Her gaze sharpened with resolve. “The mother spoke once of a seamstress. In Soho. A woman she trusted. Confided in. If she left any trace of herself behind, it would be there.”
It was not a name. Not what Richard had hoped for.
Still, it was something.
“A seamstress in Soho,” he repeated. “Thank you. That may yet lead us where we need to go.”
He rose, retrieving a small purse from his coat. “For your discretion. And your care.”
Mrs. Tallow accepted it with trembling hands. “It will help greatly,” she said, her eyes glistening. “May God guide you, Your Grace. And protect the child.”
Outside, the air felt colder.
“A seamstress in Soho? You’ll be looking for a needle in a haystack,” Jonathan remarked as they walked away.
“A large one,” Richard agreed grimly. “But we now know which field to search.”
He pressed his lips together, thoughts already turning. Soho meant risk. Exposure. Questions. It would require care, and, perhaps, allies.
For the first time, he considered seeking Victoria’s counsel.
The thought unsettled him more than any shadowed enemy. His heart and his mind were no longer aligned.
And that, he feared, was the greater danger.
Chapter Eleven
Richard returned to Hawksford House, feeling slightly grimy from the day’s search.
The information Mrs. Tallow had given him clung to his mind, just as the urge to see Victoria did.
He found her in the sitting room, seated near the hearth with a book balanced lightly in her hands. Firelight gilded her profile, catching along the line of her cheek and the soft curve of her mouth. The flames deepened the blue of her eyes to something almost nocturnal, thoughtful rather than sharp. Her dark-blonde hair had escaped its pins and brushed her shoulders, giving her an unguarded look she rarely allowed herself in company.
Richard did not announce himself at once.
He stood just inside the doorway, watching her breathe, watching the small crease between her brows smooth as she turned a page.
He wished foolishly, dangerously, that he could preserve this version of her: the quiet vulnerability before it hardened into wit and boldness, before the world demanded she armor herself again. She was a woman of formidable intellect and unyielding standards; she would never accept less than she believed she deserved.
Yet here, softened by firelight and solitude, she looked almost fragile.
After a few steadying breaths, he stepped forward.
“Good evening,” he said, then dispensed with all ceremony. “I have new information to share.”
She lifted her gaze to him, unsurprised. If anything, she looked relieved to be interrupted. “Good evening. The midwife had something to say?”
“She did,” Richard replied, moving closer to the hearth. “She confirmed much of what we suspected. The mother was frightened enough to insist on giving birth in secrecy, in the midwife’s own home rather than her own. She gave a false name. Paid well. And she feared someone with power.”
Victoria’s fingers tightened slightly on the book. She closed it and set it aside. “Power,” she echoed softly. “That changes things.”
“One detail emerged,” Richard continued. “A seamstress in Soho. The mother must’ve relied on her for more than clothes. I’m guessing she could be a confidante.” He exhaled and dragged a hand over his face, the weight of it all settling heavily on his shoulders. “It is a thread, but a thin one. Soho is … extensive. Discretion will be difficult. Time-consuming.”
Victoria studied him, her gaze lingering on the fatigue he could not fully hide. “You look exhausted.”
“That is beside the point.”
“It is not,” she countered gently. “But go on.”
