He left her with her head shaking, dismissing his wisdom, but the smartest person he knew had to come to the same conclusion. The Widow’s Grace had become too dangerous. It needed to end.
CHAPTER 7
JEMINA—END OFJUNE, BACK TOWORK
The fog felt wet and smothering on this cool summer night. I hid in the shadows of the Lincoln’s Inn, waiting for my friend to pry open the panes. We couldn’t be discovered. The barristers working here would surely return us to Bedlam. It wasn’t as if we’d be able to admit we were on a secret mission.
The taste of burnt spun sugar, sugar that had been scorched beyond creamy caramel to soot, lingered on my tongue even after leaving Lady Bodonel’s latest party. The blackened substance served atop her dessert tasted so bitter my stomach ached. Yet, I’d rather be in her parlor smiling at that poison than having to shimmy up a knotted rope and flail on the side of the building. My arm had mostly recovered. It would be a shame to injure it all over again.
I tugged the rope. The javelin hook—or assegai, as Patience called it—felt secure. She’d flung and caught it in an upper branch of the oak tree leaning against the building.
Where was my friend? Why didn’t she have that window opened?
I peered up into the thick canopy of leaves but couldn’t see her. It never took Patience more than a few minutes to pry open any anything. Why did tonight have to be difficult?
“Patience?”
My voice was low. I made sure of it. I’d been told I was loud, but my barrister’s opinion didn’t matter . . . much.
“Almost in, Jemina. I’m slower than usual. That food, it sickened my stomach.”
“You too? You think your mother-in-law did it intentionally?”
“Lady Bodonel? No. She’s just a terrible hostess, but everyone comes since she’s Busick’s mother. My poor duke.”
Hearing Patience’s voice made the tension in my muscles uncoil. She was still safe, still with me.
“Hurry up, Your Grace.”
Patience uttered no response, but she hated when I called her by her title. Maybe she’d found a way inside.
I gulped air and packed it in my chest as if it were my last. My prayer: let nothing go wrong.
I knew what it was like for things to go wrong. It felt like sinking in deep waters, like cold waves growing higher, lapping at my feet, then my knees, then nearly over my head—
“Come on up, Jemina. I’m inside. The rope’s secure. The assegai’s not moving.”
My palms were slick with sweat. The last time, I slipped and nearly rolled off the roof, nearly broke my arm.
“Jemina, I won’t let you fall. We take these risks for the Widow’s Grace, for our sisters. For Mrs. Cultony, Jemina. You can do it. You always do.”
If Mrs. Cultony was ever to regain custody of her children, she needed the notes the crown’s barrister had compiled. Then she’d be able to dispute the false testimony of her late husband’s family and expose their scheme to defraud her.
Focused on that poor woman, I lifted my foot against the tree trunk. “Hold the rope. I don’t like it rocking.”
“You can trust me, Jemina.”
I could. Patience had proven this many times. It was myself I doubted.
With a firm grip, I started and wedged my buckled slippers into the knot of the tree. The widow’s prayer sat on my lips. “The holy habitation is the protector of widows, providing relief and favor. This is the widow’s grace.”
Saying it aloud was better than recitingJesus weptor any other short scripture that stuck to my faulty memory. Suffering from amnesia these past two years made everything but the present unreliable.
“You’re halfway, Jemina. Lady Shrewsbury was right. This office houses four desks, that’s four barristers. The information for Mrs. Cultony has to be here.”
Wham.A face full of leaves. The smell of oak and cut celery filled my nostrils. Climbing a few more feet, I saw Patience’s smile, her heart-shaped face.
Then I slipped.
