When We Touch Read online

“Let’s hope you make me a decent income, then. And don’t be asking me to come walking out on the streets in the middle of the night, not with a murderer on the loose.”

  “You’ll be safe—the boys will see to it.”

  The boys . . . She looked at them all again. Matthew, Luke, John, Sebastian, Raoul, and Garrett. And, of course, Jeremiah Heath. They were like a pack of sharks, watching, seeming to drift, ready to strike. Sharks . . .

  But sharks who would protect her in the murky waters of this evil underworld.

  “When do we start?” she asked.

  “We’ve an appointment tonight,” Jeremiah said.

  “Tonight,” she murmured. She had to stop herself from looking across the room. Fiona was there, of course, swaddled in a black cape, scarf, and hat.

  Well, she wouldn’t be able to speak with her; she’d have to understand that it was all going just as it should.

  “One more thing,” she said.

  “What?” Jeremiah asked her.

  “Red Hannah. I owe her. She set up this meeting.”

  Jeremiah nodded to one of the boys. The one named Matthew, she thought.

  “He’ll see to Red Hannah,” he told her.

  “Fine.”

  “For now, Sebastian and John will go with you to your place. Get your things, bring them to mine.”

  A flutter of nervousness seized her. “I thought that we went to our . . . clients’ houses?”

  “Oh, we do. But the group resides together. A lodging house near the old pump. I like to keep a firm eye on my brood.”

  Again, a certain sense of nervousness seized her. Recklessly, she wondered if it really mattered what happened to her. Her father was dead. Maggie had suggested that he’d left a wish stating she should marry Jamie! Jamie, like a brother to her, but not . . .

  The man she’d seen but once. Who had seemed to be so very entranced with her, when he hadn’t even known her name.

  She’d probably never see him again, never know his name.

  So what was there in life, really?

  Revenge.

  Something to take away the dull ache in her heart.

  “Fine. Come along, then. Let’s get my things.” Yet even as she walked, she felt the surge of fear again. Seven of them. Surrounding her. Cutthroats and thieves. As long as they thought that she was truly on their side, she was fine.

  But if they ever discovered where she had really come from . . .

  She wouldn’t stay around that long, she assured herself.

  As she went out the door, she turned, and caught Fiona’s eye. She winked, trying to assure her friend that everything was all right.

  And then . . .

  She walked out of the pub, and into her new life.

  * * *

  For two days, Maggie lay low, waiting. She didn’t hear from Jamie, and when she had remembered that she needed to talk to Arianna, she had gone to the girl’s room, only to be given a muffled excuse. Arianna was feeling ill.

  On the third day, Mireau returned. She was upstairs when she heard his carriage, and ran down faster than the wind. When he came in, she realized that she must have been staring at him with such anticipation that the most casual of observers would be very curious as to what had happened.

  Mrs. Whitley was not just a casual observer. She was a spy. For whom, Maggie wasn’t quite certain, but the woman never tired of getting into her business.

  “Mireau!” she said, and forced her voice to be casual. “How are you? Clayton told me that you headed out on a bit of a holiday! Come into the library. We’ll have tea brought in here. You will see to it for me, won’t you, Mrs. Whitley?”

  Naturally, Mrs. Whitley nodded and left them. Maggie caught hold of Mireau’s arm and quickly dragged him into the library. “Well?” she demanded, shutting the door.

  He smiled broadly. “I don’t think I have ever felt so proud or happy to be part of something.”

  “So . . . the baby is fine? Clayton’s sisters are really so kind and wonderful?” As she asked the question, she was somewhat ashamed to realize that Clayton had been an accepted part of her life for so long and she hadn’t known a thing about his family until the night she’d rushed over to find Mireau.

  “They’re lovely. Truly lovely. She’s in a small village, out in beautiful woods, and they have a charming cottage, and you would have thought that I brought them a basket of gold. They were delightfully arguing all that each was going to do for her when I left. There’s Violet, the eldest, Merry, and Edith. Edith is a schoolteacher, and there’s a wealth of books in the place! Violet is the leader, so it seems, and it’s the most amazing thing! All three of them are spinsters. They are wonderful. The cottage is delightful. She’ll have her own little room, and she’ll be raised in just the right way.”

  “Oh, Mireau! It is wonderful to think that we were able to be in the right place at the right time, fall in the love with the little urchin ourselves, and then find such a wonderful place for her to grow up!”

  He nodded. Mireau was just as suspicious of the household at Moorhaven as she was, and slipped the door open slightly to look out. “You know, the story we were given might well be a lie. Little Ally might be the child of a whore and a dockhand.”

  “Does it really matter?” Maggie asked him. “She’s a beautiful babe.”

  “It only matters if someone believes she is the illegitimate daughter of Prince Eddy, and if that someone wants to see she’s never in line for the Crown.”

  “She can’t be in line! There are dozens of legitimate heirs.”

  “Still . . .”

  “No one knows that we have her. And if she’s ever traced to us, then . . . then you’re a father,” Maggie told him, grinning. “It worked with Clayton. Until I told him the truth.”

  “And he’ll keep the secret?” Mireau said worriedly.

  “Mireau! You’ve lived in that house long enough. He’ll keep the secret to his dying day.”

  He cleared his throat. “Naturally, they do well enough, they wouldn’t starve, and they adored the baby and are delighted to raise her, but . . . I’m broke. You know it.”

  “Thanks to Charles, I have plenty,” Maggie said. “Of course, I’ll see to it that the sisters get plenty of money. And, of course, we can visit her. She’s part of Clayton’s family now.”

  He nodded. “Funny, I thought that I’d perish on the spot when you stuffed her into my arms, and then . . . I just fell in love with that funny little face!” He sobered suddenly. “But you—were you all right? He didn’t see the baby, did he? Lord James, I mean. I take it he was rather harsh. And threatened you.”

  “It didn’t matter,” Maggie said, waving a hand in the air. She hoped that her flush didn’t give anything away. “He brought me here, stayed a bit . . . and I haven’t seen him since. As soon as I could, of course, I went rushing home to Mayfair, talked to Clayton, and since . . . well, I’ve bided my time here, waiting.”

  Waiting . . . with her own company. She’d had time alone. Way too much of it. Time to realize that when other things were really far more important, all she did was think about Jamie. And there had been time, of course, to realize that she had been falling in love with him, no matter what her temper, since he had first looked up, since she had seen his face from her window, when she had tricked herself, for only a second’s silly luxury, that he was the man she was to marry.

  She’d had plenty of time as well to berate herself for the stupidity of her feeling. She was definitely not a foolish and dreaming young schoolgirl. His opinion of her was surely of the lowest. She had betrayed Charles—with him, of course, but sadly, it was a man’s world. He might have been angry with himself, but still . . . as he had said, he hadn’t been engaged to be married.

  Then, of course, there was the very simple fact that he and Arianna were destined to be married. It was something Jamie would surely bring up to Arianna, when she’d had time to come to terms with her grief. When she reached her majority. And Arianna clearly ado
red her cousin. What could be more natural? Jamie, with all his knowledge of the property and estates—the male who had inherited the title—taking on the old lord’s daughter as his wife.

  Arianna, whom he knew so well, an absolutely stunning beauty—as even Mireau had been quick to point out.

  She was a fool, putting herself into position for greater pain and humiliation. And yet . . .

  When he touched her, it was as if he did so because he had to, as if he had no other choice in the world, as if she were the greatest, most alluring treasure in existence . . .

  “So! He forced you to be the well-behaved widow, eh?” Mireau demanded, slightly amused. “I must say, at least you were safe in my absence.”

  “Safe, yes,” she murmured. Well behaved? Certainly not in the visions and memories that had so haunted her every moment since Jamie had walked out that night—apologizing.

  “I—um, I guess I’ll have to stay out of Whitechapel for a while, I imagine. Until they catch that monster.”

  “They may not catch him,” Mireau said unhappily. “And, quite frankly, Maggie, it’s never been safe. There’s so often something terrible happening there. Just not usually quite this awful.”

  There was a tap at the door.

  “Your tea, mum!” Mrs. Whitley called.

  Maggie walked to the door and opened it. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Whitley. Oh! Mrs. Whitley, would you be so good as to go ask Arianna if she’d care to join us?”

  The girl wouldn’t come down, Maggie knew it. But she wanted to make sure that her invitations were constant.

  “As you wish, madam.”

  Maggie closed the door on her. She walked to the tea service, preparing cups for the two of them. “My brother, so it seems, has taken an interest in politics.”

  Mireau grinned. “So he has. He’s been listening in to many of the arguments going on. He is a baron, of course, and has a place, should he choose to take it.”

  “I hope he does. How wonderful it would be to see Justin . . . happy.”

  “I think he’s in love,” Mireau said.

  “Oh?” Maggie was definitely surprised.

  “Oh, don’t go getting too happy—he saw the girl once, so he told me. But she had the most beautiful face in the world, and he plans to make himself worthy, and then find her—whatever it takes.”

  “Wonderful. My brother is finally in love—with a mystery woman.” She sighed, then looked at him. “Mireau, I’m going to go mad here, always afraid and . . . I can’t bear it. I’m supposed to be a guardian to a girl who despises me. I’m good at the work I do with the poor, but now, I’m banned from going where I’m needed.”

  “Surely, once some time has passed and you’re not expected to be in deep mourning, you’ll be receiving all kinds of invitations.”

  “I don’t want a bunch of social invitations, Mireau.”

  “Then you can join me at more of the writers’ tables.”

  “I haven’t the patience.”

  “But you have the opinions!” he reminded her. He studied her. “My dear! You are restless. You have the strangest look about you.”

  “I don’t. There’s nothing strange about me at all,” she assured him.

  “Yes, you’re different. There’s the most amazing blush flooding to your cheeks now and then.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “But you are different. From just those few days ago. From the time . . . when Lord James caught us in that cab!”

  “It’s the baby, of course. I’ve been worried about her. And you!”

  He shook his head, studying her. Then he suddenly grinned. “‘Methinks thou doth protest too much!’” he quoted.

  She was saved by a knock at the door. It was Mrs. Whitley. “Yes?”

  “The Lady Arianna says that she is still feeling poorly.”

  “Really?” Maggie said, as she glanced back at Mireau, who was getting far too close to the truth of her agitation. “I think I shall run up and ask if Arianna doesn’t wish to see a doctor,” she told him.

  “By all means,” Mireau told her.

  Maggie started out, past Mrs. Whitley.

  “My lady! I’m sure it’s nothing that serious!” Mrs. Whitley cried to her.

  “I’ll just see.”

  Maggie marched up the stairs, aware that Mrs. Whitley was following her, and determined to ignore the woman. She knocked on Arianna’s door. There was no answer.

  “She was just there, really,” Mrs. Whitley said.

  Maggie frowned, then a feeling of dread rushed through her. What if the girl really was ill? She pushed open the door and entered the room. Arianna was not in it, and her maid, Fiona, was just picking up clothing from the flloor.

  “Fiona, where is Arianna?” Maggie asked.

  “I . . . believe she just left.”

  “But she just answered to me!” Mrs. Whitley protested.

  “She must have just . . . run out, then,” Fiona said. Maggie, however, didn’t move. She’d gotten to know Fiona a bit in the days since she’d come to Moorhaven. And Fiona looked scared. Very scared.

  “I’m sorry, m’lady, really,” Fiona said.

  “But she was ill,” Maggie told her.

  “Perhaps she needed fresh air,” Fiona said.

  Maggie stood very still, listening to the girl. She realized that, sometimes, especially when she was unnerved, as she was now, she had a really pretty lilting sound of old Eire in her voice. Sometimes, when she was careful with her speech, she did not.

  “Strange,” Maggie said.

  “What, my lady?” Fiona asked.

  “Well, no one came down the steps . . . and I didn’t hear the door open or close.” She walked toward Fiona, who looked very uncomfortable. “Do you know what I think?” Maggie asked her very softly.

  Wide-eyed, Fiona shook her head. “What—my lady?”

  “I don’t think that Arianna was here at all just now. I think that you have been in this room—and that you answered for her.”

  Fiona was not at all good at lying. Her face flooded with color. “No!”

  “Oh, yes, Fiona.”

  “Fiona! You’re fired. You must leave instantly!” Mrs. Whitley cried.

  “No, you’re not fired,” Maggie said, casting a stern glance in the woman’s direction. She might have been Charles’s housekeeper for many a year, but Maggie did not intend to have her place usurped. And she was angry, as well, because Mrs. Whitley either knew something, or was an idiot. Fiona seemed to be their connection to Arianna.

  “Where is she?” Maggie demanded sharply.

  Fiona seemed frozen.

  “Fiona, listen to me, and listen well. In her mood, she could easily place herself in harm’s way. Tell me, where is she?”

  “I don’t know, m’lady, honestly, I swear, I don’t know!”

  Maggie sat calmly at the foot of the bed. “Mrs. Whitley, will you please tell Mr. Mireau for me that he must make himself at home? I’ll be speaking with Fiona for a few minutes.”

  “But, my lady! You may need me,” Mrs. Whitley protested. “I am the head housekeeper! If there has been something going on—”

  “Beneath your very nose?” Maggie said. “You needn’t worry. I will deal with this.”

  “But my poor Lady Arianna!”

  “My stepdaughter. Yes, the poor innocent. Mrs. Whitley, please convey my message to Mr. Mireau. This is my household, like it or not, and I will deal with matters my way. If you can’t accept that . . . well, I will give you excellent references.”

  Mrs. Whitley pursed her mouth, but then snapped her lips as tightly shut as if she were a clam. She turned abruptly and left.

  “Now, Fiona,” Maggie said firmly.

  Fiona stared at her. Then words seemed to rush from her lips. “I was never spying on you, really! I was supposed to have been . . . I told Arianna that you were really nice and decent, and I didn’t think that you’d ever do any harm to Lord Charles!”

  “Fiona,” she said dryly, a
ware that the girl had seen her at her worst, “thank you for that vote of confidence. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “You’re firing me, aren’t you? I guess you have to.”

  “I’m not firing you! I need your help. Where is Arianna?”

  Fiona shook her head, tears welling into her eyes. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  “But you know something.”

  “I know that she . . . she wanted to get even with you.”

  Maggie felt a chill. She said, “I’m more worried about her right now than myself. Talk to me, help me, please. When did she leave?”

  “She’s been gone . . . a few days now.”

  Maggie gasped. “You’ve been answering as her—for several days?”

  “I’m so sorry. You’ve a right to be angry.”

  “I am angry—but angrier with myself than I am with you. And I need you. Please. Fiona, you must tell me what you know.”

  “I . . . I know that she met with a man. In Whitechapel.”

  “In Whitechapel?” Maggie repeated, truly alarmed.

  Fiona nodded miserably. “Where?”

  “I can show you the pub.”

  Maggie shook her head, trying to maintain a sense of calm. “Fiona, with her looks, with the finery she wears, she would have been a victim of some thief... or worse. Almost instantly.”

  Fiona shook her head strenuously. “No . . . she had clothing, poor clothing. We rented a room, a rat trap! And we went and traded even the servants’ things we brought.”

  Maggie stood. “We’re going to that room right now. And if we don’t find her there, we’ll go to the pub.” She rose, truly alarmed. Then she spun back. “Fiona, what was she trying to do in Whitechapel?”

  Fiona hesitated. “She wanted to work for a mesmerist.”

  “A mesmerist?”

  “You know . . . a mesmerist, or a spiritualist.”

  “Why?” Maggie said, frowning. “Was she trying . . . to contact her father?”

  Once again, Fiona shook her head miserably. “She wanted . . . she wanted to lure you to this person, and . . . I’m not sure what then,” Fiona said.

  Maggie stiffened. She could well imagine what Arianna would envision for her.

  And still . . .

  “Dress as poorly as you can. And hurry. We’ve got to find her.” Maggie went running out of the room. As she suspected, the housekeeper, Mrs. Whitley, was back up the stairs—hovering very close to Arianna’s door. Eavesdropping.