After the whiskey decanter was passed around once more, Harry cleared his throat, the humor fading from his dark eyes. “I hate to dampen the mood, but I’ve had word from Newgate.”
The room fell silent except for a silent curse from Gus.
“When Clayton and I met with Mason, he said he’d rather face the noose than what he would endure if The Vicar caught him. Today, the warden informed me he was found dead in his cell. The other men inside with him insisted they didn’t hear or see anything.”
“Because they kept their eyes shut and covered their ears,” murmured Ben.
“How did he die?” asked Nora.
“Sampson did the autopsy. Death by strangulation,” said Harry, squeezing Mattie’s hand as her face went pale. “It looks like we’re starting over—again.”
Elijah’s joy was dimmed by the news. Suspicious? Yes. Unexpected? No.
So, one case solved, but another once again eluded them.
CHAPTER 13
Sunday
Gracechurch Street
Clara had worn her best dress, a pale-green muslin with a sheer overlay that had belonged to her mother. It had needed little alteration, changing the neckline, embroidering tiny roses on the overlay, and shortening the hem. She smoothed out the skirts, feeling as if her mother was with her as she stepped into the O’Brien entry hall.
“Take a deep breath and smile, my dear,” said Mrs. Norton. “Be yourself and they’ll love you like I do.” Eli’s grandmother beamed at her and patted her arm.
Overwhelming might have been an understatement. Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien greeted her at the door, the former towering over her, the latter wrapping her in a motherly hug. Clara thought she might cry. Something cold pushed her hand, and she looked down at the biggest dog she’d ever seen. He sniffed at her cloak with his gigantic nose, then licked her fingers. Her hand automatically went to his head—which almost reached her chest—and scratched the wiry coat on his shoulders.
They led her into the parlor, where a crowd waited to be introduced. She was thankful for Elijah’s hand at her back, staying near her as his clan encircled them. After meeting Gus, as tall and broad as Mr. O’Brien but with dark hair instead of faded red, it made sense the family would have such a large beast.
Honora stepped up next, her red hair brighter than Clara’s but just as curly. She liked the youngest O’Brien immediately. Benjamin Cooper was next, his blond head bowing over her hand as if she were a lady. Then Clayton Pierce, handsome with auburn hair and green eyes a lighter shade than Clara’s, and his wife Genie, a tall slender woman with wheat-colored hair.
Dr. Sampson Brooks smiled, revealing dimples, and his wife Dottie, who was petite with full hips and laughing blue eyes. Just as she thought she would never remember everyone’s name, two more men stepped into the parlor.
A young man with black curly hair and grayish-green eyes took off his hat and introduced himself as Roger Lynch. The latest inductee to the clan, Clara thought. Her hunch, that the good-looking man with midnight hair and silver eyes was Angus Marshall, was proved right when the barrister took her hand, and Elijah made the final introduction of the evening.
A glass of sherry was pushed her way, and she found herself on the chaise longue beside Eli. He had been right. They talked at once, occasionally pausing for one or the other to make a point, then it began again. Clara listened to the disjointed conversations, taking in her surroundings at the same time.
It was a cozy room, with a dark-green Wilton carpet spread before the hearth, a tinder box on the mantel, along with small frames of the O’Briens and their children on the mantel. The clan who Paddy proudly called his family to anyone who cared to listen. He and Maggie explained how they collected seven needy but needed children throughout their lifetime, educating them, sending each in the direction that fit their personalities and preferences.
Elijah told her how Maggie had mandated they pose for a miniature at sixteen to be added to the mantel collection. The matriarch and patriarch were in the center. The others were arranged by age, alternately on each side, starting with Harry, Gus, Sampson, Clayton, Benjamin, Elijah, and Honora. In frames slightly different, as if added more recently, were images of Roger and Angus.
Over dinner, she learned most of their stories. Harry had been kicked out of the brothel at the age of eight when he came down with a fever. Paddy found him in an alley being set upon by footpads. As an adult, Harry had seen Roger attacked by several men and stepped in to help. “His left shoulder was dislocated, and he was still planting a mean right hook. I admired the boy’s gumption.”
Sampson, the physician who was opening a hospital and school for unwed mothers, had tried to steal a cane from Paddy one night. Clayton’s mother, a friend of Maggie’s, had died, leaving the boy on his own. Nora was a foundling, brought to the couple as an infant. Since they took her in as a babe, they named her. She was the only one of seven who was legally an O’Brien.
Clara’s eyes glanced around the dining room, watching the conversation bounce from one end of the table to the other. Once she’d gotten used to the noise, Clara quickly became enamored with this loving bunch.
Hot tears threatened, thinking of her father, and she blinked them back. She would enjoy this evening, not let any negative thoughts interfere. Not tonight.
“Are you all right?” Eli asked quietly.
“Of course she is,” spouted Mrs. Norton, who sat on Clara’s other side. “Look at her face!”
After dinner, they returned to the parlor. There was singing and dancing, with Nora at the fiddle, then Mrs. O’Brien at the pianoforte. Mrs. Norton took a turn playing while Mr. O’Brien and Angus sang a lusty, humorous ballad.
“I hope ye will come again next month,” Mrs. O’Brien said at the door as the coach was brought around. “Ye make Elijah so happy. What else could a mother want?”
“Or a grandmother,” piped up Mrs. Norton. “She’s a diamond, even if he calls her Ruby.”
