Page 42 of Secrets of the Heart

She whipped out the florin—Hobson’s presence had goaded her into making certain that she got the information she wanted—and held it up for the woman to see. “You were about to tell me where Martha Denton lives—8 Poppin’s Way?”

“Aye.” The woman eyed the silver coin avidly, then jerked her thumb toward the narrow stairs leading up to the second floor of the next building. “’At’s number 8 there.” She reached for the coin.

Rachel started to give it to her, then stopped, her eyes narrowing at the way the woman had phrased her answer. “And is that where Martha Denton lives?”

“Used ter,” the woman admitted.

“And where is she now? I think this coin is worth better information than that, don’t you?”

“Aw right,” the woman whined. “I don’t know where she be ’xactly, but she said she ’s goin’ to work for a lady. Lady Easter sommat, I don’t know what.”

“Esterbrook?” Rachel hazarded. “Was it Lady Esterbrook?”

“Aye, that be the name.” The old woman nodded eagerly, holding out her hand, and Rachel dropped the coin into her palm.

Rachel turned and gave Mr. Hobson a brilliant smile. “Now, if you will excuse me…”

“I hope you don’t intend to go flashin’ coins all over the neigborhood, my lady, or you’re like to find yourself set upon by thieves.”

“Indeed.” Rachel stopped and rooted in her reticule for the penny and ha’penny coins in it, then tossed them all out to the children, flashing Hobson a look of defiance.

She started off down the street. He turned and caught up with her. “This is scarcely the sort of place for a woman like you. You might have some thought to your safety, you know. There might be a few who would mourn your death.”

“How kind of you. But I assure you that I can handle things quite well myself.”

“Oh, really.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “And exactly how are you plannin’ to find your way out of here, may I ask? Where will you find a hansom?”

Rachel faltered. Much as she disliked it, she had to admit the truth of his words. She hadn’t the slightest idea how to find her way out of this place, and she did not much relish the idea of trying. And, frankly, despite his boorishness, she felt much safer now that Hobson was with her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked again, this time in a calmer tone. “Why are you paying people to find out where Martha Denton is?”

Rachel glanced at him. “Well, I could say that I was in need of a good lady’s maid.”

“You could, but we would both know that was a lie.” He cast her a sideways glance.

It occurred to Rachel that his eyes were a beautiful color, the palest of grays in the sunlight, almost silver. Yesterday evening, in the carriage, they had been dark, filled with emotion. She stumbled a little, and he whipped out a hand to steady her. Rachel blushed, for she knew that she had stumbled because she had been thinking about his eyes—and also because that brief touch of his fingers on her arm had sent a thrill all through her.

She cleared her throat and turned to look ahead. “I want to talk to the woman. I am trying to help…a friend. Martha Denton was lady’s maid to his wife, who died, and he—he has some suspicion that she was murdered.”

“So he asked you to look into it for him?” Michael blurted out, his voice rising.

“No, of course not. He would not have asked me. No one would have asked me to do anything useful.”

His eyebrows sailed up at her last rather bitter statement, but he said nothing.

“He wanted me to ask Michael to look into it. I told you that he thought Michael was the one who investigated things for Bow Street. He did not realize that it was you. I told him I would ask Michael, but obviously I cannot, since he does not do such things. But I—well, my friend seemed so upset that I hated to tell him that Michael refused to do it, and besides, Michael has reason not to like him, and Mr. Birkshaw would think it was because of that. And I did not want him to think that Michael would be petty.”

He glanced at her in surprise. “Why not?”

The gaze she returned to him was also surprised. “Why, because Michael is not petty. Not at all. I am sure that, had he known about it and been able to, he would have tried to help Mr. Birkshaw.”

Her companion snorted inelegantly. “I find your faith in your husband touching, my lady. Very few men are eager to help a man whom their wife…befriends.”

“You make it sound as if it were something it’s not!” Rachel snapped. “I cannot conceive why you are so determined to think the worst of everyone—me, Michael, Anthony—when you don’t even know us.”

“I know the aristocracy,” he answered gruffly, continuing in the rather bitter persona he had established for his alter ego.

“I understand why you feel the way you do,” Rachel said, “but I can promise you that Michael is nothing like his father.”