“M’sister and I haven’t a great many connections in the Irish community here in London,” Brogan said. “I’d wager your da misses that tie to his homeland as much as we miss ours.”
“He never fails to notice any news about the ambassador or some of the prominent Russians in London, but he talks with only a couple of his countrymen, and even then not often.” There was something of a sigh in her words. “He never speaks of going back, but my mum did almost constantly.”
“Do you long to go back?” he asked.
“I was a tiny child when we came here. Going back there wouldn’t be returning home; it would be leaving the only home I’ve ever known.”
Vera felt no real connection to Russia, but her da had a complicated one and an established interest in the ambassador. Something was odd there. The Dread Master hadn’t been entirely misguided in his suspicions.
Brogan stopped at a roasted nut cart and purchased two bags of hot chestnuts.
Vera bumped him with her shoulder. “You spoil me with these, you know.”
“You deserve a spot of spoiling. Besides that, the Newports aren’t wealthy people, no matter that they’ve an impressive address. I can’t say we’ll be offered anything to eat while we’re there, and I’ve no wish for you to be hungry.”
She accepted the offering with a grateful smile. “Very thoughtful of you.”
He dipped his head in an overdone impersonation of a fine society gentleman. “I am terribly gallant.”
“Or just terribly hungry.”
He laughed as they walked along. Lands, he enjoyed spending time with her. How easily he could imagine them spending every afternoon this way, growing ever more acquainted, ever more fond.
As soon as they finished their nuts, he hailed a hansom cab. It’d take an hour each direction to walk to Pimlico, and while he did enjoy her company, that felt drastic. During the drive, their conversation ranged from penny dreadfuls to pastries to entertaining stories from their childhoods.
How easy it was to forget he was investigating her father’s possible connection to an infamous criminal enterprise.
The Newports’ home was in finer feather than when Brogan had first seen it. He’d come before on DPS business and had assumed a false name—the very name, in fact, he was using at the print shop. Mr. Newport’s daughter knew Brogan’s actual identity, but they’d not told her father. That would only lead to questions that could not be safely answered.
“Mr. O’Donnell, what brings you by?” Mr. Newport greeted him in the humbly furnished sitting room, which had been entirely empty mere weeks earlier. Ana’s engagement to Hollis Darby, Brogan’s colleague at the DPS, had improved their situation.
“I’ve found someone who loves the penny dreadfuls as much as you do.” Brogan motioned to Vera. “Miss Vera Sorokina, this is Mr. Newport. Mr. Newport, Miss Sorokina.”
“A pleasure.”
Vera dipped her head. “Likewise.”
In the length of a breath, they were deep in conversation about the various penny serials and the storylines. Mr. Newport was as excited about the visit as Brogan had hoped. And Vera was as sincerely friendly with the often-lonely man as he’d known she would be.
Brogan sat beside her on the faded settee, adding to the conversation as needed, but mostly enjoying watching her eyes dance with excitement. Her entire face lit when she was enthusiastic about something. And that something, more often than not, was characters and stories and tales of adventure.
Her father’s opposition to her interests robbed her of that. Why such a deeply ingrained distrust of writers, one so solidified that he’d deny his own daughter such obvious happiness? Vera had indicated she, too, shared his misgivings.
Thank the heavens neither of them knew Brogan’s actual vocation.
Or the real reason he’d come to their shop.
Or the way he was evaluating everything he learned about them.
As the weight of that settled on his mind, his heart grew heavy with it. He was being shockingly dishonest with them. He, who had made so many speeches at DPS meetings about wanting to be a more honest man.
If this kept up, he would quickly be in deep, deep water.
by Mr. King
Installment III
in which our Heroine makes a most shocking Discovery about the Town in which she lives!
The squire’s refusal to pay for his cake put Tallulah’s ledgers in tremendous jeopardy. Two nights in a row she spent hours searching for a means of recovering from the financial blow he’d dealt her. If she was quite careful, she could manage it, but she could not endure another swindling from the man. And yet, Mr. Royston Prescott had indicated this was a common practice for the local squire.
Under normal circumstances, she would not have selected a known tease as a primary source of information on such serious matters, but Mr. Prescott had shown her a degree of support that had surprised her. He’d not told her what to do, neither had he defended the squire. He was the closest thing to an ally she had.
She closed up her shop a little early, two days after the incident with the cake, and made her way down the road to the haberdashery shop where she knew she would find him.
She stepped inside and found the establishment empty, though she knew he did excellent business. But Fate was smiling on her. She’d found him at a time when he was not overly busy.
He looked up as she entered. A flirtatious smile spread across his face. “Miss O’Doyle. Have you come to purchase a waistcoat?”
“Wouldn’t I be quite the sight? Walking up and down the market cross while dressed in men’s clothing?”
The twinkle in his eye told her the possibility did not, in fact, horrify him. Why this brought her pleasure, she couldn’t say. Most any other man would have offered words, however hollow, of horror at the idea, accompanied by lofty praises of her femininity. He simply looked more roguish.
Her first impressions of him were proving accurate: he was a rogue, but not the threatening or dangerous variety. In fact, she found herself sorely tempted to smile along with him.
“I’ve come to ask you a question,” she said.
“As I’m not currently inundated with customers, this would be an excellent time to ask any and every question you might have.”
“You say that as if you hope my question will be something overbold.”
He shrugged elegantly and walked with careful and graceful strides to where she stood. He leaned a hand on the table, tipping his posture ever so slightly askew, granting him a casual connectedness to her that might’ve been a touch too familiar for an ordinary man. It seemed almost subdued for a rascal.