The fluttering of her heart triggered warning bells in her mind. She was not at all indifferent to this man she was struggling to trust. It’d be best to keep a distance until she knew if she’d be better off stepping closer or running the other way.
Brogan received a note from Vera two days after the discovery of Mr. Sorokin’s forged papers. Waiting to hear from her had stretched Brogan’s patience thinner than the parchment he now held in his hands. ’Twas more than worrying over whether she’d managed to secure a bit of the ambassador’s time, more than wondering how her da was behaving in light of everything. He wanted to hear from her. He wanted to know if he’d undone any of the damage his lies had inflicted. He wanted a reason to hope.
The note instructed him to meet her at Chesham Place at four o’clock that evening and to come dressed as he did when working at the print shop. That had struck him as odd. Gabbing with an ambassador called for one’s finest togs. Still, he trusted her and followed her instructions to the letter.
At four o’clock precisely, he stood within visual distance of the Russian Embassy. Vera peeked around the corner of Lyall Street.
“The servants’ entrance is this way,” she said.
Servants’ entrance. He caught up to her, not asking any of the questions flowing through his thoughts.
“I did try to secure a meeting with the ambassador, but nothing came of it,” Vera said. “Our best approach is to gab with the staff. I’ve an acquaintance among them, and few things happen in a house that the servants don’t know about.”
“Excellent.” Concerns expressed by the staff had first grabbed the attention of the Dread Master. Speaking with them would be wise.
“You’re not disappointed?” she asked, eyeing him through slightly narrowed eyes.
“I’m here to help,” he said.
Her brows pulled low. “You’re meaning to still follow my lead?”
“Following is what I do best.”
Vera’s head tilted, and she studied him closely. Trying to safely explain his vast history of “following” would set him firmly back in the same frustrating position of dishonesty he longed to leave behind.
They reached the servants’ entrance—modest door and no portico to protect arrivals from the elements. Yet, Brogan found it reassuringly familiar. He’d spent all his years in Dublin making deliveries to the humble back doors of that city. While he had occasion now to pass through fine entryways at times, he still felt more comfortable at the backs than the fronts.
Vera knocked, and they waited in awkward silence. How he wished they could reclaim the easy comradery they’d once shared.
A woman, likely the housekeeper, ushered them inside. She and Vera spoke in what he guessed was Russian, though Vera’s efforts were noticeably more stilted. When both women looked at him in the same brief moment, he kept his expression both pleasant and unobtrusive, knowing Vera was likely attempting to gain him entry into the gab she’d arranged.
After a moment, they were ushered down the narrow corridor to the servants’ hall. The room was in a state of ebbing chaos, the staff’s meal likely having only just come to a close. Vera searched the faces; Brogan mostly kept out of the way.
Soon enough, the bustling room, with its two long tables and mismatched benches, emptied of all its occupants other than Vera, Brogan, and a maid near in age to them.
“Katya,” Vera said to the maid, “this is Brogan Donnelly, the man I told you was helping me sort all this. Brogan, this is Katya Volkov.”
“Zdravstvuyte,” Brogan said, earning looks of surprise from them both. To Vera, he explained, “I asked Móirín to teach me a couple words.”
“I’ve never heard Russian spoken with an Irish accent,” Katya said with a broad smile. Her accent actually was Russian, unlike Vera’s, which sounded utterly London. “An odd combination, that.”
“I hope not one that offends your ears.”
Katya shook her head, then waved them both over to the nearest table. She sat on the end of one bench. Brogan sat beside Vera on the bench opposite.
“I’ll not muck about,” Vera said, “but jump right to the heart of things. I’ve reason to believe my papa is eyeballs’ deep in something he oughtn’t to be, and that something is connected somehow to the ambassador. What can you tell me?”
Katya leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The ambassador is upended, walking about with worry on his brow. He is seeing to his official duties but participating in little else.”
“Does he have callers?” Vera asked.
Katya shook her head. “Almost none. He turned Lord Chelmsford away only a few days ago. He used to call on the regular.”
“I heard the ambassador and Lord Chelmsford’s friendship has been strained of late,” Brogan said.
“The ambassador won’t see him, warns him to keep away.” Katya shrugged, her shoulders lifting, her hand spread wide beside her. It was precisely the same way Vera shrugged. Seemed it was a Russian gesture. “It’s an odd thing between the two gentlemen, as they’ve always gotten on well.”
The ambassador was keeping Chelmsford at bay. Perhaps Chelmsford was involved in the forgeries, meaning to do his one-time friend a bad turn.
“What could that have to do with my papa? He don’t know either man.”
“I’d say ‘nothing,’” Katya replied, “but Albie, our little knife-boy, saw your papa knocking about out by the mews about a week ago.”
“How did Albie know who he was?” Vera asked.
“Tugged me over there near the horses. Worried about something he saw. I knew it was your papa, seeing as I’ve met the both of you.”
“What worried the lad?” Brogan felt certain that answer was important.
“Can’t rightly say.” Katya hopped to her feet and moved to the door of the servants’ hall. She beckoned another maid closer. “Fetch Albie, would you?” She returned to the table and took a deep breath. “Near all the lower servants have been whispering about the change in the ambassador, how odd he’s being.”
“Is he tossing all callers out?” Brogan asked. “Or only Lord Chelmsford?”
Katya gave it a moment’s thought. “The ambassador hasn’t had many social callers, but the only one he’s told not ever to come ’round is Lord Chelmsford. There’ve been a couple others he didn’t seem too pleased to see.”
“Who?” Vera asked.
“Don’t know who they were. Didn’t seem like the fine-and-fancy sort. All the staff noted what a mismatch they were to someone of the ambassador’s standing.”