A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) (22 page)

“Meet with a potentially dangerous criminal.”

“Well, I have some experience with that, haven’t I?”

He sucked in a breath as if to argue, then snapped his mouth shut, effectively ceding the point.

“I can do this, Samuel.”

“How?” he demanded. “What, exactly, do you intend to say to this man?”

She calmly brushed her hands down her skirts, determined to remain composed in the face of his mounting temper. “As I see it, I’ve three options. First, I could meet him as myself and ask him what he wants. If it’s ten pence, or even ten pounds, he’s after, I’ll pay it and inform him that if he wishes to collect more in the future, he’ll need to follow me out of the country to obtain it.”

“And if he wants more on the spot?”

“That brings us to the second option. You apprehend him for blackmail and turn him over to the police.” If the young man thought to threaten the Walkers, he could lament his error in prison. “We can tell the authorities my visit to England is temporary.”

“And the third option?”

She sucked in the corner of her lip, hesitant to share an idea she knew would not impress him. “I considered pretending to be someone else. I might convince him that he is mistaken in my identity.”

He looked at her like she’d spouted complete gibberish. “Why the devil would another woman agree to meet him at the station?”

“The Walker daughters can’t be the only women in London with secrets to keep. I might be Mrs. Winslow, hiding from my brute of a husband and willing to pay to keep my existence in London a secret.”

“And you just happen to resemble another woman he’s looking for? For God’s sake, no one would believe such a preposterous coincidence.”

The hint of ridicule in his voice set her teeth on edge. “He has asked for ten pence. How astute do you imagine him to be?” She planted her hands on her hips. “And don’t speak to me as if I’m a fool. I know the third option is flawed. That’s why it’s the
third
option. And it is no less preposterous than the idea that this young man recognized me in a shop after so great a time. He can’t be more than sixteen, which means he could not have been more than seven years of age the last time I was in London. How well could he possibly remember me? Do you really think a seven-year-old who caught a glimpse of me nine years ago would recognize me in the few minutes I lifted my veil?”

Clearly aggravated, Samuel dragged a hand down his face. “You think he is mistaken.”

“He might very well be. But if he is not, it is because someone has described me to him or…”

“Or there is a picture of you somewhere,” he finished for her.

“Father didn’t allow portraits.” There were no photographs of the Walker children and, to the best of her knowledge, the only sketch of her in existence was in one of her father’s old journals, safely locked away in Derbyshire.

“People can sketch from memory,” Samuel reminded her. “You worked with your father. People saw you.”

“Yes, I know.” Will had never introduced her as his daughter, but it was likely that some people guessed or suspected the truth. “If this man has a sketch of me, I need to know it. We need to find it.”

“
I
can find it,” Samuel pressed. “I can go to Paddington station and bring the man out. Let me—”

She cut him off with a shake of her head. “He is unlikely to show himself to you. He is expecting me.”

“Then disappoint him,” he snapped, his agitation all but palpable now. “It’s too dangerous.”

“But only for me?”

“For any number of people. Including you.” He stabbed his fingers through his hair. “Damn it,
especially
you.”

Especially
her? Insult warred with disbelief. When she managed to speak again, it was through a jaw clenched tight with anger. “I am clever. I am quick. And I am capable of defending myself from one man in a crowded railway station.” One man in broad daylight, for pity’s sake. Not a bloodthirsty pack of murderers in a dark alley. “The only reason, the
only
reason, you’ll not agree to my going is because I am a woman.”

“That is not… We don’t know there will only be one. We don’t know anything about this man, what he knows, or what he has planned. And you’re not just
any
woman,” he bit off. “You’re…important. You’re…” He made a sound that was half snarl, half-frustrated groan as he clearly struggled to find the words he wanted. He swore viciously, then spun about to stalk to the window and back again. When he stood before her once more, his features were hard as stone, and his voice was lowered with barely restrained fury. “What sort of man would allow his woman to put herself in danger whilst he hides away?”

Esther took a steadying breath in an attempt to rein in her anger. It mostly failed.

Allow his woman, indeed.

“The sort of man who does not mistake his woman for his child,” she replied in the coolest tone she could manage. “Allow me to be perfectly clear, Samuel, as you appear to have trouble grasping the concept. You do not
allow
me anything. I make my own choices. I choose my own actions.”

“Your own mistakes.”

“Those as well. And when I am in error, I will take responsibility for the consequences.”

“Is that what this is about?” he demanded, throwing an arm up. “Your quest for atonement? This man isn’t your father, and you cannot make up for one mistake by throwing yourself into another.”

“It is not a mistake!”

He dragged his hand through his hair again and looked for a moment as if he might stalk to the window and back again as well, but he stepped closer instead, looking over her like a wrathful bear. “Do you honestly not realize how selfish you are being? Can you not trouble yourself with one thought for the people who care about what might happen to you? Who worry about you?”

It was an accusation, not a question, and it infuriated her. “Oh, you
hypocrite
. You’ve been a soldier and a police officer and now you are here, telling me you should go to Paddington station and meet this man alone whilst I wait here and worry. But that’s not the least bit selfish, is it?”

“I was a police officer when you met me,” he returned, “and I have been a private investigator for nine years. You knew what you were taking on before any of this began.”

“I was Will Walker’s daughter when you met me,” she shot back. “You knew what you were taking on.”

“I thought you were trying to be someone else, someone
other
than Will Walker’s daughter. I
thought
you had left that woman behind.”

That woman?
She gaped at him, shocked beyond anger. Someone else? “That is not what I am trying to do.” That was the exact opposite of what she was trying to do. “I
am
Will Walker’s daughter. I’ve never claimed otherwise. Not to you.”

She was Esther Walker. Not Esther Bales. Not Esther Smith. Not Mrs. Ellison.
Walker
. She had learned to pick a lock when she was six and escape a set of manacles at eight. She’d had a dagger strapped to her ankle since the age of twelve. She had accidently kidnapped a duchess at nineteen. And she had learned from Will Walker the consequences of allowing a man to bend her will to his own.

For better or for worse, she was a Walker. She could be more than the name. She could be better than what she once was. But she could not pretend to be someone
else
. Not even for Samuel.

He stared at her, looking every bit as stunned as she felt.

The silence between them stretched out for so long that the very air around her felt strained. She was on the verge of saying something, anything to break the tension so they might move past it to an understanding, but then his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a hard line.

And she realized in that terrible moment that someone
else
was exactly who Samuel had imaged her to be.

He had never liked her just as she was. He had liked a version of her that never existed.

He wanted Miss Bales. The woman who had never degraded others to elevate herself. The woman who would meekly follow his order to wait at home.

The woman who was not
that woman
.

Disappointment, confusion, shame, and fury all washed over her so quickly, she couldn’t hope to sort one out from the other. A terrible ball of pain settled in her chest, and humiliating tears pressed against the back of her eyes.

“It would seem you were mistaken in your impression,” she choked out. “Excuse me.”

She spun on her heel and left the room quickly, desperate to reach the privacy of her guest room before she embarrassed herself further.

Even as she rushed down the hall, a part of her hoped he would call out to her, or follow her. He would apologize. He would explain that he’d been clumsy. He hadn’t meant to be insulting, to look at her as if she were a complete stranger, as if he’d never known her at all and didn’t care to know her now.

He liked her just as she was. She was exactly what he wanted.

She heard nothing but the muffled thump of her heels striking the hall runner.

* * *

Samuel left the house at first light the next day and returned at two in the afternoon with a pounding head and a knot between his shoulder blades. He was close. He was so damned close. He’d marked the second name off the list of suspects. Ronald Wainsberth had set sail aboard the merchant ship
Good Tidings
ten days ago. He could not have been the man from the station.

That left only Edmund.

Samuel had a name, a detailed sketch, and a good idea of where in London to look for answers. There was even another informant he’d yet to track down—an elusive old man known as Chaunting Charlie for his eagerness to sing to the police. With a little more time, he could find them both.

He might have taken a little more time today. He’d considered searching for Edmund, surname unknown, until the last possible minute. But Samuel hadn’t been able to shake the worry that Esther might try to leave for the station without him.

She’d said she wanted him to accompany her, but he couldn’t be certain the contrary woman wouldn’t change her mind.

I am trying to be more.

I
am
Will Walker’s daughter.

Samuel had stewed over Esther’s words the whole of the evening. He’d gnawed on the bitter end of their argument until his jaw had ached from grinding. In the end, he’d been forced to concede that the two statements weren’t mutually exclusive. Esther could be Will’s daughter, and
more
than Will’s daughter. Considering the brittleness he’d seen in Esther a year ago and the more self-assured woman she was now, it was fair to say she’d succeeded in her efforts.

But she was still reckless and unpredictable. And, damn it, she was still selfish. For God’s sake, she wanted him to sit at Paddington station… No, not
sit
, he corrected with growing anger…
hide
. She wanted him to
hide
at the station while she confronted a dangerous man.

How could she ask it of him? How the bloody hell could she ask him to stand aside like a coward, like a milksop, like…a useless little boy.

But hiding behind Esther at Paddington station was preferable to not being there at all. So he’d come home early just to be safe and spent the next four hours nursing cups of tea he didn’t want, in a parlor that had never suited him, in a house that suddenly felt very empty. Not peaceful, mind. It was as active as ever, with the beast crashing into furniture, and Mrs. Lanchor barking out orders, and pots and pans banging about in the kitchen, and maids and footmen darting to and fro. Everything was exactly as it had been a week ago. And that was all wrong. Esther’s voice was missing from the mix. Her laughter was gone. Her smile, her scent, her swish of skirts. All missing.

The house felt empty because, for all intents and purposes, Esther wasn’t in it. He hadn’t seen her since their argument the night before. She was holed up in her chambers like a recluse.

She might as well be back in Derbyshire. What did it matter that they were under the same roof if he couldn’t speak with her, or touch her? Or bellow at her until she saw reason?

She was gone, and it ate at him.

She was a five-second walk away and he
missed
her.

He was overthinking the matter, of course. He’d gone long periods of time without seeing her in the past. Her absence hadn’t troubled him then. Why should it trouble him now after only a few hours? It was ludicrous.

And yet, when she appeared at a quarter to five, a part of him settled, even as a heavy tension fell over the room.

She stood just inside the doorway and watched him through guarded eyes.

“His name is Edmund,” he announced. “Probably.”

“You found him?”

“Not yet. I need another day or two.” Or six. However bloody long it took.

“To find one particular Edmund in all of London?” She clasped her small gloved hands at her waist. “We don’t have the time.”

“We can make time.”

“Perhaps if you had let me help you look instead of—” She snapped her mouth shut and a furrow appeared between her brows. “I apologize. That isn’t fair. I did agree to your looking alone at least some of the time.”

He needed her to agree to it
now
, when it mattered most.

And he didn’t want her damned apology. He wanted her to be furious so
he
could be furious. He wanted an anger so consuming it left no room for hurt or fear. And he wanted another row. A proper one with lots of shouting. Because at least then he would be
doing
something.

Instead he just sat there feeling every bit as helpless and ineffectual as he had at the age of twelve.

“I am asking you not to go to Paddington station,” he said softly. “Please.”

It wasn’t begging. One
please
did not a grovel make. Still, he found it easier to stare out the window rather than look at her as he waited for a reply.

He heard her take a small, shallow breath. When she spoke, her voice was small and a little sad, but unmistakably resolute. “I am asking you to please come with me.”