“Merciful heavens.” Vera pressed her hands to either side of her face. “What next?”
Brogan took a step closer and leaned in, his nearness warming her. “If you’re willing to help, I believe we can manage your da’s request.”
She looked to him. “How in heaven’s name do we sneak forged documents out of the private residence of a former Lord High Chancellor?”
He tossed out one of his half-formed, eye-twinkling smiles. “Very carefully.”
For two days Brogan had been coming to the shop to help Vera look after it, do her work, and to keep her company. Papa and the children were gone, and Vera hadn’t heard a word from them. At times she would sit and stare off into nothing, attempting to wrap her mind around all she had learned in so short a time.
The much-despised Petrashevsky Circle was not, as she’d always believed, her family’s enemy, but her family’s past. Papa hadn’t been betrayed by them; he was one of them. And his distance from the Russian community in London, his insistence that she not interact with writers and authors, and likely even those moments throughout her life when he’d slipped away during the day on business and returned without new printing jobs or clients had all been part of his efforts to hide and protect people.
The neighborhood was on edge, worried, even though they were more hopeful than they had been. They’d contacted friends, family, colleagues, and acquaintances in vari-ous corners of London. Reports were trickling back in that the extortion scheme had popped up in many of those areas at about the same time it had in Soho. The pattern was the same; the results were the same. Vera was more than a little worried that she’d taken on a fight she was not at all sure she could win.
When her confidence would flag, Brogan would give her a nod or a smile, sometimes he would simply tell her that she was strong enough for this battle. And through it all, though he didn’t say it in specific words, he gave her every assurance that he would not leave her to fight alone.
On the third night after Papa had slipped away with Licorice and Olly, Vera was at Brogan and Móirín’s flat, where she’d been spending her nights. She was dressed in her finest gown. Brogan, she knew, was also putting on his nicest clothes.
He had, though she did not know how, arranged for them to meet with Lord Chelmsford that evening in his house. Vera was nervous. She had never called on someone of such importance before. But her Papa’s insistence that they had to get the forged papers out of the house solidified her determination to see this through.
She emerged from the bedchamber she’d been using and descended the stairs with as much confidence as she could muster. Brogan was waiting for her in the entryway. She’d never seen him dressed so keenly. He was never sloppy or slovenly by any means, but his appearance was always more humble than it was just then. That night he could’ve easily passed for a member of Society.
He smiled softly when he saw her. “You look beautiful, Vera.”
Something about his simple, pleased expression warmed her. “I likely also look terrified. Our task tonight is a bit beyond my experience.”
He neither dismissed her worries nor belittled her abilities. He simply nodded, quite as one would when understanding on a deep level the feelings of someone else.
“Fortunately, our task tonight is a straightforward one. Make this call. Engage in conversation. Learn what we can about the events mentioned in the counterfeit document without tipping our hand. Distract Lord Chelmsford long enough for the papers to be stolen.”
She rolled her eyes theatrically. “Is that all?” she asked dryly.
He laughed lightly. “I won’t argue that it’s without risk or not the least complicated. But I do think we’re equal to it.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Brogan snatched an umbrella from the stand near the door and handed it to her. “It’s been drizzling on and off this evening,” he said. “I’d not want you to be rained on.”
“Thank you.”
He held the door for her. As she passed, his hand brushed lightly against her back. Her breath caught at the sizzle of his touch, the unexpected shot of energy emanating from that simple caress.
“The stoop’s wet,” he warned. “Tread carefully.”
He was showing her consideration that any decent person would extend, and yet, it was the sort of thing he did all the time. He treated the customers with kindness that went beyond wishing to maintain connections with those who did business there. He was thoughtful and considerate of all the urchins who regularly spent time in the shop. He’d been patient and forgiving with Papa. Again and again her mind harkened back to what Licorice had said. He had lied about his name, but he’d never lied about who he was. That was proving quite true.
They walked along the dim evening streets in the direction of Lord Chelmsford’s home. The year was coming to a close, and thus the days had grown quite short. She slipped her arm through his, telling herself that it simply made them look like a couple out for a stroll and would reduce the chances of anyone taking much notice of them. But she also took comfort in the touch, and the nearness of him as they walked.
“I hope this Phantom Fox you’ve engaged for the night is able to do his part,” she whispered.
“No sneak thief in all of London is more reliable,” he said.
“I still find it a bit odd that you’re so trusting of a thief.”
“And I’m more than a bit surprised—pleasantly so—that you’re being so trusting of a writer.”
She could appreciate that. “People are more than their labels, is what you’re saying.”
“They are, indeed.”
He stopped them at the side of a cart and purchased a small bag of hot chestnuts. It was the first time since their falling out that he’d undertaken the once-familiar gesture.
“Thank you, Brogan.”
He dipped his head. “I know ’tis a source of soreness between us, but I can’t tell you how much I love hearing you say m’actual name. I wanted to tell you so many times, but by the time I realized the secret would be safe with you, I didn’t know how to escape its tendrils.”
Between chestnuts, she asked him the question that had been hanging awkwardly between them.
“Were you ever going to tell me? If I hadn’t stumbled across the truth of it, would you have simply let me go on calling you Ganor?”
“I would have told you the truth, I swear to it. I hadn’t formulated the how, but I’d already determined I needed to. ’Twasn’t merely the awkwardness of explaining the lie. ’Twas also the difficulty of knowing full well your da’s dislike of writers, and the knowledge that it came about because you both believed those in my profession aren’t trustworthy. That I’d lied to you would only have added to that view.”