Honora was just about to give up the search when there was a scraping sound at the door. A key.
She spun about, looking for a place to hide. The only place that would hide her long enough to slip out before he could get to her was the far wall. She hurried as quickly and as quietly as she could, pressing her back against it as she blew out her lamp. The knob turned, and the door swung open.
She stood perfectly still behind it, not even daring to breathe. Pratt took a hesitant step inside, holding his own lamp he likely procured from the hall outside. He held it up, the candlelight flickering over his face. Lifting his nose in the air, he took a long sniff.
The smoke from her lamp.
He quickly shut the door behind him, keeping his boot against it. She scooted along the wall, being sure to not make a single sound. If she were nimble enough, she could kick his foot down and slip out without him reaching her.
But then he turned before she could take a single step. A sneer stretched across his weathered face, and his hand shot out, backhanding her across the cheek before she could so much as think to duck.
“Blast,” she hissed, putting a hand to her cheek. But the shock of being hit had made her hesitate one moment too long, and Pratt had a boot to the door before she could open it.
He leaned his entire body against it, then held his torch up. Shock and recognition registered on his face. “Honora?”
“Yes,” she spat out, her mouth tinged with the metallic taste of blood. Stupid man had cut the inside of her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said, dipping his head. “Didn’t know it was you.”
“Apology accepted, I suppose.” She swallowed, running her tongue along the cut.
His eyes narrowed, and he leaned toward the door again. “Whatareyou doin’ here?”
“I visited the Fageans’.” She leaned back against the wall, putting her half boot against it. “You can only imagine my surprise when I found out they haven’t been in London for six weeks.”
Pratt’s eyes flicked to the door as if he might try and escape himself, then back to her hands. He seemed to relax when he saw she had nothing in her possession other than the unlit oil lamp.
“I did not bring my gun, if that’s what you are wondering.”
“Good to know.” He walked further into the room, placing his lamp on the single table in the entire room. “What do you want?”
“The necklace, obviously.”
“Don’t have it.” He sat on the edge of the table. “It’s gone, Honora. Might as well let this one be.”
“I can’t,” she said, fisting her hand by her side. “Hind is becoming more insistent that I hurry this along.”
“Don’t know what to tell ya.” With a shrug, he flicked his thumb beneath his nose. “I don’t have it, and unless you are willing to resort to the worst, I ain’t tellin’ ya where it is. Bad business.”
“Why, Pratt? Why did you turn on me like this?”
His mouth turned down at the sides. “I saw what you had become. Knew it wouldn’t fit your new style to really push. I saw my chance, and I took it.”
“All for a lousy opal.” Honora scoffed, taking a step toward the door and grasping the handle.
“Your father would be ashamed of ya,” he called out, causing her to pause in her retreat.
She strode to the table, her boots clicking on the bare wood floor, and lit her own lamp. “Then I must be doing something right.” The flame caught, and she gave Pratt one last parting nod. A goodbye—perhaps forever.
She left the apartment and stepped out into the cold, dark streets of London. Slipping around the building, she found where she had tied up her horse. Using a box to slip onto the saddle, she made her way home. A horse was quicker, but it was also incredibly cool in the late September nights, especially this year, which had been unseasonably cold.
When she arrived home, she eyed the front window. The draperies were pulled, but she could see a glow of light all the same. She took cautious steps up the stairs leading to the door. Instead of knocking and alerting the house she was home, she slipped her key inside the lock and gave herself entry.
The foyer was quiet, but something was amiss. She had not had the drawing room lit upon her leaving, and while Wilsonalways left the lights burning in the entryway for her return, he did not keep the entertaining areas of the house at the ready.
She stretched onto her toes to reach the shelf situated above her, taking the small knife she kept hidden there. The relentlessness of the night did not seem to wish to end, and her heart beat harder. Pressing the blade to her side, she stayed close to the wall, making her way to the drawing room. After working her way along the papered wall, she tipped her head to peer inside. At first, her hand tightened on the hilt of her knife.
It was only Leonard.
