“He wrote to me of you, as I said,” Violet said. “We have not been as close as we once were since I married Strathmore, and it has grieved me mightily, but I still know him well. His admiration for you is undeniable. I have never known him to be so in awe of any woman, and it gives me hope he can find contentment at last.”
She wanted to look away, but could not seem to wrest her gaze from Violet’s uncompromising green stare, so like her brother’s. “Your Grace—Violet, your brother is an honorable man, and I enjoy working alongside him, but I cannot be the woman to give him the life and family he deserves. I am an American orphan, who has spent her life working in a profession most of the world believes is more suited to a man than a woman. I know nothing of your customs or manners, and as your aunt would be quick to tell you, my comportment is abominable.”
“When our mother drowned herself, Lucien swam into the sea after her. He swam until servants went after him, dragging him, fighting all the way back to shore, before he collapsed from exhaustion himself. And even then, he walked the shores until he discovered her, wet and pale and lifeless, still wearing her finest morning dress. He carried her home that way.” Violet’s voice trembled by the time she finished the harrowing recollection. “That is the sort of young man he was, the sort of man he is. He will do anything for the ones he loves. Give him a chance, Hazel, please. That is all I ask.”
Hazel did not know she was crying, until she felt the wetness of tears trailing down her cheeks. It was the same story Lady Beaufort had told her, but this time in greater, more haunting detail. Her heart broke all over again for the frightened young man he had been, and for the man he had become.
“I have already given him a chance,” she told Violet. “I let him into my heart.”
The trouble was, she very much suspected he was destined to break it.
Chapter Eighteen
Hazel jolted awakeat dawn, startled to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings once more, until she recalled where she was and why. She had slept fitfully in her new and temporary bed at the Duke of Strathmore’s townhome. Indeed, she would be surprised if she had even managed two consecutive hours of slumber. Sleeping without the comforting heat of Lucien’s big body already felt foreign.
She yawned and scrubbed a hand over her face as her wits returned. Long after her conversation with Lucien’s sister had ended, Hazel had paced the room, unable to sleep. The events of the evening had weighed upon her. So much had occurred, almost a lifetime’s worth in the course of hours. She had realized she had fallen in love with Lucien. And she had discovered inarguable proof that someone—or to be more apt, the Emerald Club—wanted her dead.
Most frustrating of all was her inability to act upon any of her newfound knowledge. There was nothing she could do with her love for Lucien except hold it inside her, just as there was nothing she could do to defend herself from an unseen foe.
She sighed, for though she was bone-weary, she knew there would be no more sleeping for her this morning. Even with the little slumber she had managed to nab, her restless mind was spinning. First and foremost, she was a Pinkerton, and she had not forgotten the duties which came with such a distinction.
Hazel rose from bed, performed her morning ablutions, and hastily dressed herself, for though Bunton would surely arrive if she rang for her, Hazel was accustomed to doing for herself. And she needed the reminder the charmed existence in which she found herself—bombs and murderous Fenians out for her blood notwithstanding—would eventually come to an end. She would once more return to her modest life of rented rooms the size of the guest bedchambers in which she stayed, of no servants to cater to her whims, and of breakfasts she prepared by her own hand.
Pacing the floor some more, she set her mind to unraveling the mystery of Sean Flannery and Thomas Mulroney, and any of their unknown confederates. Because most of her journals had been inside her carpetbag when it was stolen, she was bereft of her lists and copious notes. She had not realized how very much she had relied upon them, until they were gone.
On another perambulation of the chamber, she noted the small writing desk set up near a window, with a sheaf of papers and pen and ink upon its glossy surface. She would just have to make her lists again, she decided, storming to the desk with purpose and settling down to begin.
Known Fenians
Thomas Mulroney
Sean Flannery
Drummond McKenna
The Nightingale
Her pen paused after the last, something about the code name used for the Fenian connection in England bothering her.
“The Nightingale,” she repeated aloud.
As code names went, it was damned odd. Nightingales were small and uninspiring in appearance. Dull and drab, with portly bellies and a sweet call they trilled cheerfully in the spring and summer months. Was The Nightingale unassuming? Commonplace?
Hmm, that did not seem right.
Perhaps, she reasoned, tilting her head as she contemplated, The Nightingale was female, and that was the reasoning behind the code name. Or The Nightingale was a man who was short in stature. Or maybe The Nightingale had brown hair. Or he was exceedingly garrulous.
“Hell,” she muttered to herself.
She could not help but to feel now, as she had all along, that uncovering the identity of The Nightingale would unlock the mysteries of the case. If she could find out who The Nightingale was, she would be able to determine the whereabouts of Mulroney and Flannery, and any of their cohorts, she was certain.
Unless…
No. It could not be. Surely that would be too easy. Too simple.
But still, the thought would not leave her, prodding her with the persistence of a swarm of angry bees. She rose from her chair and went to the hastily packed valise which had accompanied her the previous night during her flight from Lark House. Opening it, she discovered the map of London she had been utilizing in her research, one of the few documents in her possession which had not been thieved by the villains who had attempted to kill her.
She hastened back to the writing desk, map in hand, and unfolded it, spreading it out atop her list. Her forefinger traveled over the portion of map devoted to the London docks. She traveled over dozens of streets and lanes. Saint George, Pennington, High, Wapping, Cable and Betts, Princes Square, and so many more, until finally her finger connected with precisely what she had been seeking.
