“And when was your last meeting?”
“Fourteen years ago.”
“What did the runner tell you?”
“That she is dead.”
Although she’d suspected it, a trace of shock ran through Hortense at the bluntness of the statement. It was as if he had to speak the words in a gruff manner to hide…what? She didn’t know this man, or the way he should be speaking such words.Right.“Dead people tend to stay in one place,” she said. “She shouldn’t be too difficult to locate.”
“I want to know how, why, and what happened to her.” A heavy beat of time loped past. “I need to know.”
She would ignore the note of emotion that had strayed into the wordneed. He wouldn’t appreciate it being acknowledged. She knew that much, too. “Have the runner make further inquiries.”
“Again, I wantyouto make them.”
“Did the runner tell you where she died?”
“Bermondsey.”
Acid swirled in the pit of Hortense’s stomach. It was the same every time she heard the name of that place. “A large area to cover. Did he narrow it down at all?”
“A workhouse.”
She willed steadiness into her voice. “St. Mary Magdalen?”
“That’s the one.”
There it was, as her gut had suspected. It would be that workhouse. The walls of the drawing room began to shrink in size, narrowing with each quick inhalation of her lungs.
Clare’s eyes formed into slits. “Are you well?”
She willed her body to calm itself, even as emotion rioted through her. After all these years, St. Mary Magdalen held a power over her. Yet that past had naught to do with the job at hand. “Quite,” she croaked.
“I don’t believe you.”
The words hung in the air, her gaze latching on to his as if for a lifeline. Was thatconcernshe detected between the spaces of those four words? And why did they sweep the panic from her body?
“You don’t have to believe me,” she retorted. It was what she would say.
And it succeeded, for he gave another of his lordly snorts and settled back. They both understood she’d recovered herself.
“Are we off to the workhouse now?” he asked, again trying to gain his way.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not the correct time of day.”
“I don’t see why that—”
“Not today,” she said, willing authority into her tone. Vital when dealing with an aristocrat. “Tomorrow.”
His jaw tensed and released, but his eye remained ever watchful upon her. At last, he nodded.
Equilibrium mostly recovered, she began issuing a series of instructions. “Arrive here tomorrow at three of the clock. Ride in your coach and four. You do have a coach and four, don’t you?”
“Of course.” He sounded mildly offended.
