Boston years ago. Now I am widowed and only in London for a short visit.” She made a face, annoyed with the circumstances. “All this time and effort, all this worry and work to meet my father, and I’m going to lie to him.”
“It can’t be helped.”
“Yes, I know.” She tipped her head at him, curious. “Why are you only now mentioning this? Why didn’t you bring this up at the hotel or in Spitalfields?”
“We weren’t looking for your father in Spitalfields; we were looking for the boy. We certainly weren’t going to find him at the hotel. You might meet him today.”
That didn’t explain why he’d waited to speak up. Unless… “What if I’d not thought to lie to him, or agreed to do it?”
“You’re already here,” he pointed out. “Why argue with a reasonable suggestion when you’re so close?”
“And if I refused to be reasonable?”
He gave her a thin smile. “This isn’t a public hackney.”
“I thought as much.” He could take her back to Derbyshire, forgoing the trouble of getting her out of the hotel and into the carriage.
She could hardly fault him for the plan. It would be the only sensible response to what would have been a terrific act of stupidity on her part. The idea that the plan had been needed at all, however, was a little insulting. “I’m really not an idiot, you know.”
“I know,” he said simply. “With any luck, we’ll know what sort of man your father is by the end of the day.” He opened the carriage door and hopped down, then turned and frowned at her when she moved to follow. “What are you doing?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Well, I’m not waiting in the carriage.”
“Yes, you are.”
“That is ridiculous.” She threw her hands up in annoyance. “Why did I come along at all if it was only to sit in here?”
“I assume if we find him, you’ll want to speak with him?”
“I want to speak with whomever answers the door.”
Samuel shook his head. “A young widow asking questions is an oddity. People don’t like oddities.”
“Of course they do. That’s why we have circuses and curiosity shops.”
“People don’t like oddities showing up at their front doors unannounced at nine in the morning. They do, however”—he pulled a calling card out of his pocket and handed it to her—“like a bit of excitement.”
Esther read the card with a sigh.
Sir Samuel Brass, Private Investigator.
Yes, being handed a card such as this would be exciting. Even if the name wasn’t recognized, the profession certainly would be. People would want to help Sir Samuel Brass, Private Investigator. They would likely want to help him even if he brought along an odd widow, but they might feel more constrained in her company.
“Oh, very well,” she muttered. She gave him back the card and sagged back against her seat after he closed the door and ran off to have all the fun.
She might as well have stayed in Derbyshire and hired Samuel to find her father. One might argue that it would have been the safer course of action, but her purpose in coming to London hadn’t been simply to meet her father; it had been to find him. The search was an important step on the path of setting things right.
She wasn’t finding him now; she was waiting for someone else to find him for her. And she wasn’t even paying him for the trouble.
She felt like one of those indolent country gentlemen who went hunting but didn’t do anything but stand in a field and shoot. It was their servants who carried the weapons, flushed out the pheasants, retrieved the carcasses, carried them home, then cleaned, cooked, and served the birds. She didn’t want to stand in the field and shoot. She wanted the work.
Esther pushed aside a corner of the drapes to peek outside as Samuel climbed the front steps to the first house.
This wasn’t atonement. It was atonement by proxy.
Samuel, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind the arrangement at all. Over
“It can’t be helped.”
“Yes, I know.” She tipped her head at him, curious. “Why are you only now mentioning this? Why didn’t you bring this up at the hotel or in Spitalfields?”
“We weren’t looking for your father in Spitalfields; we were looking for the boy. We certainly weren’t going to find him at the hotel. You might meet him today.”
That didn’t explain why he’d waited to speak up. Unless… “What if I’d not thought to lie to him, or agreed to do it?”
“You’re already here,” he pointed out. “Why argue with a reasonable suggestion when you’re so close?”
“And if I refused to be reasonable?”
He gave her a thin smile. “This isn’t a public hackney.”
“I thought as much.” He could take her back to Derbyshire, forgoing the trouble of getting her out of the hotel and into the carriage.
She could hardly fault him for the plan. It would be the only sensible response to what would have been a terrific act of stupidity on her part. The idea that the plan had been needed at all, however, was a little insulting. “I’m really not an idiot, you know.”
“I know,” he said simply. “With any luck, we’ll know what sort of man your father is by the end of the day.” He opened the carriage door and hopped down, then turned and frowned at her when she moved to follow. “What are you doing?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Well, I’m not waiting in the carriage.”
“Yes, you are.”
“That is ridiculous.” She threw her hands up in annoyance. “Why did I come along at all if it was only to sit in here?”
“I assume if we find him, you’ll want to speak with him?”
“I want to speak with whomever answers the door.”
Samuel shook his head. “A young widow asking questions is an oddity. People don’t like oddities.”
“Of course they do. That’s why we have circuses and curiosity shops.”
“People don’t like oddities showing up at their front doors unannounced at nine in the morning. They do, however”—he pulled a calling card out of his pocket and handed it to her—“like a bit of excitement.”
Esther read the card with a sigh.
Sir Samuel Brass, Private Investigator.
Yes, being handed a card such as this would be exciting. Even if the name wasn’t recognized, the profession certainly would be. People would want to help Sir Samuel Brass, Private Investigator. They would likely want to help him even if he brought along an odd widow, but they might feel more constrained in her company.
“Oh, very well,” she muttered. She gave him back the card and sagged back against her seat after he closed the door and ran off to have all the fun.
She might as well have stayed in Derbyshire and hired Samuel to find her father. One might argue that it would have been the safer course of action, but her purpose in coming to London hadn’t been simply to meet her father; it had been to find him. The search was an important step on the path of setting things right.
She wasn’t finding him now; she was waiting for someone else to find him for her. And she wasn’t even paying him for the trouble.
She felt like one of those indolent country gentlemen who went hunting but didn’t do anything but stand in a field and shoot. It was their servants who carried the weapons, flushed out the pheasants, retrieved the carcasses, carried them home, then cleaned, cooked, and served the birds. She didn’t want to stand in the field and shoot. She wanted the work.
Esther pushed aside a corner of the drapes to peek outside as Samuel climbed the front steps to the first house.
This wasn’t atonement. It was atonement by proxy.
Samuel, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind the arrangement at all. Over
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