softened the man’s normally fathomless black eyes.
Danforth continued, “You can see to your estate, retrieve the other letters, and watch over Ashcroft’s family.” He smacked Helsford’s shoulder. “We’ll keep an eye on Reeves and his Inquisition from here.”
Such a neat bow tied around an untidy package. “Yes, brilliant.”
“What are you going to tell Mrs. Ashcroft about her husband?” Helsford’s soft query reminded him that the worst was yet to come. “We are still investigating the situation.”
Danforth’s expression flattened as understanding dawned. “I’ll do it.”
Sebastian sent him a grateful yet pained smile. “Thank you, but no.”
“There is no reason for you to deal with this alone, Chief,” Helsford said.
“My watch, remember?” Sebastian’s stomach churned unpleasantly. “You can help by finishing those ciphers and keeping me informed of Reeves’s activities.” He glanced from one man to the next. “There can be no announcement as of yet. Our men need more time to find those responsible.”
They all fell silent. The younger men were no doubt reflecting on the scarcity of information they had collected since finding Ashcroft in a filthy alley, lying in a pool of his own blood. Sebastian’s thoughts, however, had turned toward the future, toward Ashcroft’s widow and the truth about her husband.
***
August 7
The moment Catherine exited Grillon’s Hotel, a fierce midday sun stabbed her already burning eyes. She paused in the shade of the building until the white spots overwhelming her vision disappeared. She had hoped to be quit of the city well before now, but a putrid stomach had demanded she stay near a chamber pot all morning. Which gave her plenty of time to review her conversation with Lord Somerton, when she wasn’t scrambling for the pot.
Even now, a faint roiling deep in her midsection made her question the wisdom of embarking on a long carriage ride. But her parental instinct pushed her onward, despite the potential consequences to her pride. It was just her bad luck to have selected the pork instead of the fish.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” A young man motioned to the door behind her.
Her normal vision restored, Catherine gave up her shadowed spot. “My apologies, sir.” She continued on to where her maid, Mary, watched over her trunks while waiting for the carriage to arrive.
Lord Somerton’s delay continued to chafe her nerves. So much of her life had been wrapped around the act of waiting. Waiting for her father, waiting for her husband, and waiting for the denizens of Showbury to lower their pompous noses. And now she must anticipate Lord Somerton’s arrival and pray he could help assuage her terrible guilt by tracking down Jeffrey’s killer.
Then she could begin anew with her daughter and hope her conscience would ease its hold on her in time.
A large cat with matted fur darted across Albemarle Street, chasing a smaller scruffy black dog, whose short legs were nothing more than a dark blur.
“Oh!” Mary exclaimed, scurrying out of the way when the two creatures streaked by, ruffling Catherine’s skirts.
Catherine followed their zigzag path, hoping the little dog would make it to safety. She glanced at Mary and they shared a smile. But the disappearing animals made Catherine consider her own departure. Was she doing the right thing by leaving the city? The restless energy thrumming through her veins begged her to stay and search for clues. Whatever they might be.
“Good day, Mrs. Ashcroft,” a man called from the street.
She turned to find a blond-haired gentleman dismounting from a rather expensive piece of horseflesh. He handed the reins to a young hostler and approached her with a sure stride.
“Yes, sir?”
He removed his beaver hat, revealing an array of handsome curls, then bowed. “I am so glad to have caught you,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Frederick Cochran.” Sorrowful blue eyes gazed at her. “A good friend to your husband, or was, I should say.”
Mary backed away to a discreet distance.
Cochran, Cochran, Cochran. The name was so familiar, but she had never seen this gentleman before. Her mind scoured her memories for some mention of him, but nothing surfaced. Then, her eyes widened as a vague recollection danced on the periphery of her vision. No, surely she could not be so fortunate. In one of Jeffrey’s last letters, amidst his incoherent scribblings, was the mention of someone called Cochran. Or was it Corbin? Collins? If only she had brought all the letters, rather than a sampling, she could verify the name.
“Mr. Cochran? Your name is somewhat familiar, sir.”