“Mr. Mason,” she said, a scowl marring her face. “He kissed me once, and Pa caught him. They argued, and Pa tossed him out. I haven’t seen him in months until last night.”
Elijah’s jaw clenched, wanting to pummel the man. How dare he accost an innocent lady.
“Let’s get your belongings, and I’ll see you safely back to the townhouse.” When they came to Houghton Street, Miss Alberts gasped. The door was open. “Let me go first. If you hear any commotion, run back to Hatton Garden.”
She nodded, her lips trembling. “Be careful.”
Out of habit, Elijah pulled out his tipstaff and peeked around the doorway. The room was in shambles. Looking for something or a warning? His heart thudded in his ears as he entered, checked the small apartment, then waved to Miss Alberts while he put his stick away. He warned her before she went in, but the sobs still erupted.
Eli took her in his arms, rocking her back and forth as her tears soaked his greatcoat. “M-my h-home,” she cried. Her body was warm against his, and he wished with all his might that he could kiss her, soothe her, hold her until she stopped trembling.
“They were searching for something or warning you,” he said, anger digging in his belly as he took in the calamity surrounding them. It didn’t matter which. He wanted Miss Alberts far away from here. “Get what you need, for you won’t be coming back.”
Miss Alberts set a rocker upright, collected a few items from the floor, then went into one of the small bedchambers. She returned, dragging a small trunk behind her. Then she spied a handkerchief on the floor, stepped on and dirty. Tears spilled onto her cheeks as she bent to pick it up. “My mother’s,” she said simply, holding it against her cheek, then slipping it into a pocket.
Eli was glad the rotters had already been there, so at least they were free to collect her belongings without being attacked. He strained to visualize the man’s face from the previous night. He might have to ask Miss Alberts for help. If he could present an image to one of his brothers, maybe they would recognize the face.
Another piece to The Vicar’s puzzle, he was sure. Paddy and his Peelers, the Irish nickname for police given to the O’Brien brood of investigators, had been tracking the criminal mastermind for almost two years. Each time they got close, nabbed one of his henchmen, he slipped away. Anyone capable of identifying him ended up dead.
He carried her trunk on his shoulder, staying alert for any sudden movement from a passerby. His hackles were up, a fierce protectiveness surging in him for this fragile, beautiful redhead. Why hadn’t he followed those men inside last night? Would he have learned more or only made matters worse?
Elijah followed Miss Alberts down the steps and into a warm, busy kitchen. He was introduced to her kitchen assistant and the scullery maid, both girls staring at him with wide eyes. Under any other circumstances, he would have teased them and had them laughing.
Mr. Smalley, the butler, instructed him to set the trunk down, calling for the footman to carry it up the servants’ stair. Elijah knew from the tone that he would not be allowed past the kitchen.
“Mr. Norton,” said Miss Alberts, “thank you for your help. I wish I could do something for you in return.”
“Your presence is reward enough. When will I see you again?” he asked quietly, wondering how this would affect their evening walks. He pulled out his notebook and pencil and wrote his address down. “If you need me for anything—anything at all—send word here. If I’m not home, my grandmother will know how to reach me.”
She took the paper, beaming up at him. The first smile he’d seen that evening. What courage this young woman had. Like his mother. Like Maggie and Nora. “Come tomorrow night, a bit later if possible. I’ll ask Mrs. Johnson if you’re allowed to visit here in the kitchen after the meal has been served.”
Eli nodded and left, wishing he could be alone with her but knowing it was impossible. Instead, he hurried back to Coleman Street, itching to sketch the man he’d seen with Mr. Alberts.
***
Clara stared up at the ceiling of the attic room, listening to the soft snuffles of Mary and Sally. Mrs. Johnson said the housemaid, who had assumed the cook’s room since it was empty, would move up here tomorrow, but she’d been on her half day. Tomorrow, Clara would have her own small room. Did she want to be alone? It was nice having her new friends nearby. But Mrs. Johnson insisted the cook outranked the housemaid and should have the small private quarters next to the housekeeper in the basement.
She thought of Mr. Norton, his broad shoulders, his capable hands holding the tipstaff as he investigated the ravaged apartment. Yes, she’d been frightened, but Clara knew instinctively she was safe with Mr. Norton. She even thought he would kiss her when he’d held her in his arms.
How had she come to depend on this young man so quickly? Wings invaded her stomach when she was with him or only thought of him. Perhaps this man was her future, her life that came after. One door closes so another can open. The tears came again, an image of her father, alone, battered and bruised on a ship’s deck. What if he was lost overboard or the vessel sank? How would she know if he’d been met with foul play, an accident, or just never bothered returning?
Stop it! She dashed the last thought from her mind, knowing Pa would never truly abandon her.
Clara forced herself to concentrate on other concerns. She had been in awe of the Comte du Aveculót and his sister. Both began each day in a flurry of orders, some necessary, some whims of the entitled. He was slim, with dark hair and eyes, a mustache, and a monocle he constantly held to his eye when he asked a question. As if the round piece of glass would help him make better sense of the forthcoming answer.
The handsome Frenchman, quick with a smile and a rebuke in the same breath, was both charming and annoying. According to the butler, he would demand an item, then once Mr. Smalley explained why it was impossible, the comte decided he’d never really wanted it to begin with. Compliments, according to the staff, were often followed by a slight derogatory remark, so no one was ever completely sure if their new employer was pleased.
His sister was a classic cold beauty but easier to read. Sleek umber hair, always pulled back into a severe chignon, offered no ringlets to soften the angles of her face. Her temperament, the housemaid had whispered, vacillated between peeved and civil.
Mrs. Johnson insisted they would get used to their employers’ ways, and every household she’d worked in had its challenges. At best, they would fall into an easy routine with a few bumps. At worst, they would keep in mind their time with the French couple was temporary.
Clara’s eyelids grew heavy. She fell asleep dreaming of Mr. Norton, dining with her French employers, then eating shortbread with the staff in the kitchen. Then her father was hiding in the butler’s pantry, asking for a meal from his beloved Ruby, but disappearing when she arrived with a plate.
Then she was running past the Lincoln’s Inn, calling for her father to beware. A man caught her around the waist from behind, and she kicked and struggled to be free. Mr. Norton appeared in front of her, his fist flying past her into her captor’s cheek. The assailant fell to the ground, and Mr. Norton picked her up, cradled her in his arms, then kissed her. A long, slow lingering kiss that sent the butterflies soaring in her stomach, made her head light, and gave her the security of feeling loved.
When Clara woke at dawn, the only image still prominent was of Mr. Norton and his velvet-soft lips. She threw back the covers, determined to face her future with optimism and courage. She was an Alberts, for heaven’s sake, and she would survive.
CHAPTER 8
