Hannah rubbed her eyes before pressing the wax into a seal to close the envelope. It had taken her four hours to finish writing, but now the deed was done. She could send—or more accurately, sneak—the letter into Sol’s house and slip it under his door. Even if it felt rather cowardly.
If she was truly a good woman, she’d have ended things completely—told him that under no circumstances could they see each other again. But she had not.
No, instead she’d reiterated that only a physical relationship between them was possible—a relationship she’d happily enjoy for whatever brief time they had—before expressing her concern over his absence. She’d concluded by informing him that he needed to contact Isabelle Ellenberg posthaste or risk his job, and probably social standing.
A situation she shouldn’t fret about, and yet… she swallowed. The idea of Sol losing his position after all his hard work or having missed his meeting due to illness or injury or what-have-you was just—no.
She shook her head. This was all irrelevant to her life. What she and Sol had was temporary and based on mutual lust—whether her damned heart wanted toaccept that or not. And sentiment regarding anyone but Tamar had no place in her world.
Besides, Sol was clever and strong and tenacious, with far more money and connections and chances than she, and he would be fine. Especially after she got up the nerve to endallaspects of their relationship. Which she would do. Soon.
With a sigh, she rose and retook her cloak from where it had been drying by the fire. She peaked inside Tamar’s bedroom door to find her sister snoring softly, then reclosed it as quietly as she could, and left. Hannah crept down the stairs to the alley, careful to avoid the icy patches slickening the stones. Hardly any carts had been in the streets when she’d returned from tea, and there were even fewer now, given the increasingly poor weather conditions.
The wind howled up from the river as she moved westward, carefully sticking close to buildings, especially since the falling snow dulled her hearing, leaving her more vulnerable than she preferred.
All in all, not a night anyone should be out and about, but this was something she had to do. The sooner the better. Taking a deep breath, she scurried across the lane, boots sinking in the sludge, only to duck behind a fence when she spotted Mick and George ahead. Looked like they were shaking down Siobhan, an informant—now former informant, probably—who worked the alley two buildings down, for a purse that looked too nice to be hers, likely from a customer.
Momzers.Acting like they owned these streets.
They laughed as the woman rushed away, before a familiar form approached them, palm outstretched. Hannah clenched her teeth as she watched Georgehand Ned the small pouch. He tipped his hat to the two, before shoving it in a pocket and leaning forward to whisper in Mick’s ear. With a nod, the two thugs scurried off, presumably to relieve Ned’s next target of their coin.
Her former colleague watched them for a moment before glancing over his shoulder exactly in Hannah’s direction. Holding her breath, she stilled, even as her fingers itched for the knife she’d stuck in her apron pocket. He took one step and then two in her direction, then paused before turning back to the road and walking south, presumably toward a pub or some such establishment to spend some of his “earnings.”
Not until he had disappeared did Hannah breathe again, her knees near knocking together as she straightened, ready to move. She took one more glance into the road to make sure no one was watching and—
A hand shoved a rag beneath her nose, an odd smell invading her senses.
She tried to scream but the leather-gloved palm clamped down on her mouth, cutting off all sound. Hugging her from behind, her attacker quickly pinned her arms as she struggled, stopping her before she could grab for her knife. As she kicked backward in a desperate attempt to escape, her boots met with nothing but air as her limbs grew heavy, movements turning sluggish until her eyes shut of their own accord.
Her vision plunged into darkness and then—nothing.
Hannah awoke with a start, her heart dashing against her ribs.
Quick as she could, she thrust her hand into her apron pocket and pulled out her knife, brandishing it, even before her eyes fully adjusted. But when she searched for her attacker, she met empty air—and when she gathered her wits, it was to find herself sprawled upon a dark velvet chair, before a great mahogany desk, a roaring fire at her side. The walls of the room were covered in dark purple silk and adorned with silver mirrors of various shapes and sizes, several placed far higher than anyone could use, creating an oddly eerie effect.
From the largest and most fearsome of all, directly behind the desk, she saw her own reflection.
Oy, she looked terrible. Dark circles marred the skin beneath her eyes, her lips were cracked from cold, and her hair had come loose, falling in nettled waves over her shoulders. Her already ill-fitting gown had bunched and—
A door creaked open and she whirled around, knife still in hand to find two men standing in the threshold—both around her age or a touch older, one dressed in simple clothes, and one dressed in richly colored silks. The former had easily forgettable features, the latter was striking, if not handsome, his brown hair slightly curled but neatly coiffed.
“Ah, Miss Moses, how good of you to grace me with your presence so soon after your Sabbath,” the elegantly dressed man said, ignoring the knife. Shutting the door and rounding her chair, he stood before her, leaning against the desk. “I believe you’ve met my employee, Martin.”
“We have.” Martin raised a thick brow in challenge, making her pause at the sound of his voice, its familiarity washing over her.
She gasped. He was the man, the man from the alley, the one who’d hired her after Ned—so this must be his employer. Well, that explained the fancy getup and the expensive, if peculiar, décor. How had Martin described him?Quite at home with a certain set.
The unnamed employer’s face broke into a handsome but oddly unsettling grin as her recognition became evident. A handsome, familiar grin. Like the shape of his brows. And the tilt of his chin, and the way he threaded his fingers and clasped his hands in front of him.
A maneuver she’d now seen multiple times from the man’s brother.
“Frederick Weiss,” she breathed as she hastily smoothed her skirts in a belated attempt at propriety, unable to quite meet his sharp blue eyes. So different than Sol’s warm brown. He was leaner than Sol too, more angular. Older, obviously, and of a different mother. And despite the features they had in common, Frederick’s felt more forbidding, somehow.
Attractive, but cold. Like all the mirrors.
“Aren’t we quick?” he mused as she slipped the knife back into her pocket. “Though even dogs know not to bite the hand which feeds them.”
Well, she’d not need the letter, as she could presume then that he knew about her relationship, for lack of a better word, with Sol. It should comfort her that he most certainly shared her own dim view of them continuing an association, making him an ally in her mission to do right by Sol, but his disdain felt like a kick in the gut.
