“I’ll need to hire a private travelling coach. It needs to be done quickly, before the others get home. Can you see to that, Lisette?”
The maid nodded.
“Have the driver wait in the back lane. Once the servants sit down for their luncheon, we’ll slip out the back to avoid being seen by the guards. Go now, hurry.”
As the maid rushed off to do her bidding, Beatrice sat to compose a letter.
Dear Wickham,
By the time you read this, I will be on my way home. There has been another attack, and Mrs. Ellerby has been hurt. I must attend to her—to the responsibilities I should not have left behind.
As pain seeped through her numbness, she forced herself to continue.
This parting comes at a natural time. You must deal with your world as I must deal with mine. I am sorrier than I can express to be the barrier to your success and happiness. Being the honorable man that you are, I know that you would try to forgive me…but I could not forgive myself.
Her hand shook, a drop of ink splattering on the paper. A tear joined it, and she dashed away the others that threatened to follow. She couldn’t be weak. Couldn’t let her stupid heart cause more grief than it already had.
She reminded herself that it wasn’t the first time she’d broken off an engagement. Back then, hadn’t releasing Croydon felt like the end of the world? Eventually, she would get over losing Wick too.
No, you won’t, her heart cried.Because Wick isn’t just an infatuation: you love him. And you always will.
Taking several hitched breaths to regain control, she wrote on.
I will always cherish the time we had together. Please accept what I know to be true: happiness such as ours was not meant to last. It is best that we part ways now, to preserve the sweetness of the memories we have and forgo the bitterness that would surely taint our future.
Yours,
Beatrice
P. S. Please do not worry about my safety. Now that I know Mr. Varnum is my enemy, I will take the necessary precautions.
Walling off her emotions, she addressed the letter to Wick and left it on the escritoire. Then she went to the wardrobe, pulling out a wooden box. She removed the pearl-handled pistol from its bed of velvet and loaded it.
* * *
The roar of the mob outside the office grew.
That morning, someone had tossed a brick through the front window, terrifying the clerks. Garrity had had to bring in a fleet of guards, who were at present doing their best to control the chaos. Wick and his partners had congregated in Kent’s office since it was situated at the back of the building, farthest from the rioting. They’d had to carve out a space to meet as Kent’s private domain was a cross between the study of an absent-minded scholar and the laboratory of a mad scientist.
They sat around a table cluttered with books, gears, and unidentified odds and ends used in Kent’s experiments. Jaw tight, Wick informed his colleagues of Norton’s findings. He felt numb with the knowledge that his failure had caused all of this: the frothing fury outside, the public humiliation of the woman he loved…and the tension of the men in this room, whose trust he’d betrayed.
“We’ll wait a few days to announce the project is dead,” Garrity said flatly. “We’ll close the offices so the clerks won’t be subject to harassment. And I suggest you gentlemen have a plan in place for your safety and that of your family. A vacation might be in order.”
“Tessa has already refused to leave Town.” Kent was idly spinning a coin-sized gear on the table. On the wall behind him was his “thinking board,” the black slate surface covered in diagrams and scribbles that only he could decipher. His motto—As constant as coal—was emblazoned at the top.
“She’s not worried about the rioters?” Garrity asked.
“She says that any mob that harasses her or her family will regret it.” Kent’s mouth curved. “She’s probably right.”
“I suppose that’s one perquisite of being married to the Duchess of Covent Garden.”
“One of many.” Kent’s smile was smug.
“Spare us the details,” Garrity said, shaking his head.
This sort of banter was normal amongst Wick’s partners. But it didn’t feel normal now, when the sky was crashing on their heads…because of him. He wished the two would just berate him, yell at him—or better yet, take a swing at him. God knew he deserved it.
“Well, Murray?”
