”

“You don’t?” she asked, giving a skeptical tilt of her head. “Why not?”

Abe opened his mouth and then closed it again, furrowing his brow. “I don’t know,” he confessed after a moment. “I can only say he seems different of late. It is not the man he wishes to be.”

“It never was,” she answered with a heavy sigh. “Wishes do not fix us, Mr. Murphy. A vice as strong as my son’s might as well be an actual demon, appearing and possessing him beyond his best intentions. What he wishes is irrelevant.”

He nodded.

She wasn’t wrong. Anyone who had ever known a man tied to his vice—be it the bottle or dice or even love—knew that good intentions were not a cure.

He wanted to argue with her, but his gut feeling, his trust in the other man, was not a rational thing.

“If the wolves arrive at our door,” he said, reaching across the desk as though to bridge the gap between them, “I will not allow them through.”

She blinked at him, a glimmer of hope crossing her pretty face. She took a short gulp of air and placed her own hand atop his with a reassuring pat of his knuckles.

“You’re a good boy,” she said, an undercurrent of raggedness in her voice. “Freddy is lucky to have you. I’ve a favor to ask.”

“Name it.”

She hesitated, retracting her hand and fiddling with the wedding ring she still wore. She averted her eyes as she spoke, as though she could not bear to see his disapproval at her request.

“I’d like to hire you,” she said softly. “You are an investigator, and I require information about my son. I want to know what he is up to and how he is faring, but with discretion. It would not do for him to know I am hovering.”

Abe stared at her, momentarily speechless.

Was this the same woman he’d been hounding across half of London? The one who’d scandalized the ballroom last night with a fiery fandango?

She was still twisting her ring, like its weight had increased during this conversation. Her averted gaze flicked back to him, and he noticed a catch in her breath the next time she drew it. This request had not come easily.

“He would see it as a betrayal,” he said carefully, “if he ever found out. If I agree to do this for you, it is imperative that it remain a secret. Feeling abandoned and betrayed is what started this mess in the first place.”

“Is it?” she asked, hope leaping up in her eyes like a child who’d found a lost toy. “This is what I mean. I need to know.”

Abe shook his head, a thrumming of tension at his temples alerting him to the fact that he would most certainly have a headache later.

“All right,” he agreed, holding up his hands in surrender. “I will do this because I think it is good for him, but you must go now, before he returns. I will not risk setting him off again.”

She stood immediately, clutching her hands to her chest in an interlaced ball. “But that woman will surely mention it?”

“I will handle it,” he told her, standing himself and striding over to the door. “Expect a letter from me soon. We will get him through this.”

She followed him through the house to the door and turned just before leaving to press a receipt into his hands. “I paid the debt,” she confessed. “Tell him if you like. Or don’t. I don’t trust my own instincts on the matter anymore.”

He took the little sheet of paper, doing his best not to balk at the amount.

“And thank you, Mr. Murphy,” she said before departing. “Thank you so very much.”

He felt heavy trodding back to his study, dragging along that receipt like a sinking stone. He threw the newspaper on the desk, turning the headline face down, and fell back into his chair. His body protested like he’d just jogged the whole of London and back again.

He did his best not to reflect on the fact that he’d just unwittingly become a double agent for perhaps the most dysfunctional mother-son relationship this side of the River Thames.

He’d speak to Mrs. Harrison as soon as he felt able to think again, he resolved. For the moment, he wanted something untaxing and simple to occupy his mind and refresh his spirit.

He pulled the stack of post in front of him and dug out the three gossip sheets that had become part of his daily rotation.

Gossip, he thought, would be a reprieve.

But he was wrong.

The most popular circular appeared to be entirely devoted to a single story, and reading its headline made his heart sink in a way that the jewel thief nonsense had not come close to.

A Message to London’s Wallflowers, read the title. Daring Musings on Femininity for the Overlooked Young Lady - Penned by an Anonymous Author .

Someone, he realized, had found and published Millie’s private letter.

And now all of London was going to see it.

“Oh,” he muttered to himself, the circular aloft in his hands. “Shit.”