Page 60 of An Artful Dodge
“I won’t.”
As I reached for the doorknob, she added, “Just remember, Kit. She did the best she could for you all. She had no choice.”
I turned back, perplexed. “I’m not angry with her, Emma.”
She grimaced. “You look it.”
“Well, I’m not,” I said. “I’m just—worried.”
“Go on, then. No—wait.” She stepped to the corner. “Take my umbrella. You’ll get soaked with that stupid thing.”
I thanked her, put it up, and headed across the cobbles toward the railway station, where I could hire a cab.
Around the corner came a dark, broad-shouldered figure. Instinctively, I halted. With those shoulders, the man could be James, but the walk was wrong. The inn’s door opened, and as he stepped inside, I saw his face.
Billy.
My heart gave a thud.
My first thought was, did his return make it less likely that he’d seen Sarah in Mayfair? Perhaps he felt safe, believing he hadn’t been seen.
Or had he been drawn back by something so important he was willing to risk being caught? Was he one of the men Maggie was bringing in for her dodge? But why would Billy feel such loyalty toward her? She was nearly a decade older than he, so I doubted he was a lover. He couldn’t be her brother—there was no obvious resemblance—
Then, like two pieces of fabric stitched together, the image in Fanny’s photograph and Billy’s face came together in my mind. Take the boy, add twenty years, longer hair, a beard and mustaches, and burlier shoulders—it was Billy.
That’s Maggie’s cousin, Fanny had said.She took him in.
Good lord, I thought, putting my hand to my chest to steady the sudden stutter of my breath. No wonder he’d come back.
But if Billy was involved in this dodge, it was because Maggie needed a bludger. She had been dismissive of the constables, but they wouldn’t be silenced for good with money. Bribes could always be trumped with bigger bribes or threats.
If there had been any question in my mind, Billy’s appearance resolved it. Tomorrow morning, I’d refuse whatever cut Maggie offered and say no in a way she knew I meant it.
At the railway station, I found a cab and sank into it, shivering. It drove through St. George’s Circus and headed toward Blackfriars Bridge.
Had it been only two days since I’d ridden in a cab along this very route in the opposite direction, exultant over the plan to take the necklace at Charleton’s ball? Yet again, I’d let myself stop worrying, blithely thinking I’d solved a problem when I didn’t even know what the problem was.
When would I learn?
Chapter 19
The rain thinned as the cab headed north.
Emma’s warning had only heightened my unease. What had Emma meant when she said that Amelia had done the best she could for us but had had no choice? Did Amelia have any idea Maggie was bent on revenge against the jeweler? I tried to squelch my sense of urgency, but it sparked like a blade scraping flint, making me want to seize the reins from the driver and whip up the horses myself.
Hurry, damn it, I breathed.
At last, we crossed Fleet Street and arrived in Shoe Lane, with its terraced shops, topped by three stories of rooms and crowned by triangular rooftops. I dismounted and paid the driver. The pavements ran down both sides of the cobbled road, with lamps at intervals, though it was barely tea-time and they weren’t lit. Just south of St. Andrew’s churchyard stood number thirteen. The bottom floor was occupied by a linen draper; I climbed the stairs beside the door to the top floor. There was no answer to my knocks, which left me nothing to do but wait until Amelia returned. A cold draft tumbled from somewhere above—a leaky rafter or a broken window. I leaned the sodden umbrella into the corner, plunked myself down on the landing outside her door, set my back against the wall, tucked my legs up, and wrapped my cloak close.
Over the staircase was a small arched window, set slightly askew, like an afterthought. It allowed a dim light for navigating the steps; there were no wall sconces. The clock chimed four, then the quarter hour, the half, three quarters. Still Amelia did not return.
At last, a door creaked open below and a few steps advanced. Light from a lamp drifted up the stairwell. Then the steps halted. Then began again, but this time descending. The outer door opened, and I leapt to my feet. “Wait,” I called down the stairwell. “It’s Kit.”
The door shut again, and the boots resumed their journey up the stairs until they reached the landing at the turn. My hands rested on the banister, and Amelia peered up, a lamp in one hand, a pistol in the other.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked.
“The thread across the stair was broke.” She eyed me for a moment before she continued up the steps. “Emma told you where I was?”
