I turned and grabbed my sister and pulled her into a hug. “Chris is fine. He’s fine. I’m his mother, and I couldn’t even get to him. If not for Lord Wycliff… Let’s not talk of this anymore.”
My sister wiped at her eyes. “He did us a great service. I’m indebted to him for saving my nephew. I know this is wrong to say, but I still don’t trust him, Ruth. He’s hiding something.”
Everyone has secrets.
I did. I’d hinted at being found at a brothel, and the man hadn’t even blinked. Too smooth. Or because of his nosiness did he already know?
“Ruth, Bex thinks he’s involved with unrest at the docks. The Wilkinson family is deep into shipping. There are strikes and strange occurrences. People have died.”
“One man. A mulatto man is responsible? Ester, do be serious.”
Pacing, Ester crossed her arms about her sand-colored shawl. She was a desert priestess and oracle of bad news. “How do I help you see what I see?”
“Sight puns are beneath you. Maybe you can try something from your favorite Shakespeare.”
Tugging at an errant lock, I pinned it high on my head. I took one of the daisies that had bloomed from Wycliff’s bouquet and slid it right into my braid before forming my chignon. “I do trust him. And I owe him my son’s life. That has to mean something. Why should I question his business dealings? Maybe he is as good as Papa at keeping family safe from his dealings.”
“That could be, but Papa’s been at this a long time. This Lord Wycliff has come from nowhere. Bex can find nothing on him other than his father retired to the country four years ago.”
I put down my brush, then swung my legs and turned on the stool. The hem of my mulberry gown flapped as I faced Ester. “You had your husband look into him?”
Cornered, my sister folded her arms. “Yes. I had him look into the barrister, too. You remember Mr. Marks, the man with whom you’ve been exchanging letters.”
“Perhaps he’s forgotten.” I picked up the parchment wrapped with a scarlet ribbon. “Another regret. He’ll not be able to take me on a drive this week. Next week, he will.”
“He is very busy. He saved a widow from being convicted of coining. That could be a capital offense, forging false coins.”
I pushed at my brow and remembered how differently my sister and I thought. “I respect the work Mr. Marks does, but he has forgotten this widow, the one here on Fournier Street. What would be my Christopher’s fate if Lord Wycliff hadn’t been here?”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t think Mr. Marks is for me. I chose him from the men responding to my newspaper advertisement for his respectability, but I need to think about Christopher. He’s an active boy. He needs a father who is around. He’s lived long enough without one.”
“You need to be loved, Ruth, and cherished and safe. Maybe none of these men are it.”
“If Lord Wycliff was Lady Hartwell’s or Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil’s choice would you be saying this? Or is it because you still think my judgement is not sound? You don’t trust that I might know my own mind.”
“It’s not the same. My friends—”
“Yes, your friends. Women who you respect.”
“Their husbands are all safe. And Bex and I. I almost let him go because of the danger he faces as he fights for good. Our uncle, Papa’s brother was killed. Remember how his bloodied coat was laid in front of Papa’s warehouse?”
“I remember. I found the jacket. I had come from a walk and found it on the steps.”
“I forgot that.”
“And I witnessed my husband die a brutal death. I saw it. I bear the scars of the attack. Don’t you think I know danger?”
“I fret too much.” Ester’s lips went to my crown and she put a big sloppy kiss along my scar. “I want you to be happy, Ruth, but I won’t be silent.”
“You never are, Ester.”
“Papa could hire another servant to keep watch on Chris. Then you can refuse Marks and Wycliff.”
“I still want my own. I want my slippers untouched. My own knitting parlor.”
“It’s Mr. Whip-thingy. He wants you, and you’ve always liked danger. I remember you sneaking out to the docks.”
