“I remember the pamphlet,” he announced bluntly.
She jerked as if struck.
Either he did not notice her lack of verbal response or he did not care.
“I was a young man just rising in the ranks during those years. I longed to join the prestige associated with the Society, but I did not come from wealth and privilege, you see. I didn’t exactly meet the criteria for the sorts of men they deemed appropriate for such a group. Even so, your mother was always kind to me. So much so that I recall speaking with a woman—a Mrs. Chatterly—about engaging my sister as one of your mother’s personal servants. My sister had made some questionable choices in her young life. I believed that if she could be under the care of a reasonable, intelligent, responsible family’s roof, she might just be able to turn things around.”
Ella froze at the mention of Mrs. Chatterly. She desperately searched her memory, wondering which woman on the staff had been his sister, yet she could remember no one with the name of Clancy.
Her voice cracked as she attempted to portray a placid demeanor. “And how is your sister now?”
“She’s dead, Miss Wilde.” His tone sharpened. “She was the other servant in the room when your mother died. A ‘fit of rage,’ I believe the pamphlet said.”
His statement stole her ability to speak. To respond.
Was this man accusing her mother of killing his sister?
Silence would make her appear intimidated, so she forced words from her parched mouth. “Whoever wrote that pamphlet was greatly misinformed. I daresay the events of the last couple of weeks have proved that phrenology is hardly a reliable measure.”
“How odd it is, Miss Wilde”—he rushed his words out, speaking over her—“that there is only one woman whose name is recalled from that horrific event. One woman whose fate was documented, as if the other two women didn’t matter.”
She refused to cower, despite her escalating trepidation. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because your mother murdered my sister!” he shouted in an explosion of fury. Moisture spat from his mouth with the sudden force of his words. He leaned forward in the confined space with his eyes wildly latched on her, unblinking and towering over her. His voice grew eerily calm. “And as I just told you, I have a very long memory. When you combine that gift with an extraordinary sense of justice, one might call that retribution. And the people who know me, really know me, know that I am a man to be feared. I keep them in line by it. And you are about to find out why.”
Spurred by his words, Ella lunged for the door handle, determined to leap out and put as much distance between herself and Mr. Clancy as she could.
He stopped her. He grabbed her wrist with such force that she thought he might crush it. He spoke through gritted teeth. “A word to the wise, my dear. Do not scream or cry out or take any ofthe other actions that might be running through that pretty head of yours. You are in unfamiliar territory. I tell you with certainty, the poor, prosaic people here will not care one speck about the sight of a woman lying lifeless on the ground.”
He pushed open the door and somehow got out without releasing her. Then he jerked her, forcing her to step down on shaky legs.
His warning not to scream ran wild in her head, for she did believe he would hurt her. Or worse.
Mr. Clancy motioned to the driver, and in a matter of a few slippery seconds, the carriage that had transported her here—the very one she had believed would shield her from the dock’s dangers, was leaving. Each second sent it farther away into the night.
She was exposed. Trapped. Caged.
She blinked to see the conveyance through the foggy night, beneath the light from the sputtering gas lamp on the corner.
Mr. Clancy pinned her arm around his. No doubt to anyone else it looked like a gentleman escorting a lady across the street. She lifted her eyes to what was undoubtedly the destination . . . a public house across the street, light beaming from the windows and raucous laughter and rough voices bursting from within.
Chapter 43
GABRIEL GLANCED BACKat the Clancy carriage as he walked down the cobbled street toward the smaller, run-down buildings at the dock’s edge. Pungent odors of fish and refuse hovered in the misty night air, and the nighttime seabird cries added a familiar backdrop to the laughter and music emanating from the public houses and taverns. The Clancy carriage was well marked, with a cloaked driver sitting atop the bench and a footman next to him.
Ella was quite safe, yet he was on edge. For all her gumption and spirit, she was, in effect, sheltered. She would be secure with Clancy, but Gabriel would not be comfortable until she was safely delivered to Hawthorne House.
By the light of the small, controlled fires burning on the edge of the street and the gas lamps shedding a meager glow on the unsavory conditions below, Gabriel sidestepped a sleeping man and ignored a group of dockworkers clustered outside a public house as he made his way to the manifest office at the edge of the docks. A few lights burned in the filthy window, and even though the office was likely closed, he knew with whom he needed to speak.
He knocked on the door. When no answer came, he knocked louder.
Eventually, James Prior, the office’s principal agent and a longtime friend, appeared. “What are you doing here? And at this time of night?” Prior shoved his fingers through his tangled black hair and propped his hands akimbo. “Are you aware of the hour?”
“I am, but I need help. I’m looking for a man who is departing on a passenger ship tomorrow. I need to find out which one and if he is traveling with anyone else. So, of course, I came to you.”
“Ah.” Prior scoffed and hastily motioned with a scrawny hand for Gabriel to enter. “You couldn’t think to come during the day like a person of sense? No matter. Come in. We’ll have a look.”
Gabriel joined him in the office. There was no legal requirement for the passenger ships leaving from London to maintain official passenger manifests, but sometimes they worked in his favor and he would find what he needed.
