Wayward One Page 2

  Seraphina.

  His mood shifted blacker than the sludge running through the gutters. Her time at the Waywroth Academy was running short, but he couldn’t claim her. Not yet. Not when he was still too near to the pick-pocketing boy he’d once been—and the blood-in-the-teeth types like his father.

  “Show up at the Fair Winds by nine this evening. We’ll see where you go.”

  Chapter Two

  Six hours later, Sera was drunk.

  Not hideously so, and of course not to the point of insensibility. Each sip of sweet red wine grew her sense of false bravery. Almost every bit of abuse she’d suffered from other schoolgirls had come from Sera being left in the dark about her history. Now, Sera was done. She’d soon have to move out of the student’s wing of the Academy, and she’d face society with the knowledge of her background tucked safely in her pocket. After an evening’s libations, she’d enticed Lottie and Victoria, her best friends, into helping her discover who paid her tuition.

  Sera swayed down the quiet, dim hallway leading to Mrs. Waywroth’s office. Being the middle of the night, not another soul moved through the large house. Most of the students had already returned home to prepare for the Season. Even Mrs. Waywroth was away, gone to visit her sister in Gloucester. Only the trio remained, having avoided leaving for various reasons.

  If she had anywhere to go, Sera would have long ago left the conflicting memories she had for the place. Not everyone had been as kind as her two friends. But soon beginning work for Mrs. Waywroth as an instructor would finally mean an end to the mean-spirited hisses. She was perfectly aware of her circumstances without daily reminders.

  Lottie and Victoria giggled and whispered, but Sera was caught in the grip of paralyzing fear. The breath in her throat choked. Her wrists throbbed with a violent demonstration of her pulse. The wine that had been delicious fifteen minutes ago now churned in her stomach.

  “I can’t do this,” she whispered. It had been her idea but perhaps it wasn’t too late to back out.

  Linking their arms together, Victoria drew her closer to the door. Tall, oak and polished to a shine that even the dark couldn’t seem to diminish, it was the last citadel of her hopes. Or the last gate before they were destroyed.

  Victoria bent her blonde head to Sera’s. “Lottie is so wicked.”

  On her knees before the lock, Lottie poked at it with a small length of wire. “You praised my wickedness when I got you that book.”

  The giggle Victoria loosed was entirely too loud. “The sole purpose of that book was to increase my wickedness to match your own.”

  “Since when have you known how to force open a lock, anyhow?” Sera was surprised no one commented on the wan sound of her voice. She could barely force air through her clenched throat. Her every hope and dread was wedged inside Mrs. Waywroth’s office.

  She’d long suspected she was a bastard. But there was a difference between being some proper gentleman’s by-blow and a no one with no true pedigree. Knowing exactly what she had to hide would leave Sera with a more even field.

  “Over the Christmas holidays.” Lottie’s tongue pushed out at the corner of her lips as she concentrated. A lock of hair fell over her brow, but the darkened shadows of the hall obscured its reddish hue. “When he’s in town, Papa has taken to locking up the liquor so Mother can’t get at it.”

  A twinge of sympathy for Lottie’s situation pushed back Sera’s worries. The other girl always waved it away, but everyone knew her mother hadn’t been quite right for a long time. Only her father’s vast land holdings kept them a part of good society.

  A quiet snick and the doorknob turned. “There!” Lottie hopped up and brushed the front of her skirts.

  “We shouldn’t do this.” Sera’s feet had become glued to the plush carpet runner. “We’ll be caught.”

  Victoria moved her along with a gentle push. “What’s the worst that can happen? We’ll be expelled?”

  Lottie led the way, shutting the door behind them and turning up the shade on the lamp Victoria had carried. A flickering orange glow flooded the space.

  Mrs. Waywroth’s office was small but no less prepossessing for it. A huge desk with dozens of hidey-holes and tiny drawers filled most of the space. Before it was a single, austere chair without a speck of upholstery. Sera had blessedly only been called to sit there twice, both times a result of one of Lottie’s pranks. One wall was covered with shelves that in turn were filled with a mix of books and bundled documents. Information about her benefactor could be in any one of the hundreds of packets.

  Sera picked at the bed of her thumbnail as she looked around the tiny room. This was hopeless. Maybe she wanted it to be.

  “I’ll take the desk,” Lottie said. “Victoria, you take the pigeonhole cabinet.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” chirruped Victoria as she started opening little drawers.

  “Please, let’s just leave.” Sera dug her nail into her thumb. Her brows drew together so tightly they hurt. “We’ll never find anything.”

  Lottie only pushed back a lock of her perpetually messy hair. “Don’t turn faint of heart on us now.”

  “I’ve always been a coward,” Sera admitted.

  Victoria slipped the band from a leather-bound sheaf of papers. “It’s not inconceivable we’ll find something. You know how Mrs. Waywroth is. There must be some sort of classification system to everything. All we need to do is figure it out.”

  Sera blew out a shaky breath, unsure if she was ready for this after all. Her father had forever been a shady specter in her past. If she didn’t know, she could pretend the epithets spit at her were untrue. But she wouldn’t be able to hide in the safety of the school anymore. If she were to emerge into the world at large—even as a teacher—she had to know what would be thrown at her.

  “I think it will be easier than you suppose,” Lottie said with a distracted air. “Accounts came due a few days ago. She’ll likely have something close to hand.”

  Victoria laughed. “And how would you know that?”

  “Papa told me.”

  Sera couldn’t help but tsk, setting her own worries aside. “Your father talks to you about the most inappropriate things.”

  “He can’t help it,” Lottie said with a wide smile. “Who else is he supposed to talk to when he comes to town? It’s not as if Mother is worth much.”

  Sera managed to hold back a scolding comment about her friend’s habit of disparaging her mother. The defense was all Lottie had.

  But then Sera’s time ran out.

  Lottie waved a piece of paper. “I found it. Accounts payable on behalf of Miss Seraphina Miller,” she read aloud.

  Any moment, she would hear a name. The Lord only knew if it would mean anything. She half-hoped it wouldn’t. If her benefactor was some charitable institution, she could keep her gauzy daydreams about a loving father who missed her and wondered about her daily. If he’d known about her for a decade and chosen never to meet…her heart would break.

  She pressed her hands flat to her belly, willing it to calm. She nodded. “Go on.”

  “Oh, phooey,” Lottie muttered. “It’s an attorney. Richard Jenkins, Solicitor.”

  Victoria gave Sera’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Unsurprising if one thinks about it. If Sera’s father really is a gentleman, he might choose to keep separate from his…” She trailed off, probably unwilling to point out Sera’s familial shortcomings.

  “It’s all right. I understand.” She’d never known her father beyond the pretty stories her mother had spun about him. He could have very well been a rat catcher, which would be best left unknown.

  Lottie moved around the desk to stand by them. She held out the paper. “What are you going to do?”

  Sera took the bill, running it through her fingers. The paper was finely made, thick and smooth to the touch. She slanted a gaze over the words, but she could hardly make sense of them through her turmoil. Fears aside, she couldn’t live in a state of unknowing forever. So much bet
ter to find out and discard the silly dreams, then get on with the life she meant to create. To earn. Beholden to no one and a charity case no longer.

  “I am certainly going to see him tomorrow. I only hope he’ll be willing to speak with me.”

  Lottie scoffed. “We’ll go with you, of course.”

  “Yes, absolutely.” Victoria’s musical laugh broke the tension. “You’d be surprised at what people are willing to tell a duke’s daughter.”

  Fletcher was watching a bird. A mottled brown with a gray head, it looked like it would fit nicely in his hand. It hopped along the sooty ledge outside the window and bobbed its head, avid curiosity gleaming in its black eyes. None of this was remarkable.

  The remarkable part was that he was watching a bird while ignoring his attorney.

  Richard Jenkins worked hard for Fletcher. He needed to in order to prevent the collapse of the precarious house of cards Fletcher called his business interests. Despite years of trying to take things aboveboard, Fletcher remained deeply immersed in the dirty empire his father had created.

  Jenkins was one vital layer in Fletcher’s shield of propriety, helping to advance his position to a more respectable degree. Fletcher couldn’t afford to ignore him.

  But he couldn’t rip his mind away from replaying his encounter with Seraphina.

  She’d been a shining example of English womanhood, in a striped dress and pinned collar that gleamed white even in the cloud of a London fog. The honest truth was she’d grown into a beautiful woman. Fully matured and fine-featured in a way that appealed to his basest levels. She awoke in him a hungry animal with the impulse to claim. To take.

  But he needed to be patient a little while yet. He couldn’t risk her footing in society, not when he was so close to claiming her as his proper wife. Though she’d be perfectly educated and gracefully elegant, she’d be sympathetic toward his striving for a better life—without holding him responsible for his early years.

  The gnawing impatience would be easily assuaged with a bottle or two of brandy.

  “Tell me about Miss Miller,” he said abruptly.

  Jenkins floundered. His watery eyes went wide, and he skimmed a hand over his nearly bald pate. His collar wiggled when he swallowed. “Excuse me?”

  “Miss Miller.” Fletcher hitched an ankle over his knee. “I’d like a report on her status.”

  The attorney shuffled through a stack of papers. “Did you not receive the quarterly report?”

  “I did.” He pinched the crease of his trousers. The finely spun wool was smooth to the touch. He’d come quite a long way from the days when a length of rope had held up his breeches. “You were tasked with ensuring the acceptability of her position. Are you saying you have nothing beyond that to report?”

  Jenkins visibly blanched, his lips moving without sound. But then he shook it off and leaned forward in his seat. That determination to hold his ground was what made him invaluable. Fletcher had perfected his quelling look over the years. The man who could withstand it was worth his weight in gold.

  “The most recent quarterly payment has been seen to.” Jenkins consulted a sheet of paper, tracing the lines. “Miss Miller is coming to the end of her acceptable tenure. At this point only she and two other ladies of the same age remain.”

  Fletcher was entirely aware of that. It was the sole reason he’d given in to the desire to wander down her street on a flimsy pretense. Soon she’d move on, and he’d be driven to more extreme lengths to keep her within his influence.

  “Have you looked into a way to pay her?”

  “The funds with which you wished to endow her?”

  That was another reason Jenkins was a necessary cog in his life. Fletcher had spent long hours striving to better his speech and shed the traces of the gutter that still clung to his heels. It didn’t always work, not when he spent every day down in the muck. Jenkins reminded him of the intricacies of the law and pulled him back when he dipped into a more shaded aspect.

  “Yes,” he said with a nod. “The endowment.”

  Jenkins’s brow knitted with consideration. “It will be difficult if you don’t wish to be revealed. Miss Miller knows herself to be without family. Creating a great-aunt to do us the favor of passing on in order to solve the situation will not be sufficient.”

  “Indeed.”

  Perhaps he should give in to the temptation. Bestow the money upon her personally. Few things in his life actually posed such a temptation. If he wanted liquor, he drank it. If he wanted women, he took them. If he needed money, he made it—by fair means or foul.

  The idea that there was something he could not touch petted his fur the wrong direction.

  More than that, letting Seraphina wander the world flush with funds carried an element of risk. Unscrupulous suitors would sniff her out, and Fletcher would be forced to similarly unscrupulous means to drive them away.

  A quiet scratching heralded the opening of the door. A clerk poked in a head adorned by a shockingly red swath of hair. “Your pardon, sir, but you’ve a visitor.”

  Irritation pinched Jenkins’s features. “I told you I would tolerate no disturbances so long as Mr. Thomas was here.”

  The clerk’s pale skin colored almost as red as his hair. “I know, sir. But she won’t be put off. More particularly, her friend won’t. She says if you refuse to see them, she’ll express her displeasure to her father, the Duke of Faircroft.”

  The boy wouldn’t last long with the way he shook under Jenkins’s thunderous look.

  “Did you at least ask the lady her name?”

  “It’s a Miss Sera Miller.”

  Jenkins flattened his hands on the desk. His jaw dropped a fraction, and his gaze slid to Fletcher. Caterpillar-like eyebrows rose in inquiry.

  Fletcher found himself surprisingly gratified that Seraphina hadn’t lost all of her resourcefulness in that school, not if she’d found his attorney’s office. For there was no other conceivable reason she could be there.

  He flicked through the possible results and repercussions of such a meeting. Circumstances were too rushed, by far. Despite the fact that Seraphina had come looking for answers, she might not adjust well to being provided all of them at once.

  He snagged a piece of paper from Jenkins’s desk and held his hand out. A pen dropped into his palm. Good man.

  A few short sentences later, Fletcher folded the sheet and handed it to Jenkins. “Give her this. Answer no questions.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Jenkins nodded.

  With that, Fletcher slipped through the rear exit of Jenkins’s office, a door he had come to know well throughout the early years of taking over his dear departed father’s gambling halls and drinking dens. He’d been headstrong and rough-necked as he tried to conquer an entire underworld operation by sheer youthful determination. Quite a few scrapes with the law forced him to figure out how the cogs fit together. Jenkins had provided quiet support and, on occasion, a place to lay low.

  No more. Never again, if Fletcher had anything to say about it.

  He shouldn’t risk a meeting with her now. Long years of keeping her safe meant staying far away so she wouldn’t be tainted by the stain of his world.

  But that simple prohibition was harder to enforce since beholding her as a grown woman. Her delicate features and wide-eyed fascination had roused a dangerous yearning. Perhaps seeing her once before he concluded his stratagem would be enough to get him through.

  Chapter Three

  Sera fingered the single slip of paper as the carriage rumbled deeper into London’s seedier boroughs. The roads narrowed with every quarter mile, and the buildings tipped in overhead, closing off all the air. Dark gray soot had settled on every flat surface and some that weren’t, such as the head of a tiny, wide-eyed chimney sweep. The poor creature stared at the fine carriage as if wondering what such a conveyance was doing in Whitechapel.

  Sera wondered the same thing as she sank back against the leather bench of the carriage Lottie had hired. />
  The area was familiar. Too familiar. Every street they turned down made her heart thump a little faster. She knew this place.

  She’d thought it a part of her distant past.

  Sera hadn’t felt such an unabashed rush of excitement in years. The last time had probably been on her eleventh birthday, when she’d somehow developed the ridiculous supposition that her father would be coming for her. After all, it had been the first birthday after her mother’s death. Also the first time she’d thought of celebration since the six months she and her mother had lived with Mac Thomas and his son, Fletcher. So Sera tied her best pink ribbon around her waist, ensured her pinafore was sparkling clean and sat calmly in her tiny boarding school bedroom, to wait all by herself. Once dusk had come and she hadn’t eaten supper, both her roommates had filed in with eyes filled with sniffing disdain she hadn’t thought eleven year olds capable of.

  How grateful Sera was that Victoria and Lottie had treated following through on the note as a matter of course. Victoria had even hornswoggled two of her father’s footmen to act as guards.

  Sera rubbed a hand across the base of her throat, hoping to soothe her tumbling nerves as she opened the paper once again. In only two days the crease had become softened and worn from incessant folding and refolding. But the words of the cryptic note explained no more than they had on first examination.

  Miss Miller,

  Should you decide to continue investigating the origins of your bounty, come see me. Be aware you might not like what you discover. Come alone but for those necessary to your peace of mind and safety.

  Unsigned, of course. The address had inspired no wonder beyond the fact that the lodgings were in a part of London most of the upper class pretended didn’t exist. While Sera had read the note over and over until she memorized the short sentences, Victoria and Lottie had debated allowing her to go unaccompanied. Finally, awakening from her stunned haze, Sera had allowed only Mary, Victoria’s maid, to ride with her in the carriage.