Her chest tight, Fi asked, “What happened next?”
“I tried to get her to stay. So that I could tend to her injuries, perhaps help her in some way. But she insisted on leaving with that bastard.” Mrs. Swann’s hands balled in her lap. “He was controlling her, abusing her, and there was nothing mutual about it. I should have seen it. Should have never allowed him to hurt her in my domain.”
“You can still help her now,” Fi said urgently. “Do you know where I can find them?”
“I do not. What I can tell you is this. Martin Wheatley is approximately five foot ten, with a lean build, golden-brown hair, and green eyes. His accent is educated working class. He also has a natural, predatory charisma. I am certain Lillian is not his only victim. He struck me as having a roving eye; he purchased some of my trinkets in bulk—perfumes and such—probably to lure unsuspecting women.”
“The description is very helpful, Mrs. Swann. Can you think of any other details? No matter how insignificant they may seem, they could be a clue to finding Lillian.”
“There is something,” Mrs. Swann said slowly. “His voice has a distinctive rasp to it. Due to his cough, perhaps.”
“He was ill?” Fi asked alertly.
“He had a coughing fit here once; it had an odd, wheezing quality. When I asked him about it, he denied being sick. Said it was a chronic condition caused by his work.”
Fi mentally rifled through trades known to affect respiration. “Was he a miner or sweep, perhaps? Or maybe he worked in a cotton mill?”
“He looked too spotless to be a miner or sweep: no sign of coal dust on his skin, clothes, or under his nails. A mill worker might be a possibility, but he did not have any of the usual loom-related injuries. No cuts or missing fingers. Although I did notice several small burns on the backs of his hands…old scars, by the looks of them.” Mrs. Swann hitched her shoulders. “Given the rates I charge, men in those trades could not afford my establishment. Yet Wheatley seemed flush in the pocket. I am sorry, but that is all I know.”
“Thank you,” Fi said earnestly. “You’ve given me excellent leads to continue my search.”
The proprietress dipped her chin. “Then our bargain is completed.”
She rose, and Fi followed her to the door.
Mrs. Swann paused, pivoting to face her. “Would you mind answering a question?”
“It depends on what the question is.”
“Does your husband know what you are up to?”
Pulse racing, Fi shook her head. “And I would like to keep it that way.”
“You have nothing to fear on my part. As I’ve said, if my patrons are honest with me, I will guard their secrets with the utmost discretion. But I must confess that you provoke my professional curiosity, Mrs. Morgan.”
Wariness tiptoed up Fi’s spine. “Why is that?”
“You are a brave and enterprising woman. And yet I sense such fear in you.”
“I…I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” Mrs. Swann’s mouth quirked into a half-smile.
Panic swirled in Fi’s chest. In the proprietress’s bright eyes, she saw herself reflected. A girl who’d been a disappointment to her family, a debutante who’d pulled off a dazzling deception, a woman who was hiding so much from her husband.
“Fear keeps us from our heart’s deepest desires.” Mrs. Swann exited, her voice trailing behind her. “Vanquish yours, Mrs. Morgan, and you will become the woman you were meant to be.”
Twenty-Nine
That evening, Hawk surveyed the streets of Covent Garden from a carriage. Given the premiere of a new ballet at the Theatre Royal as well as several other tony affairs in the vicinity, he’d calculated increased odds of an attack by the Sherwood Band. He had decided to go on patrol, but after von Essen’s untimely demise, his gut had told him to keep his plan quiet. Securing Swinburne’s permission, he’d tapped Trent to be his partner.
“We’re searching for the proverbial needle,” Trent muttered from the opposite bench.
“Our odds are higher.” Hawk kept his gaze trained on the fog-filled maze. “We know the patterns of the Sherwood Band. We’ll focus on back lanes and alleys where they carry out their heists. They use decoys and detours. Keep an eye out for overturned carts, ‘injured’ people or animals in the streets, and anything else that would make a carriage change its route.”
“That logic o’ yours might be more useful than I expected.” Trent’s craggy features held respect. “You’ve done good work, guv, organizing this and getting information from Mrs. Swann.”
After the interminable visit at Lady Fayne’s, Hawk had returned to Swann’s. He’d informed the assistant that Mrs. Swann could speak to him or the police. Within minutes, Mrs. Swann had appeared.
