Page 96 of Give Him a Chance

Chapter Eighteen

June 12, 1841

It was mildlydepressing, Bernard could not help but think as he forced the door open—damn it, it always stuck—to see how little correspondence he had received since he had last been here.

“And I’ll send up a cup of tea, Mr. Kellan, and a few biscuits, and my newspaper from yesterday because I know you’ll want to—”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Emmerson!” Bernard called over his shoulder once he realized who on earth she was talking to. Right, he was Mr. Kellan in London. It was difficult to keep track. “But I’m quite all right, thank you!”

The rooms he rented from Mrs. Emmerson were not impressive, and they were not designed to be. He spent so little time here in London as Mr. Kellan, there had been no point in finding something refined. Besides, the wages of a spy for Her Majesty’s government rarely stretched to anything else.

Bernard shoved the door closed and turned to consider his surroundings.

Two rooms, that was all. His bedchamber was essentially large enough for a single mattress and that was it, but this room was larger. Two chairs by the fireplace, where a kettle sat over the empty grate. A small table pushed against the window, a chest of drawers beside it…and a lot of emptiness.

Bernard smiled ruefully. That was all he wanted. That was all he had thought he needed.

Still, it was a bit of a come down having spent the last six weeks living with an earl.

But this was home now; the damp patch in the corner, the peeling wallpaper by the door, the floorboards that creaked when one walked across them. This was home until he could find Hovell and get answers from the man.

He had to be here. If in doubt, go to London had always been Bernard’s approach to finding the damn man, and now he would have to hope he could do so again.

The man had a great number of questions to answer.

But in the meantime, Bernard considered as he leaned down to pick up the scarce correspondence that had arrived for him since he had been gone, the least he could do was review his letters.

There weren’t many. Four, after being away for three months. It was a little depressing, Bernard could not help but think as he dropped into the least-battered armchair by the empty fire. But then, living life as a spy did not exactly lead one to befriending many people on the way.

None whom he would want to own after he returned to his real life, anyway.

Bernard sighed. He knew that handwriting.

The note from Hovell was dated seven weeks ago, just before he had entered Brighton prison, and it was not particularly long.

Dixon—

This may not reach you in time, but I shall have to hope it does. Do not go to Brighton. Some complications. I can’t guarantee you won’t be transported as a real criminal.

Do not go to Brighton.

Hovell

Bernard blew out a long, slow, and ultimately startled exhale.

“Do not go to Brighton.”

Dear God, it all could have ended so differently. Instead of dining with an earl and his delightful daughter, he could have spent the last six weeks on a transportation ship, trying desperately to explain to anyone who would listen that he was no criminal, but a loyal subject and a spy.

He had to assume he would have received much the same response there as he had done from Lucy.

“How can I know you’re speaking the truth? How can I know that anything you’ve told me about yourself is true?”

Lucy.

Bernard had managed to prevent himself from thinking about her for at least an hour, which was a new record. After bartering his way to London on the stagecoach—he’d accepted the borrowed shirt on his back but had felt bad about it, so he’d had to say goodbye to his relatively new boots, leaving him with these monstrosities with thin soles and only one bootlace—he had hoped that he would be able to leave Lucy precisely where she belonged.

In the past. In Brighton.