“You’d found Beatrix, and it was obvious from your letters that you were close. You’re still close—she’s your bloody sister.” He picked up his tankard and took another drink.
Was that jealousy in his tone? Good. “In every way that matters,” Selina said.
He set his tankard down, and his eyes softened to a warmth that eased the remnants of her anger. “I’m glad. Once I read about her in your letters, I knew you’d be all right. Better than you could ever be here. With me.”
The sadness in his voice bent her even further. Her safety had always been paramount to him. That was why he’d sent her away in the first place. And apparently why he’d kept himself from her until now.
Selina sipped her ale. “So you’re worried about Sheffield?”
“He’s a danger to your enterprise. And, to be honest, to mine.”
“Why, because he wants to see you hanged for killing children?”
“Yes, but I didn’t start that fire at the flash house. It was Partridge’s place.” His eyes turned so frigid, Selina nearly shivered. “You wouldn’t have remembered it. That was after you left London.”
“Why did you kill Partridge?” There were so many reasons to do so, and that was only what Selina remembered from her time in his service. She had to think there was something more, something that pushed Rafe over the edge.
“I had to, but not for his business, which Sheffield and others assumed. I wanted out. I’d started up my own enterprise, loaning money, mostly, as the Vicar. In those days, I didn’t show my face, so no one would know it was me. It was the only way I could leave—if I became someone else.”
“How close were you to Partridge, then?” Selina and Rafe had started thieving for him when she was eight. Samuel Partridge had taken a liking to them, and Rafe had become one of his favored lads, earning positions of increasing importance. By the time Selina had left London, Rafe had been in charge of several gangs of child thieves and had begun working in one of the receiver shops. His success had given him the financial means to send her away. He hadn’t thought twice about continuing his life as a criminal, even as he protected Selina from the same.
“His right hand—or I had been until I asked to leave. I didn’t want to work for him any longer.”
“We never wanted to work for him.” They hadn’t had a choice at all. Well, she supposed she had. She could have been a prostitute instead.
“No, we didn’t. And I’m trying very hard not to be a criminal at all, which is why I don’t need Sheffield on my arse.”
He was trying not to be a criminal? Perhaps he’d found financial security. Selina hadn’t—not yet. But hopefully after this stint as Madame Sybila here in London, she’d be in a position to finally secure her and Beatrix’s futures. Though it might be Beatrix wouldn’t need her help, not if she got what she came here for.
“Why not just kill the Vicar now?” Selina asked.
Rafe cracked a small smile. “Because he runs a very lucrative moneylending business.”
“An illegal one, from what I hear.”
He cocked his head, his hand gripping his tankard. “Not anymore. I used to charge higher interest than the banks, but I’ve lowered my rates in the past several months. None of that matters at the present. I don’t need Sheffield breathing down my neck as I try to transition to a respectable life. As you have on Queen Anne Street. Lady Gresham, eh? Did you actually marry?”
“No. Sir Barnabus Gresham was kind enough to allow me to use his name, despite the fact that I’d stolen a hundred pounds from him.”
Rafe blew out a whistle. “Did he not know?”
“Oh, he knew. And he let me keep it. Barney is a nice man.” Selina winced through the regret piercing her chest. “Was. I’m sure he’s passed on by now. He became rather ill.”
“Here I thought you were an accomplished charlatan.” His smirk told her he was jesting, but Selina wanted to make sure he knew exactly who she was.
“I am Selina Blackwell and Lady Gresham and Madame Sybila, and anyone else I need to be. That Sir Barnabus learned I’d stolen from him was entirely my choice, and it’s worked out rather well, thank you.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but Selina had learned long ago that the truth was vastly overrated. And almost always unnecessary. Furthermore, the truth made one vulnerable. Selina would avoid that at all costs.
He surveyed her with admiration. “See? I said you were good at identities.”
She began to feel more comfortable around him, but there was still so much they needed to share if they were going to regain their bond. She wondered if he would reveal his secrets, or if, like her, he’d learned to bury himself so deep that sometimes even he wasn’t sure where to find his true self. “Why did you kill Partridge?”
“Because he was a vile, evil man.” The hatred in his eyes sparked a fear Selina had rarely encountered.
She knew when not to prod a sleeping beast. “So you want to straddle the polite world and that of the Vicar. I have earned Sheffield’s trust—in my endeavors to protect my interests. If you didn’t set the flash house on fire, all we have to do is find out who did, and he’ll leave you alone. He wants justice for that crime. I don’t suppose you know who did it?”
Rafe shook his head. “Honestly, I didn’t really care. I killed Partridge, but the building was quite intact when I stole away from the back. When I learned it burned down, it gave me the opportunity to kill Rafe. I would have been the presumptive leader of Partridge’s gang. I didn’t want that. Whoever set that fire made it easy for me to leave. Why does Sheffield care so much about an old fire?”
“Because innocents died,” she said quietly, thinking that could so easily have been her and Rafe years ago.
Rafe sat back, sprawling in the chair. It was a familiar position he’d often adopted in their youth. Selina couldn’t help smiling.
“What?” Rafe asked.
Selina shook her head. “It’s strange being with you. You’re a stranger, and yet familiar.”
“I was thinking the same.” His eyes found hers, that orange blemish—no, not a blemish, that mark of fire she’d always thought had given him his courage—burning as he looked at her. “You still have that mole behind your ear along your hairline.”
Lifting her hand behind her left ear, she stroked the location of the mole. “How can you see that?”
“I looked very closely as we walked here.”
“Confirming I was really me?”
His lips spread in a grin that she’d longed to see for eighteen years. “Perhaps.”
“So, let’s find out who really set that fire. Then Sheffield will leave you alone.”
“I’ll look into it.” His eyes narrowed slightly, and she could tell he was thinking.
“What?”
He shook his head, blinking. “Nothing, just contemplating.”
“Conspiring,” she said.
He didn’t respond to her comment. “How will you get him to leave you, or rather Madame Sybila, alone?” He straightened and leaned slightly toward her.
“I’m taking care of that.” She suddenly realized part of coming back to London to find Rafe had been to show him that she’d managed quite well on her own—much as Beatrix was trying to do with her estranged father.