Unraveling Secrets (The Secret Trilogy) Page 8

  He stroked his generous mustache with one finger as he gave serious consideration to her question. She wondered if he’d grown the mustache and sideburns to make up for his receding hairline. He’d been gray-haired for as long as she could remember, but he looked much as he had fifteen years ago when she’d first met him. Her father had often brought her along to their meetings even though her stepmother had thought it highly inappropriate.

  Mr. Nesbitt had served as her father’s trusted advisor and had continued on as hers since her father’s death. Soon after her father’s funeral, he’d taken her aside and confirmed that her father’s title and estate would go to her Uncle Reginald. That had come as no surprise, but then Mr. Nesbitt had gone on to explain the income from the inheritance would also go to her uncle and asked how she wanted to handle the debts her father had incurred that were not part of the estate.

  Shocked, she hadn’t known what to say or how to proceed. She’d realized he’d come to her rather than Irene as her stepmother had been both distraught over her father’s death and consumed with the twins. After much consideration, Abigail had decided to sell a few of her father’s things that weren’t entailed to pay the debts and create a small savings for them to live on.

  She and Mr. Nesbitt had held weekly meetings to decide what to pay off first as well as how to invest the little money they had. She’d read everything she could on making investments and found she had an aptitude for finance. Mr. Nesbitt had proved to be an excellent advisor, but she listened to her own instincts first.

  She’d soon paid off all her father’s debts and provided a stable income for her family. The dowries for her sisters were growing as well. She enjoyed the challenge of it and knew the benefits outweighed the drawbacks. No matter if her unusual interest had chased away potential suitors. Her enthusiasm for the topic often resulted in her conversing about it. Few men appreciated her comments, but despite her mother’s protests, she refused to hide her enjoyment of financial matters. She wasn’t willing to give it up for anything or anyone.

  “This sort of investment might carry more risk than necessary,” Mr. Nesbitt admitted at last.

  “I agree. I’d prefer a business venture closer to home. Let me think on the matter further and see if something comes to me.”

  “Might I inquire as to how the other matter is progressing?”

  “Simmons?” Abigail set the papers on her lap with a huff. “Lord Ashbury is proving very difficult to deal with.” She’d told Mr. Nesbitt of Lord Ashbury’s involvement in the gaming den after swearing him to secrecy. She considered her solicitor both a friend and confidant, especially since they had no male relatives to guide her.

  “He’s reputed to be a bit of a loner, a man who walks his own path,” Mr. Nesbitt offered.

  “That is certainly true. My logic seems lost on the man.”

  Mr. Nesbitt chuckled then coughed politely in an attempt to hide his amusement at her frustration. “My apologies, miss. I’m certain your determination alone will persuade him to comply with your wishes.”

  “I’m starting to doubt that. I only want Simmons out of our lives. But it seems the task I asked Lord Ashbury to perform is not as simple as I’d hoped.”

  Simmons hadn’t made an appearance at the park the previous day. Waiting for him to show up was unsettling to say the least. She’d even caught herself looking over her shoulder all the way to Mr. Nesbitt’s office this morning.

  “All the better that you involve someone like Lord Ashbury for the task, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Perhaps. I’ve never met a lord who acts as he does,” she admitted. He never did what she expected. Was that why he unsettled her so?

  “Lord Ashbury withdrew from society for the most part since that terrible accident. Happened at Cambridge, I believe. About ten years ago.”

  Abigail leaned forward, her attention caught. The man might be infuriating, but she couldn’t get him out of her mind. “What accident?”

  “I don’t know many of the details, other than what was reported in the newspaper. He and his friends were injured and their professor killed when an experiment they were performing went awry.”

  A shiver ran down her spine. “What sort of experiment?”

  He tugged at one end of his mustache. “No one seems to know. Rumors flew as to what they were doing. Something to do with electromagnetism I believe.”

  Her father had been killed about that time. How odd that they’d both had such a traumatic event occur so close together. “What sort of injuries did Lord Ashbury receive?”

  “The paper didn’t say. Whatever happened not only killed their professor, but seemed to end any friendship between the three men.”

  “Was Lord Weston one of the three?”

  “Why yes. I believe he was. How did you know?”

  “Only a guess.” Abigail remembered the chasm between Lord Ashbury and Lord Weston from the previous day all too well. She couldn’t help but wonder what had occurred to sever their ties. “Lord Ashbury seems to have recovered from any injuries he received.”

  Mr. Nesbitt shrugged. “Sometimes the worst injuries are not of a physical nature.”

  The documents lay forgotten on her lap as she thought of the darkness she’d sensed in the lord, of his secretiveness, of his frequent headaches. Mr. Nesbitt might be more right than he could’ve guessed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Stephen stepped out of the fog-shrouded night and entered the Bull and Boar Tavern, a popular establishment in the East End. Though he braced himself before going into such places, the onslaught of auras with urges and thoughts spearing through them was overwhelming.

  The air reeked of onions, unwashed bodies, and smoke. The crowd was thick on this night, and voices rose and fell as men argued over everything from the price of tea to who could whistle the loudest. Apprentices, clerks, dock workers, old and young alike drank ale and ate sausage rolls or porkpies. The few women there were either brazen with the hope of selling more than drinks or hardened to the lurid promises addressed to them.

  The multitude of people and auras pressed in on him. Already a dull pounding had begun in his temple and nausea threatened. He paused, closing his eyes for a brief moment to shut out the images and regain his balance.

  “Step aside,” a man said as he pushed past Stephen toward the bar.

  Stephen mumbled an apology and continued into the pub. Members of the ton were unlikely to recognize him should they happen to lower themselves to visit the dimly lit pub. His brown suit was dusty, out of fashion and had seen better days. A bowler hat sat low over his brow. He slouched a bit, shuffled his feet, and kept his chin down.

  As best he could, he blended into the crowd, noting Farley and one of their associates had already arrived. Several times each week, they visited this tavern or another like it to collect information just as they did at The Barbican. Dreadful deeds were not limited to either the rich or poor.

  While The Barbican carried a thin veneer of civility, the East End didn’t bother with such frills. Stephen had long ago learned that establishments such as this one were best approached in two’s or three’s. As was their normal pattern, he didn’t sit with Farley but instead found a place with his back to the wall a short distance away.

  Stephen used his aura reading ability to help them decide whether to investigate people or situations further. If a black spike appeared in the aura of someone who looked as if they were up to no good, then he and Farley would watch them carefully, eavesdrop when they could, and follow them if necessary to see what they were up to. Sometimes they uncovered plots to commit murder, arson and other atrocities. Other times they merely stopped a brawl. And often, what they’d seen amounted to nothing. No matter the outcome, he felt compelled to do what he could to prevent people from hurting themselves or others.

  Somehow, aiding those in danger made his own life more bearable.

  With luck and persistence, they would soon gather rumblings on the missing children and Simmons,
both of which were proving to be troublesome problems with little information.

  In the light of day, when well rested, Stephen could see that all their efforts and the risks they took were worthwhile. He knew they made a difference when they thwarted a thief’s plans to steal or a swindler’s intent to cheat. But some nights, all their attempts to stop the dark side of men seemed pointless; too few against so many.

  Farley caught his eye and looked deliberately at a table of five men who leaned forward, talking intently. The tension in their faces spoke volumes. Stephen nodded to let Farley know he understood.

  Stephen casually sipped his ale as he studied each man at the table. A heavyset Irishman by the look of his red hair and pale skin eyed Stephen suspiciously. Stephen let his gaze travel across the crowded pub before returning to the table. Unfortunately, he was too far away to hear much.

  One of the men at the table held himself back from the group, not engaged in the discussion. His aura was lighter than the rest. The red-haired man’s aura seemed to hold the darkest thoughts of any of them.

  Stephen had developed patience over the years, waiting to see if what he saw in auras was confirmed by the expressions and conversation of the people involved. He glanced at his drink just as the red-haired man looked at him again. Stephen kept his gaze down, straining to hear anything of value without appearing overly interested.

  “I’m tellin’ ye, we need to consider the merits of forming a union.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to be on the wrong side of things.”

  “And what side would that be?”

  “I dunno. That’s why I’m waitin’ to see.”

  “We can’t afford to wait, Jimmy.”

  The rest of the conversation was lost to Stephen as voices from a nearby table rose in song. He caught Farley’s eye and touched his chin, indicating he wasn’t sure yet but the group warranted further observation. Next Farley tipped his head toward two men sitting on the opposite side of him.

  These two were a little easier to read. By the look of their dark auras and the sidelong glances they cast the woman serving them, Stephen surmised they intended to take more than she was willing to give.

  He touched the lapel of his jacket, and Farley nodded in response. Those two would be watched carefully. Stephen guessed they’d try to accost the woman when she left the tavern after closing. Either he or Farley would remain to make sure the men behaved themselves.

  He and Farley had developed their signals over the course of time. Farley wore an old suit and adjusted his accent to match the harsh neighborhood, looking more like a clerk than the manager of a successful gaming hell.

  While Farley was an expert boxer, Stephen preferred savate, a French street fighting technique that allowed for kicking in addition to punching. On the rough streets of the East End, Stephen needed all the advantages he could get.

  He’d met Farley at a local tavern almost seven years ago and, after realizing they had mutual interests, had soon worked out a business arrangement to their satisfaction. Farley had his own reasons for helping Stephen. His youngest sister had been accosted and brutally beaten on her way home from her job at the tea factory when Farley was only sixteen. Since then, Farley had learned to fight and had taken the law into his own hands more than once.

  He’d worked with Stephen for over a fortnight before finally questioning his method of routing out those who truly intended harm. Rather than being shocked when Stephen had reluctantly explained, Farley had been fascinated. That had been the one and only time Stephen had confided his ability to anyone. The feeling of vulnerability was not something he cared to repeat.

  The evening passed as the tavern’s customers came and left, but the two men who watched the serving woman remained. The red-haired man and the others at his table left as well, taking their volatile argument over forming a union with them. Stephen hoped the man’s dark aura had more to do with his worry over unfair working conditions than any foul intent.

  A young man with blond hair and blue eyes caught Stephen’s attention, his aura dark and heavy. At Stephen’s sign, Farley befriended the man.

  “Ye look like yer in need of another pint. Let me buy one for ye,” Farley offered with a smile.

  The young man looked at him suspiciously. “What’s it to ye?”

  “Nothin’. Just being friendly is all.” Farley signaled to the barkeep for another ale. He retrieved it from the chipped mahogany bar and slid it in front of the man before turning away.

  It never paid to act too anxious to hear someone else’s troubles as it roused suspicion. The man stared at the pint for a few moments before taking a long drink. Then he rose to stand at Farley’s table. “Thank ye.”

  “Think nothin’ of it. Have a seat.” Farley shoved back an extra chair at his table. “I saw the craziest thing down by the dock this morn.”

  Before long, Farley had him laughing at his ridiculous story involving a dog chasing a flock of geese only to turn tail and run when one of the geese decided to return the chase. As he drank a second pint, the young man shared the reason for his foul mood. He’d just been fired from his job.

  “I was thinkin’ about paying the bastard back for lettin’ me go. Got a wife and babe to care fer.” He stared morosely at his drink.

  “Aw, don’t be doing something that wouldn’t make yer young one proud,” Farley said. “Another job will come along.”

  “Not bloody likely. I’ve searched everywhere I can think of.”

  “You go talk to Watford at the warehouse on Sharp Street. He might have something for you,” Farley offered.

  Stephen hid a smile at the hope that lit the young man’s face. At least one problem had been averted tonight.

  He shifted his attention to the other tables around him. Over the course of the evening, a couple of conversations mentioned the missing boys, but no one seemed to have any additional information.

  Stephen watched a group of three men whose auras shifted from gray murkiness to black spikes as the evening passed. Stephen drew as near as he dared but caught only bits and pieces of what they said. He’d nearly given up on hearing anything of interest when he heard the words “boys” and “experiment” uttered by one of the men. They all left soon after.

  Curious, Stephen rose to follow and signaled for Farley to keep an eye on the men who still watched the serving woman.

  Stephen exited the tavern, shutting out the rousing notes of ‘The Parson and the Chamber Maid’ as he closed the door and stepped onto the dark, foggy street. As he looked for the men, he shifted his shoulder to ease the tightness there. Though it was healing, the gunshot wound still hurt and his stamina had not yet returned in full. In addition to his injury, a crowded establishment always took its toll, but one filled with the people from this neighborhood with their suspicious minds and ill intentions was exhausting.

  He rubbed his forehead in an attempt to ease the ache there, hoping he could quickly find the men who’d been talking in the tavern.

  His step hitched as he realized someone watched him. As casually as possible, he surveyed the street through the mist. Several carriages and cabs passed by and many people went about their business but none seemed to pay him any mind. He paused just beyond the hazy gas street light to gain a better view.

  The sound of a shoe on the cobblestone behind him had Stephen spinning around in time to see a fist plowing toward him. He narrowly dodged the blow when another smashed into his side, knocking his hat to the ground.

  “That’ll teach ye to mind yer own business!” His thick Irish brogue identified him as the red-haired man from the tavern.

  Stephen’s years of training as a savateur took over. Acting on instinct, he drove his fist into his attacker’s jaw. The man staggered back as Stephen spun to heel kick his other assailant.

  “Bloody hell! Watch out fer ‘is feet!”

  The barrel-chested Irishman refused to give up and seemed determined to damage Stephen’s face with fists like hams. Luckily, his ne
xt punch swung wide.

  The other man tried to circle behind Stephen. “If yer thinkin’ to bilk us, ye best think again. Yer like don’t belong ‘ere.”

  “Last time I checked, I was free to drink wherever I please,” Stephen answered as he waited with his hands at the ready to see what the men would try next. He silently cursed them for interrupting his pursuit of the one lead they might’ve had for the missing boys.

  “Ye said he’d be an easy mark,” the red-haired man’s cohort said as he lowered his fists. “I’m not stayin’ for this.” He retreated into the foggy night, ignoring his friend’s angry curses.

  The remaining man threw his fist again. Stephen blocked it with his forearm, using the man’s own momentum to shove him away.

  “Mind yer own business, damn you!” Cradling his arm, the man hurried off after his friend.

  He took a slow breath to calm his racing heart then straightened his clothing. As he bent down to retrieve his hat, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. He lifted the lapel of his jacket to make sure the damned injury wasn’t bleeding again but couldn’t see anything in the dim light.

  He should’ve realized they’d look at him suspiciously if they thought he was listening to their discussion about whether to form a union. Even talking about it was seen as a threat by some businesses.

  Awareness shot through him again, and he shifted to see if one of his attackers had returned.

  The only thing he spotted in the fog was a sleek black carriage rolling to a stop across the street. The red velvet curtain was pulled aside as though the passenger watched him. The coachman hopped down, and Stephen immediately recognized Abigail’s brawny footman.

  “Bloody hell.” He glanced around the area once more, but the two he’d followed out of the tavern were nowhere in sight.