“By all means. Anything to get out of this rain.”
BRIDGET RECONSIDERED that statement a quarter hour later when she stepped into the Hog and Hen. The place looked as though the hog and hen in question had run rampant through the public rooms. She’d entered by herself about five minutes after Caleb had gone in. He’d told her he’d stand near the bar, and she spotted him easily. She must have looked as uncertain as she felt, because he gave her a firm nod as though to say, You can do this.
She took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and moved forward. Of course she could do this. She’d dealt with crying, screaming, fighting ten-year-old girls. A corrupt politician was nothing to her.
She made her way to the bar, aware that several pairs of eyes followed her. She was dressed more...completely than most of the women in the place, but she wasn’t here to advertise her charms. Still, her lavender gown and spencer were nothing to make anyone take notice. In an area of Town known for its silk weavers, the cloth of her dress was obviously inferior, as were her battered half boots and her drooping hat. She was nothing to waste time over.
Or so she hoped.
Without looking at Caleb, who was now only a few feet away, she cleared her throat. The barkeep flicked his eyes at her, then went back to polishing a glass. “What can I get you?” he asked flatly.
“Information.”
He sighed heavily. “Do I look like a book to you? I don’t ’ave no information. I ’ave ale and spirits.”
“I need to speak with Joseph Merceron.”
The barkeep set the glass on the counter. “What’s that to me? Do I look like ’is butler?”
“Where is he?”
The barkeep jerked his head to a dark corner of the tavern, and when Bridget squinted, she spotted an open door that led to another room. “Thank you.”
He muttered something under his breath as she walked away. She hoped Caleb followed. She was trembling now, but Satan himself couldn’t have stopped her from going into that room. Perhaps she would find James today. She might even hold him in her arms tonight.
She moved through the doorway and into the back room, and a man stepped in front of her. He was short but muscled, his head completely bald. “Can I help you, missus?”
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Merceron.”
“Do you owe him blunt?”
“No.”
“Then he’s busy.”
Bridget scowled. “It won’t take long. Just a few questions.”
“Come back tomorrow. Maybe he’ll see you then.”
“I can’t come back tomorrow. I need to speak with him today. Please.”
The man put his hand on her shoulder and, with strength she had no hope of matching, turned her around. “Goodbye, missus.”
She walked out and continued walking. Tears burned in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing them.
A few minutes later, Caleb caught up to her. “Bridget! Wait!”
She swiped at her eyes furiously before waiting for him to catch up. She related the conversation.
“So we come back tomorrow.” He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“And what if he won’t see me then?”
“We come back the next day and the next.” He pulled her close, and though she knew she should resist, she went willingly, happy to be tucked safely against his side. “Sweetheart, you’ve been doing this all on your own the past few years. You’re not on your own anymore. Together we will find our son.”
Our son.
Robbie had never referred to James that way. She knew he’d cared for the little boy, but he’d never thought of him as his own son. He’d always spoken of him as the boy or the baby. Bridget hadn’t thought she’d ever want to tell Caleb about his child. She’d done it out of sheer desperation. She was glad she had, because he was right—she had been on her own for a long time. She was grateful to have someone stand beside her and be her partner. Someone who wanted to find James as much as she did.
“You’re cold and wet,” he said, rubbing a hand up and down her arm. “I’ll take you for tea.”
“Is it safe for you to be seen in a tea shop?”
“I know one a little out of the way. We’ll sit in the back.” He took her hand in his and led her down back streets and through alleyways until she was thoroughly lost. Finally, they emerged in front of a small shop she’d never seen before. The sign hanging above the door read Mrs. Scott’s Tea Shop. The paint was flaking and the window to the shop rather small, but when Caleb opened the door, a little bell tinkled prettily. Bridget looked around and noted that though the window was small, white lace curtains with cheery yellow sashes framed it. The cozy round tables were covered with lace cloths, and vases of the sort an apothecary might use sat at each table with a single flower inside.
Caleb hung his coat on the stand, then took her wrap and did the same.
A plump woman with doe-brown eyes and a welcoming smile came over and bobbed a curtsy. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith.” She smiled at Bridget. “Table for two today?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Scott. In the back, please.”
“Your usual table, then. Right this way.” She led them past a scattering of others taking tea. No one paid them any mind. These were not members of the upper echelons of Society—men and women always looking for gossip. These were merchants and tradesmen enjoying a respite on a Saturday afternoon.
They took seats, and Caleb asked for tea and scones. “A bit too early for cakes still,” he said when Mrs. Scott departed for the kitchen.
“It’s never too early for cake,” Bridget retorted.
“You still have a sweet tooth, I see.”
“Unfortunately, as I don’t have the coin to indulge it very often. The cook at the academy, Mrs. White, makes a delicious trifle on special occasions, though.”
He leaned forward, his stunning blue eyes intent on her face. She could have stared into his eyes all day. “I’m not surprised you’re teaching now,” he said.
“You’re not? I’ve only been at the academy a year.”
“I always thought you would make an excellent instructor. You’re patient and good at explaining.”
Bridget felt her cheeks grow warm. “I like to think I am.”
“You were certainly patient with me when the undersecretary asked you to show me how to counterfeit currency.”
She had to hide a smile at the memory. How could she have forgotten that?
“Go ahead and laugh. I know I was a poor student.”
“You tried very hard, and eventually you caught on.”
“I don’t have your artistic abilities.”
She swallowed at the burst of emotion within, and Mrs. Scott chose that moment to bring a tray with their tea and scones. The tea was hot and strong and the scones absolutely some of the best she’d ever had. They were apple today, and she tasted bits of apple dusted with cinnamon in every bite.
“I have a confession to make,” Caleb said after they’d each had a scone and were warm from the tea.
“What’s that?”
“I might have pretended to be worse at counterfeiting than I truly was.”