“Ah, and how did Luther do?”
“Better than I could have anticipated. I wasn’t sure his ‘wife’ was going to meet the demands at first, but she came through. They gathered an astonishing number of children, who performed as if they were on the stage,” Selina said with admiration. “I wish I had more coin to give them.”
“Perhaps you’ll receive enough donations to do so.”
Selina pressed her lips together. “We can barely cover all our expenses.” She saw the crease in Beatrix’s brow and sought to soothe her concerns. “Don’t worry, your Season—your goal—is happening.” She began pacing again and tossed back the rest of her brandy. Then she diverted her course and went back to the bottle in the corner. They were in danger of running out of funds, but she wouldn’t tell Beatrix. Not yet.
“It sounds as if your afternoon went well, and yet you’re upset,” Beatrix said. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Selina refilled her glass and turned to Beatrix. “I’d hoped to learn something about the Vicar, but despite being a Bow Street Runner, Sheffield seems no closer to finding the Vicar than I am.”
“It’s rather difficult when no one knows what he looks like,” Beatrix said, cocking her head to the side.
And how frustrating that was. Anytime Selina had asked someone about the Vicar, they simply ended the conversation and walked away. “I’ll find out—we’ll find out. We are formidable when we want something.”
Beatrix chuckled. “That much is true. If we do find him, what then? Are you going to kill him on the spot? You’ve never killed anyone, Selina.” She fell quiet, and the air in the room crackled with old secrets and terrible lies. “Have you?” The question was so small that Selina might not have heard it if she hadn’t seen Beatrix’s lips move.
Not on purpose. Selina sipped the brandy, seeking a fortitude she wasn’t sure she could ever find. The memory had faded to the corners of her mind, pushed to the side so often that she could almost convince herself it wasn’t real. Why hadn’t that happened with the other memory? That one rose in her thoughts unbidden, crippling her in odd moments, when she least expected it.
Because in the first memory, you saved yourself, and in the second, you allowed yourself to be violated.
“Why not let Sheffield handle him?” Beatrix asked, thankfully oblivious to Selina’s dark thoughts. “You could tell Sheffield why you want to find the Vicar. I’m sure it would only strengthen his resolve to know the blackguard killed your brother.”
“No,” Selina said firmly. “Then I’d have to explain how my brother was even involved with that band of criminals, and that would expose us needlessly. Be smart, Beatrix.”
The hurt in Beatrix’s gaze made Selina regret her harsh words. “It seemed you and Sheffield had established a rapport,” Beatrix said. “I thought you could perhaps tell him what you needed to without disclosing your secrets. You’re rather good at that. So good that you still keep some from me.”
Selina felt bad, because they had established a rapport. And her current unease was as much due to her growing friendship with him as it was to her frustration over not finding the Vicar. But she didn’t want to admit that, especially when she wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. “Is there something you want to tell me about an emerald necklace that belongs to Lady Aylesbury?”
Beatrix briefly averted her gaze. “What can I tell you that you don’t already know? I like pretty things.”
“And you just happened to find your way to Lady Aylesbury’s dressing chamber—during the soiree which she was kind enough to invite us to—and accidentally pilfer her jewels?”
Her blonde brows pitching low over her narrowed eyes, Beatrix put a hand on her hip. “You act as if we don’t routinely swindle people who are kind to us.”
Selina flinched. Yes, this was becoming more difficult. Almost untenable. She honestly didn’t know how much longer she could endure this duplicitous life. “And you act as though your stealing things isn’t a problem.”
Selina had taught her to steal after rescuing her from the seminary. Beatrix had proven to be more skilled than Selina had been as a child on the streets of East London. A few years ago, Selina realized Beatrix stole even when it wasn’t necessary. It was a compulsion she couldn’t seem to control.
Beatrix’s shoulders twitched. “You know it is,” she said quietly.
“I do.” Just as she knew how Beatrix had suffered after her beloved mother had died and her father had sent her to the seminary without telling her in person. He hadn’t visited or written, and despite the fact that he was a duke and hadn’t claimed her as his daughter, Beatrix had spoken of a family life Selina could only dream of—parents who adored each other and her. Beatrix had felt utterly abandoned, and the heartless girls at the school had only made things worse with their taunts that Beatrix was an unwanted bastard.
Selina set her brandy glass down and went to Beatrix, putting her hands on her shoulders. “I know you don’t mean to do it, but we must be especially careful now. When your father embraces you, things will change. You can’t be stealing from these people who will be your friends and neighbors.”
Beatrix exhaled heavily. “I know. Are you really going to leave after the Season?” Her eyes met Selina’s, and the apprehension in their depths made Selina pull her close. Beatrix embraced her in return.
“You know I won’t be able to afford to live here,” Selina said.
“My father will give me enough money so that you can.”
Selina didn’t believe that, but Beatrix sometimes nurtured impossible dreams. “We will always be sisters. I love you, Trix.”
Beatrix held her tightly. “I love you. I’m sorry for causing trouble.”
“It’s all right. We’ll fix it.” Selina already had a plan.
The following day, Selina closed the door on Madame Sybila’s small room and made her way from the back of the perfumery. The door opened to a narrow alley, which was empty as usual at this hour. Still, Selina was careful to survey the surroundings, lest someone, such as Mr. Sheffield, was watching for Madame Sybila to leave.
Selina took a variety of routes home, one of which took her along Bow Street. She avoided that course now.
The journey generally took a half hour on foot—plenty of time to reflect upon her day’s appointments. Today, however, she was thinking of Mr. Sheffield and their pleasant excursion the day before.
Pleasant. How could spending the afternoon with a Bow Street Runner who was eager to charge her, rather Madame Sybila, with a crime be pleasant?
Because she’d enjoyed his company far more than she wanted to. She glanced toward Bow Street and wondered where he was now. Hopefully not patrolling the area so that she might run into him. Due to that risk, she’d become even more attentive about her surroundings since meeting him a week ago.
Which was how she knew with certainty that she was being followed.
She’d suspected someone was trailing her on Friday, but had convinced herself she’d been mistaken. Had Mr. Sheffield worked out the truth? Did he know she was Madame Sybila? Perhaps he and other Runners were even now closing in.