Eighteen
Bread and Shadow
The moment Rosalynd stepped away from Riversgate’s front door, I knew the news was not what she had hoped for. Disappointment shadowed her features, but beneath it lived something sharper—fear, perhaps, or the far more dangerous certainty that she would not stop now that she had begun.
She halted when she saw me, her eyes widening briefly. The exchange that followed was mercifully brief. At the end she agreed our discussion would need to be away from an open street.
“My house in Chelsea is not far.”
She shook her head at once. “We’ve already set tongues wagging there. Our arrival will draw notice, as it did before. ”
I considered that only for a moment. “Then somewhere public—somewhere we may speak freely without inviting gossip.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. “A place that serves luncheon. I had toast and tea this morning and nothing since.”
I dismissed the Rosehaven carriage and directed my own to a nearby public house, a modest one I had used while conducting enquiries for Parliament. It was clean, quiet, and unpretentious—precisely the sort of place where a man might overhear truths no drawing room would ever admit.
Inside, the warmth of stewing meat and rising bread pressed softly against the chill from outside. I led Rosalynd to a corner table, far enough removed to avoid notice, close enough to be served without delay.
A serving woman approached—sharp-eyed and capable, a dusting of flour clinging to her sleeves as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“What’ll it be?”
Before I could answer, Rosalynd spoke. “I would like something hot, if you please. A meat pie or stew. And tea.”
“The same for me,” I said. “But ale instead of tea. And bring extra bread.”
“Stew’s hearty today,” the woman replied. “I’ll have it out in a minute.”
She lingered a moment longer than necessary, her gaze lingering on us with quiet appraisal, before moving away. Only then did I turn back to Rosalynd.
“Tell me what drew you to Chelsea,” I said. “Was it something you learned at the modiste?”
“A seamstress by the name of Alice Brent was lured away by a woman calling herself Mrs. Kincaid, who promised her a more lucrative position at a house in Chelsea called Riversgate.”
“And the house you stopped at bears that name.”
She nodded.
The serving woman returned then, setting a steaming cup of tea before Rosalynd and an ale before me. She placed a small basket of bread between us.
“Stew will be out in a minute,” she said. “Fresh and hot.” With that, she withdrew, leaving us alone once more.
I waited until her footsteps faded before turning back to Rosalynd. “What did the maid you talked to at Riversgate have to say?”
As she spoke, I listened without interruption, setting each detail carefully in place—the family’s absence, the caretaker’s irregular visits, and the complete lack of any woman answering to the name of Mrs. Kincaid.
Riversgate had been empty. And yet someone had used it.
When Rosalynd finished, she wrapped her hands around her teacup as if absorbing its warmth. “Alice Brent was lured there. I know it.”
“So do I,” I said. “But she didn’t stay long. She was taken somewhere else. Riversgate was a stop, not a destination.”
The serving woman returned with the tray of food. She set it down, but did not leave. “You’re talking about Riversgate,” she said simply.
Rosalynd stiffened. I kept my voice even. “What makes you think so?”
The serving woman lowered her voice at once. “Because I saw the lady there not five minutes ago.” She nodded toward Rosalynd. “You were standing at the door, speaking to the maid. Riversgate is just down the lane—I stepped outside for a moment and saw you plain as day.”
