Rifling behind the counter, Doolittle emerged with a thick ledger and thumped it onto the counter. He thumbed through the volume and tapped his finger on a page.
“’Ere’s the transaction you’re after. One necklace, graduated pearls o’ exceptional quality, gold filigree clasp—valued at two hundred pounds. Deposited by one Charles Wilcott. And let’s see…I made a note. Wilcott paid the holding fee up front and said the necklace was to be given to the man who brought in both halves o’ the ticket.”
“Do you have Wilcott’s address?” James demanded.
“That’s confidential.”
James placed a twenty-pound note on the counter.
“14 Burton Crescent in Bloomsbury. A lodging house, and not a very fine one.”
A thrill chased up Evie’s spine.
“Now, you will return my wife’s necklace,” James said.
“That I cannot do, guv. For any price.” Mr. Doolittle shut the ledger. “I’m bound by the pledge o’ my trade. If word got out that I relinquished a patron’s deposited goods wifout proper authorization, my reputation won’t be worth dirt.”
“Your patron is a murderer and extortionist,” James stated. “If the police get wind of your involvement, your reputation will be the least of your worries.”
“Let the Peelers come.” Mr. Doolittle folded his arms over his chest, a slight sneer on his face. “I ain’t afraid o’ a pack o’ blue-bottles.”
“But you should be afraid of me,” James said in a dangerous tone. “My wife has suffered enough losses, and I will not stand by while you keep what is rightfully hers.”
Evie stopped him before he could follow through with his threat.
“Leave the necklace for now, darling.” She kept her gaze steady on the burning blue of his. “When we capture Wilmington, we will get the other half of the ticket. I shall have my pearls—and justice at last.”
Dusk had settled over Burton Street like a shroud. Gas lamps dotted the terrace, their flickering halos doing little to relieve the misery of the surroundings. Evie shivered as they drove past the bleak lodging house at number fourteen: its sunken roof and crumbling brick facade gave the impression that it was rotting from within.
In a nearby alleyway, Evie and James rendezvoused with his family.
“Are you certain the two of you should go in alone?” Papa asked.
“If we barge in as a group, the commotion might alert Wilmington,” James said. “I will handle the coward. But in case he makes a run for it, the rest of you must cover all exits.”
“You can count on us,” Ethan said.
“Evie, you are prepared?” Mama inquired.
“Yes, Mama.” Evie removed the pearl-handled pistol from the pocket of her cloak. “Wilmington is no threat to me.”
“Not physically,” Mama murmured. “Yet facing one’s demons is never easy. You must confront him together, my dears, and let your love strengthen your purpose and resolve.”
The group split up, and hand in hand, Evie and James entered the lodging house. It was supper time, and from the distant clatter of dishes and hum of conversation, most of the guests were occupied with the meal. The shabby foyer was manned by a single clerk, who was as weathered as the décor. His gaze widened as he took in James’s elegance and commanding presence.
“We are looking for Charles Wilcott,” James said softly. “We don’t wish to cause any trouble for you or your occupants. If you cooperate, there will be no need to summon the authorities.”
Sweat dotted the clerk’s upper lip, his gaze darting as he made the calculations.
“I believe Mr. Wilcott is in his room. Top floor, room f-four,” he stammered. “Up the stairs to your right, my lord.”
James held out a gloved hand. “The key, if you please.”
Fumbling, the clerk unhooked the key from a jangling chain and handed it over.
James deposited a coin on the desk, and he and Evie headed up the stairs. Each creak of the floorboards quickened her pulse; when they arrived at the appointed door moments later, she felt as if she had run a mile.
I have been running—all my life, it seems. But that stops here and now.
