Eve Silver (27 page)

“What do you think the place is like? Dark and dingy… damp, I’d guess,” Cook commented.

“I expect so,” Darcie said glumly. The words conjured the dismal picture of Damien locked in a cold, dark cell, or the strong room in the bowels of Bow Street Station. She hated to think of Damien there, he of sandalwood and sunshine and freedom.

 Her gaze fell on an unopened rose that Cook had sitting in a jar on the windowsill. “In fact, you’ve given me an idea, Cook. Tell John I’ve gone to the park. I won’t be long.”

Cook blinked owlishly. “The park? Whatever for?”

“Flowers. There is always a flower girl by the gate.”

“Flowers!” Cook repeated in amazement, as though Darcie had said she was going to purchase diamonds, and then a smile spread across her face. “Flowers. Yes. What a lovely idea.” She resumed packing the basket.

“Perfect.” Darcie smiled, feeling heartened. She would take a basket of food to Damien at Bow Street, and a fresh posy of sweet-smelling flowers to brighten his day some small measure. And then she would have a word or two with Inspector Trent, she thought resolutely.

She hurried upstairs and retrieved her shawl, for it was quite early, and she suspected the day would not begin to warm for another hour. She left the house, noticing the overcast sky, and had taken only a handful of steps when she heard the baker’s bell signaling his arrival on the street.

“Hot loaves!” his voice boomed out. “Hot loaves!”

 Across the street, a milkmaid carried a pair of churns suspended from a shoulder yoke, a large, round straw bonnet shielding her face. Darcie’s throat tightened, the small measure of cheer she had felt only moments ago evaporating like the morning dew. Life, it seemed, went on, regardless of the fact that her heart was tight with apprehension and worry. The baker sold his loaves, the milkmaid her milk, and all the while Damien might be suffering in a moldering cell.

She quickened her pace, striding along the street toward nearby Hyde Park. The sound of the baker’s call faded behind her, and turning a corner, Darcie found herself alone.

The rhythmic click of her boot heels on the cobbled road marked her passage. Then a ripple, a current, some small sound alerted her, and she stopped, looking about for the source of the sudden unease that tiptoed along her backbone. She saw no one on the deserted street. Nothing unusual caught her notice. How strange. Perhaps she was merely testy in her worry over Damien’s circumstance.

With purposeful stride she continued on her way, anxious to complete her task and reach Damien’s side as quickly as possible. She could only begin to imagine how he must feel. Suddenly, the hairs on the nape of her neck rose and a cold shiver crawled along her spine once more, the feeling reminiscent of the unease she had felt as she stood in front of the house the previous night. Stopping dead in her tracks, she whirled about, but again found the street deserted.

Shaking off the strange feeling, Darcie proceeded to the park. She was rewarded with the sight of the flower girl waiting near the gate to hawk her wares.

 “Hello, miss.” The girl grinned at her, holding out a small bouquet of roses. “Care for some pretty flowers? I have red or pink or white.”

Fishing a coin from her pocket, Darcie hesitated. She was using her earnings to buy
flowers.
She stared at the flower girl, then at the coin.

“Good heavens,” she whispered, the magnitude of her changed circumstance pummeling her, leaving her winded.

Only a few short weeks ago, she could never have dreamed of spending good coin on flowers. She could barely have imagined having enough money to buy a morsel of food. She looked down at the penny resting on her open palm.

“Something wrong, miss?” the flower girl asked.

“No, nothing.” Darcie thrust her hand into her pocket and pulled out a second coin. “For the flowers,” she said, placing the first penny in the girl’s outstretched palm, “and this one is just for you.” She laid the second coin atop the first.

The flower girl’s eyes widened. “Thank you kindly, miss.” She offered the bouquet of red roses.

“You are most welcome,” Darcie said absently as she considered the roses. No, red was wrong. The color reminded her of—

Shaking her head, she gestured toward another posy. “I’ll take the white ones instead, please.”

Bouquet in hand, Darcie turned back toward Curzon Street. Within moments, the feeling that something was not quite right returned, stronger than before. She quickened her pace, clutching the flowers in her fist.

Was that a footfall close behind her? Stifling her unease, she glanced over her shoulder, nearly running now as she sought the safety of home.

Home. Yes, the house on Curzon Street was home, and despite the odd comings and goings, she felt safe there.

A large shadow fell across the stones in front of her. She glanced up in dismay, and then heaved a sigh of relief as she saw the looming shape ahead. It was the carriage. John had come to find her. He climbed down from the box and peered at her, his brows raised questioningly.

“No hurry, missy. No hurry,” he said, opening the door of the carriage for her.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Of course. Thank you, John. Do you have the basket from Cook?”

“Right there on the seat.” He pointed into the carriage.

“Then we can be on our way,” Darcie said with forced brightness. She climbed inside, struggling to calm her racing pulse.

John cast her a searching look, his brow furrowed in concern. “Is aught amiss?”

Darcie shook her head. “The only thing amiss is the fact that Dr. Cole sits at the jail while a killer prowls the streets.”

“I’ll agree with that.” John closed the door of the carriage.

Settling herself on the seat, Darcie tucked the posy under the linen square that covered the food basket. A cold whisper slithered across the nape of her neck, and she jerked her head up, turning to look out the carriage window.

There, across the street, a man dressed in a long, black cloak. Darcie frowned. The weather was warm enough that she barely needed her shawl. Leaning forward, she strained for a clear view of the man’s face. There was something familiar about his black-clad figure, but as she strove to make out his features, he turned away. She caught only a glimpse of his profile and the dark color of his hair. He was of medium height, and there seemed nothing remarkable about him. Still, something nagged at her. Some vague, almost forgotten memory.

“John,” she called loudly, intent on halting their departure. He did not hear her. The coach lurched into motion, traveling in the opposite direction of the man she had seen.

Darcie pushed the curtain back as far as she could, endeavoring to catch a last glimpse of the stranger’s departing back. His cloak moved with each long stride, and something in the manner of his gait, or perhaps it was the way the material of the cloak swirled about his limbs, called up the memory of an old fear. Clutching at the shadows of recollection, she watched until he disappeared from view.

As they rounded a corner, Darcie leaned back against the velvet upholstery of the seat, and put the dark-haired man from her mind. She focused her thoughts on planning the wording of her appeal to Inspector Trent.

Some time later, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of a large brick building. Darcie leaned forward and examined the façade of the Bow Street Police Station. A series of granite steps led to the front door. The double windows lining the front of the building boasted granite lintels, as did the arched entryway. Several people loitered near the wide steps, and Darcie wondered at their purpose.

John opened the carriage door and helped her down.

“What do you suppose all those people are doing here?” Darcie dragged the basket of food closer, then lifted it, and looped the handle over her arm.

John grunted and gave the assembled group a cursory glance. “Waiting for Her Majesty’s carriage, I’d wager.”

Amazed, Darcie stopped in her tracks and whirled to face him.

“Her Majesty’s carriage? The Queen would come to the Bow Street Station? Whatever for?”

The tension left John’s face, and he smiled, the lines of worry softened by his momentary amusement. “Her Majesty’s carriage is the cart they use to bring the felons, missy.”

“Oh, of course.” Darcie smiled at her own naivety.

Hefting the basket so the handle rested in the crook of her elbow, she took several steps toward the front door of Bow Street. With a sigh, she stopped, and turned to face John.

“I am afraid, John. What if they won’t let me see him? What if they’ve—” She hesitated, unwilling to voice her concerns aloud. Forcing herself to continue, she asked, “What if they have hurt him?”

John nodded, his lips pressed together. Reaching into his coat, he drew forth a small, black velvet bag. “Even honest men have a fondness for money. We’ll use these coins if we need them.”

Darcie thought about the story that Tandis had told at breakfast. They very well may have need of those coins.

Together, they ascended the stairs and entered the Bow Street Station. Darcie looked around the large public room. There were many people standing about, and she tried to ascertain the most likely candidate to answer a query as to Damien’s whereabouts. She had just decided to approach a pompous-looking man on the far side of the room, when she saw a familiar figure dressed in tweed striding away from her.

“Inspector Trent!” she called out, hurrying after him.

He stopped, turning as she approached, a flicker of recognition sparking to life in his eyes. Unwilling to lose sight of her quarry, she did not spare a glance to ensure that John followed.

Sidestepping a rather rotund man with an enormous beaver hat, Darcie planted herself directly in front of Inspector Trent.

“I have come to see Dr. Cole,” she stated boldly, though her insides quaked. “Please see that I am taken to him directly.”

Inspector Trent raised a brow at her demand.

Drawing on heretofore-unknown reserves of composure, Darcie spoke quickly, lest the inspector lose interest and leave before she accomplished her goal. “Inspector Trent, I understand that you have a job to do. In fact, we have a similar goal. Sally Booth, one of the unfortunate murdered women, was a friend of my sister. I would like nothing better than to see the vile fiend responsible for her death apprehended. Hence, it is incumbent upon me to clarify a rather important point. Dr. Damien Cole is not the man you seek.”

“A friend of your sister, you say?” Trent’s gaze sharpened. “Who is your sister? I may wish to speak to her.”

Darcie wet her lips. “I believe you have already questioned her. My sister is Abigail Feather.” She paused. “Mrs. Feather of 10 Hadley Street,” she clarified when he made no comment.

To his credit, Inspector Trent made no derogatory remark. “You are correct. I have already spoken with Mrs. Feather,” he said, his tone bland. But there was something in his expression that gave her pause. A flicker of interest. Why? Had Abigail shared some morsel pertinent to his investigation? She did not ask for she doubted he would tell her.

Darcie glanced over her shoulder, looking for some sign of John. A sinking feeling accompanied the realization that he was nowhere in sight. She was alone with Trent, had only herself to rely on if she hoped to convince him to take her to Damien. She thought of the black velvet pouch full of coins that John had shown her as they stood beside the carriage. Returning her attention to the inspector and recalling what little she knew of him, she realized that he did not seem like one who would accept a bribe.

As though noticing her basket for the first time, Inspector Trent moved aside the corner of the linen cloth. Seeing the roses she had tucked inside, he lifted them out and met her gaze.

For some reason, the sight of those flowers clutched in the inspector’s hand brought tears to Darcie’s eyes. An eternity passed in a single moment, and then Trent’s expression softened.

“Come with me,” he said gruffly, tucking the flowers back into the basket. He glanced up, and Darcie felt a presence at her elbow. Turning her head, she found John standing by her side once more.

“Only her. You’ll wait here,” the inspector instructed.

Darcie silently willed John not to argue. He stared down at her, his eyes shadowed with concern, and finally gave a sharp nod.

“Right, then,” he said, running one open palm nervously along his jaw, jerking his head toward the waiting throng. “I’ll wait here with this lot.”

“This way.” Trent marched forward. Darcie hurried after him through the public rooms, up a flight of stairs at the back of the building, and then along a hallway to a closed door at the end. Trent nodded at the man stationed outside the door.

Darcie was nearly dizzy with relief. It seemed that Damien had not been taken to a cell after all, and she was immensely grateful for that.

Pushing open the door, Inspector Trent fixed her with a stern eye. “You have fifteen minutes,” he said brusquely.

The small, bare room contained two spindly chairs and an old, scarred wooden table. The door swung shut behind her, and she heard the click of the key turning in the lock. For a moment, she thought that Inspector Trent had lied to her, that she was alone.

“Darcie.” The whisper came from behind her, tinged with wonder. “Why did you come here?”

Whirling, she found Damien standing in the corner of the room, one shoulder propped against the wall. He had shed his coat, and stood before her in his vest and shirtsleeves. His golden hair hung in disarray, curling about his collar, and his beautiful gray eyes were heavily shadowed with fatigue.

For an endless moment he stared at her, emotions dancing across his features: amazement, pleasure, concern. At last, he held out one arm, a silent invitation, and she rushed forward and collapsed against his firm chest, breathing in the scent of him, feeling the heat of his body, desperately aware of how very much she loved him. His arms closed around her, and she felt him rest his chin against the crown of her head in a familiar gesture.

“I was so afraid,” she blurted. “I thought they might have taken you to—” Her voice broke. The thought of Damien being taken to the strong room, there to be beaten and forced to provide answers, was too overwhelming to voice aloud.