Who would she be meeting? And why?
It was his duty to determine that. Felix told himself it was dutyonlyas he descended from his carriage and asked his driver to await him before crossing the street and entering through the same doors Johanna had. Once inside, he proceeded through the hall with care, moving with the crowd whilst looking for her.
As if his eyes knew instinctively where to travel, he found her, standing in the sunlight in the midst of the gardens, near a massive statue of a man mounting a horse. He found a place beneath a large, leafy plant whose name escaped him. It was the perfect vantage point.
He watched as she waited by the statuary, glancing about in agitated fashion, as if she were searching for someone. Part of him prayed she was not, but part of him knew—oh, how it knew, she was. His gaze scoured her figure, noting the way her gloved fingers grasped her skirts, gripping into the folds of the nondescript fabric.
How different she seemed in this moment from the golden-haired siren who owned the stage and made her audiences sigh and weep at her command. Her beauty was still undeniable, but the tense manner in which she held herself gave her away. Her dress was plain. She had left her large hat in the coat room, but curiously, she wore her dolman draped over the crook of one arm.
Almost like a shield.
Or as if she were using it to hide something.
Suspicion once more took root, branching into his heart and constricting. He realized he did not want to believe the worst of her. Yesterday, over luncheon, when she had been in his arms and revealing part of herself to him, they had bonded.
Unless she had been playing a role—and for an actress of her skill, it was entirely possible—something had changed between them. It was as if they had crossed a bridge together. He felt, quite inexplicably, closer to her. She had shared her given name with him, the story of her daughter. He had told her about Hattie, about Verity.
Had shared the shattered pieces of himself with someone for the first time.
Felix did not want to be wrong about their connection the day before. He did not want to believe she had come to the aquarium for a nefarious purpose. Instead, he wanted to believe she had been honest. That her grief had been real and not some weapon she had chosen to wield against him, the one most certain to puncture his wounded heart and render him vulnerable.
As he watched, a man, tall and thin, approached her. They exchanged a few words. Felix was too far away to attempt to read their lips and discover what they were saying. Johanna did not look comfortable with the man, however. They circled the horse statue slowly. Johanna cast a few glances about her, as if she were looking for someone.
And then, she withdrew a large packet from beneath her draped dolman, extending it to the man. The man took it, said a few more words, and turned to disappear into the crowd.
Heart hammering in his chest, Felix followed the man, determined to find out who he was and what was within the packet. Dreading both answers.
For suspicion was a heavy weight upon his chest, and he feared he already knew.
When Johanna leftthe Crown and Thorn that night, it was once again raining. And once again, Felix’s carriage awaited her. This time, however, he was not within it. Stifling a surge of disappointment, she settled herself on the plush squab and closed her eyes as the conveyance swayed into motion.
Tonight had been yet another performance as Miranda. For the next few days, she would immerse herself in rehearsals for the next role she would play, Katherine inThe Taming of the Shrew. Her six-week tour in London comprised three, two-week runs of Shakespeare plays, and each was no less demanding than the last.
But her impending roles were not the reason for her weariness now.
No, indeed. The weariness was thanks to her afternoon sojourn to the Royal Aquarium.
She had done it. She had passed off the packet as Drummond had required. The man had not appeared to notice the envelope had been opened and then resealed. But only time would tell whether or not her deception was discovered. He had been terse, simply approaching her as she had been told he would.
“I believe we have a mutual acquaintance,” he had said. “A Mrs. Wilson?”
And she had responded as she had been instructed. “Mrs. Harriet Wilson?”
He had asked her if she was alone or accompanied then, and she had informed him she was by herself. The man had been soft-spoken and mild-mannered. He had possessed the slight brogue she had come to know from fellow Irish who had emigrated to America. In time, their accents were smoothed down like pebbles worn by the waters of a stream.
But he had not frightened her in the way Drummond did. Perhaps because unlike Drummond, she did not know what the mysterious man she had met was capable of. With her brother, she was certain. She had experienced his abuse herself.
He was not just heartless, but soulless as well. Just as their father had been before him. Just as ready to inflict brutal harm upon anyone who stood in the way of what he wanted or anyone who defied him.
She shuddered in her seat as she thought of Drummond. There had been a reason she had spent half her life running from him. But in her foolish bid to flee her past, she had succeeded far too well. When her life had finally become comfortable—when her roles had become leading roles and when the public adored her, when she had food aplenty upon the table and fine clothing on her back, that was when he had found her.
And he had struck.
Not physical blows at first, but emotional ones.
The physical blows had come later. Small, at first. A slap, pulled hair. Rages where he had destroyed every stick of furniture in her hotel room and she had been forced to leave and pay for replacements. Then worse. A broken finger. Punches to the ribs, where no one would see the bruising.
The unwanted memories had her hands shaking. She gripped her skirts to calm herself and took a deep breath.He did not follow you here, she told herself.No one will hurt you here. You are safe from him.
