Trepidation raced up her spine, and she quickened her pace, skirting Covent Garden. The man she’d identified, an exceptionally tall fellow, was still behind her—but across the street.
She turned up Bedford Street, knowing there was an alley she could duck into. Hastening her steps, she dashed across the lane just before a coach passed and used the vehicle to block the man’s sight of her darting into the alley.
Chest heaving, Selina moved into a doorway and pressed herself back into the nook so that he couldn’t see her if he glanced this way. She reached into her reticule and withdrew her pistol. After a few minutes, she heard a step in the alley.
Her heart hammered. She held her breath and waited until she could see him. The moment she verified it was the same man, she moved out from the doorway, pistol raised.
“Why are you following me?”
“Damn, Selina, don’t shoot.”
The man knew her. But it wasn’t Mr. Sheffield. This man was taller, and his shoulders weren’t as broad.
He stepped toward her, and Selina barely kept herself from pulling the trigger. “Don’t come any closer, or I will shoot you. Who the devil are you?”
The man exhaled, and there was something eerily familiar about the tone of it. In a flash, he disarmed her with a tsk. “You let me get too close, Lina.”
Lina.
The only people who called her that were Luther and…Rafe. This wasn’t Luther.
“Rafe?”
He swept his hat off, revealing light blond hair. Edging closer, he nodded slightly.
Selina couldn’t help but stare at the nasty scar on his chin. But she forced herself to look up, her gaze settling on his eyes—brilliant blue except for the orange spot in the right one, which she could barely make out in the dim light of the alley. “Is it really you?”
Eighteen years was an awfully long time, and they’d been children the last time they’d seen each other.
“Yes, it’s me, Lina.”
She kicked him hard in the shin. “That’s for following me.” Next, she punched him in the gut, drawing a loud grunt from his throat. He bent at the middle. “And that’s for letting me think you were dead!”
Shaking out her fist, she glared at him as he straightened.
He held up the hand that wasn’t holding her pistol. “Truce.”
“Give me back my gun.”
“Only if you promise to wield it properly. I taught you better than that.”
He had. She had let him get too close. “It’s been some time since I’ve had to protect myself like that.”
“I’m glad.” He handed her the pistol, butt first.
She took it with a scowl and dropped it back into her reticule.
“Will you get an ale with me?” he asked.
“Only because I want to know why you let me think you were dead.” He was alive! She was torn between hugging him and hitting him again. In the end, she did neither.
“I will tell you anything you wish to know. And perhaps a thing or two you don’t,” he said rather ominously. But then he smiled faintly and offered his arm. “There’s a tavern around the corner.”
Tentatively, she put her hand on his sleeve. He led her from the alley, and they didn’t speak again until they were seated at a table tucked into the corner of the tavern’s common room.
The serving maid brought two tankards of ale, which Rafe had called for when they’d entered, and quickly departed. Rafe took a long drink before fixing his familiar gaze on hers.
Familiar and not. Though he looked somewhat like her brother, and his eyes confirmed it, she realized they were strangers. All this time, she’d been searching for an ideal. The brother she’d known when they were children was gone. Just as the girl she’d been had long since disappeared.
“I knew almost the moment you returned to London,” he said. “As soon as you showed up in Whitechapel.”
That had been weeks ago. Selina’s insides contracted. “Why are you following me and not welcoming me to town?” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “Do you have any idea how it felt when I was told you died?”
“I can imagine, and I’m sorry. I was trying to keep you safe—away from me. But you’re working with that goddamned Runner now, so I’ve been keeping an eye on you to make sure you’re safe from him.” He leaned slightly forward, his brows pushing down over his narrowed eyes. “Why are you entangled with him?”
“I’m not ‘entangled’ with him.”
“I heard you were traipsing all over Cheapside on his arm yesterday.”
“That is my business.” She took several sips of ale, hoping to calm her ire.
“The fake home for wayward children. Yes, I know all about that, and about your ruse peddling fortunes.”
He knew all about her while she thought he was dead? “If you must know, I was working with Sheffield to protect myself,” she spat. “And to find the man I thought had killed you. I wanted to avenge you, but now I wonder why I should care.”
“The Vicar,” he said quietly, glancing down at his tankard.
Selina exhaled some of the anger from her frame. “Yes.”
He gave her a lopsided smile that was absolutely the boy she’d known. Her heart twisted, and her breath caught. “I am the Vicar.”
“What?” Selina had picked up her mug again, but now set it hard upon the table with a thud.
“It’s an identity I created to get away from Partridge. Surely you understand about creating identities.”
She stared at him, then shook her head gently. “Very amusing. I take it your plan didn’t work since the Vicar killed Partridge?”
“That’s correct. But even though Partridge was dead, it suited me to kill Rafe Blackwell too.”
Selina was working to process everything he was saying. “If you know about my business, you must know that I’m working with Luther. Does he know you’re alive? And Mrs. Kinnon?”
Rafe grimaced apologetically. “Don’t be angry with them. I made them promise to keep my secret. Rafe Blackwell needed to die.”
Selina sat back in the chair and crossed her arms. “Even for his sister?”
“As I said, I was trying to protect you.” He pierced her with a dark glower. “This is a dangerous life here—the one I worked hard to escape. You may not remember just how terrible it was.”
“Oh, I do, brother. I do.” Her tone was soft, but the memories were hard. “How could I ever forget when that was why you sent me away, separating me from the only family I knew? Is that why you stopped responding to my letters? To protect me?” Hurt threaded through every part of her so that tears should have streamed down her face. But she didn’t cry.
“Somewhat.” He wrapped his hands around the tankard and briefly squeezed as if he was trying to release some of the tension between them. “I know you wanted to come back here. You wrote that in every letter. I didn’t want to encourage that.”
“So you stopped writing altogether.” That had been about the time that Beatrix had come to the seminary. “Even though I kept writing to you.” Right up until she’d left her governess position. After that horrid event, she’d wanted to put every part of the past behind her except for Beatrix. It was several years before she’d decided she wanted to find her brother.