Did she imagine that Jennie moved away? Not a stepwas taken, but a shifting of weight had Jennie more distant. Her eyes looked worried, and her reassuring smile polite and forced. She fussed with her reticule and straightened her gloves.
“I really must hurry back. I must take my class after lunch.”
“Jennie—”
Jennie stopped walking. “I wish I were as brave as you, Padua. Brave enough to stand up to the world. Brave enough to be different. To think differently. I am not.”
“You do not have to be.”
“Don’t I? Your father— It is the kind of trial that all the papers report. Every word. He will be infamous, once it starts.”
“And I will be too. That is what you are saying, isn’t it?” Jennie could ill afford to have the taint spread to her too. She could not risk this friendship any longer. Padua felt the cut deeply, but she could not blame her friend.
Jennie’s eyes teared. “I really must go.” She walked off, her expression stricken. “I am sorry, Padua. So sorry.”
***
“Are you ready?” Ives asked.
They sat in his carriage, two streets from her father’s chambers on Wigmore Street. They had ridden past the building, to ensure a blond head sat near the window on the first floor.
“I am ready, but you must do the shouting. I do not think my voice will carry enough.”
“I will make sure she hears.” Every day this continued, his situation became more untenable. He was in far deeper than he ever thought possible, and he wanted it finished.
Padua stepped out of the carriage. Posture rigid, she walked toward Wigmore Street.
Ives’s mind followed her to the building’s door, and up the stairs. Only then did he set off on the same path.
He approached the building, and spied Mrs. Trenholm at her window. She peered out, then pulled back, out of sight. He mounted the stairs like a man on the trail of an elusive quarry. He found Padua at the bookcase in her father’s apartment, running her finger along the spines. She paused and pulled out a small, thin schoolbook. A blue one this time. She held it upside down and shook.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Checking to see if you missed any money. As long as I am here, I thought I might as well see what other of my books were here.”
Finding that money had been the first step on the path that had brought him to where he was today. He did not regret any of it, but abandoning one’s honor would leave any man in a dark humor.
He pointed to the floor. Performance time.
“Miss Belvoir, it is time you and I had a right understanding.”
“Regarding what, sir?”
He raised his voice. “I think that you have the evidence that is sought regarding your father. I am sureof it. If you do not tell me what you have found, it will go badly for you.”
“I am sure I do not know what you mean.”
“The plates, Miss Belvoir. The equipment,” he boomed. “He told you where to find it. A man was put in the cell with him, to watch you both. He reported a conversation, full of whispers and instructions, through that grating. Your father has made you an accomplice, and if you do not reveal all, you will end up on the gallows beside him.”
“You are all bluster, sir. You know nothing.”
“Then there is something to know!”
Padua waited a five count. “If there were—and I am not saying there is—would I be able to bargain for my father’s freedom if I revealed it?”
“His freedom? I should hope not. Some mercy, perhaps. For him and for you. You know where it is, don’t you? The equipment used to print the notes. The place where the bad money is stored, while it gets passed bit by bit into the economy. Tell me now.”
“If I knew these things, I would expect a lot of mercy before handing the information over. I would need to have more than your word as guarantee too.”
