“I’m closing up, but if you’re looking for something in particular, I can help you,” she said, forcing a smile to her face.
“Oh no, miss, I’m not a customer,” he said. “You’ve a message.”
He held out a letter and when she took it, he bobbed away. She frowned as she locked the door behind him and then went to the candle at the counter so she could see better. She had no idea who might write her. Messages from Esme always came from her servants, who had a recognizable livery. Friends from the life often couldn’t read or write. She, herself, had been taught to read by Esme only a few years before. The handwriting of the address wasn’t from Ripley.
With everyone she could imagine might write to her eliminated, she found dread creeping through her. Finally, she broke the wax seal and unfolded the page. There wasn’t much to it.
Miss Kendall,
I’m sorry to tell you that your sister, Miss Honora, has disappeared from the grounds of our fine seminary. We have put forth a search before this writing, but she seems to have vanished entirely. In the weeks leading up to the disappearance, several of her schoolmates and instructors noticed a change in her behavior. A sense of distraction and a generally disruptive attitude. And, as you know from other notices, Honora has often thwarted authority and was already on her final warning.
We leave this matter in your hands now with our best wishes.
Miss Gwendoline Knightly
Headmistress, the Knightly Seminary for Young Women
Jane crumpled the letter against the counter, her heart beginning to race. It was panic that rose up on her. Terror that clawed at her and nearly brought her to her knees right there in the middle of her hated shop. All she could think about was Honora and her bright eyes, her loud laughter. Honora as a little girl, the last time she’d seen her sister.
And now she was gone. Missing, perhaps run away. But perhaps something more sinister. She stared at the letter again and then rushed to the door she had just locked. She fled into the street, hastily hailing a hack and directing it where to go before she flung herself inside, letter still clutched in her shaking hand.
She only had one person she wished to see in this horrible moment. Only one person she needed to see like she needed her next breath. And if he couldn’t help her, then she feared no one could.
It had been a long day at the boxing club. Wednesdays were always his busiest and saw many a man come in and out of the doors, either for group practice or personal training. At the end of the day, Ripley actually enjoyed the ritual of cleaning the ring up, putting the practice equipment away. It was mindless, repetitive, a way to quiet his normally busy mind, if only briefly.
So he stood in the middle of the center ring, still shirtless after his last training session, washing away the collected sweat of earlier fights from the ring floor. He could hear Brentwood shuffling around him, organizing things.
“I can do the rest,” Ripley said. “Go on home. I’m sure Mariah must be waiting.”
Brentwood gave a little smile at the mention of his wife, inclined his head and took in a breath to reply, but before he could there was a racket of pounding at the locked door. They exchanged a quick look and Brentwood shrugged. “If I’m about to leave, I can answer and send anyone away who doesn’t have legitimate business.”
“Thank you,” Ripley said, and went back to his mopping. There was something about the wild pounding, though, that distracted him from the duty. He stopped his work, leaned on the handle of the mop and watched as Brentwood unlocked the massive double door.
When he did, Jane stumbled inside, half-collapsing in a heap on the floor before his right-hand man.
“Miss Kendall!” Brentwood exclaimed, catching her arm.
Ripley was already moving. He bounded over the top ropes and rushed to her, dropping to his knees when he reached her and gathering her closer to hold her up.
“She’s gone,” she gasped out.
He shook his head even though terror filled him. “Who? Who is gone? Esme? Was she taken?”
“No,” she said.
He was relieved at that. Esme had been in danger not so many months ago. That danger had also reached Jane and she had been kidnapped, hurt. Sometimes he had nightmares of that horrible day. Of seeing her tied to a chair, so small when she was normally so confident and certain and unflappable.
“Then who?” he asked gently.
“My—my sister,” she stammered.
A sister? Ripley hadn’t even known she had one. A secret she kept close to the chest, protected from strangers and even friends. He looked up at Brentwood, who appeared nearly as concerned as Ripley felt. She didn’t need an audience for whatever was about to come. He shook his head and then said, “I have her, mate. I’ll call for you if I need anything.”
Brentwood hesitated but then nodded. “Yes, Ripley. Good night.”
He left then. When he was gone, when Ripley and Jane were alone, she leaned forward and rested her forehead against his bare chest and she began to cry softly. His heart felt like it was being torn in two. He’d never seen Jane cry before. She was too tough from a life of hard edges and difficult choices. But now the sound of her pain and grief was like an injured animal howling around him.
He gathered her up, tucking her against him, and carried her across the hall and up the narrow stairs toward his personal chambers above the club. She hiccupped into his neck as he did so, the soft stir of her breath against his bare skin a distraction only metered by her pain.
