Mr. Whitby stopped in his tracks, and then turned quickly around. Tabby held her breath and froze in place, wondering if she had time to duck into a doorway. But it was too late; he had seen her and was making his way back to where she stood. For all her experience making sure that she was never followed, it seemed that the same could not be said of her abilities to follow someone else.
“Miss Cooke,” he said, giving her a thin smile that did not reach his pale blue eyes. “How extraordinary to find ourselves taking the same path. You should have mentioned at Hammond House that you were leaving too and I would have been only too glad to escort you.”
Bothered at herself for being so obvious, Tabby lifted her chin, determined to appear undaunted. “Thank you, but I don’t need an escort.”
“Of course,” he said. “You appear quite independent.” His unimpressed tone made it clear he did not consider this a compliment. “How can I be of assistance, Miss Cooke?”
Well, at least she had his attention. “Mr. Bishop needs your help. He’s innocent and sitting in jail, and thinks you’re the one to help him.”
A dark brow rose. “You’ll pardon me, but I don’t believe I’ve heard your name come up before in connection to the family. I can hardly discuss such matters with a stranger. Who, or what, exactly are you to the Bishops?”
Tabby ignored his question. “I think if you cared half so much about the Bishops as you claim to, you already would have visited him, if not secured his release.”
“Aha,” Mr. Whitby said, stroking the sharp line of his chin. He paused, cocking his head ever so slightly at her. “You strike me as a young woman of strong opinions, but not well versed in the ways of the world.”
Tabby opened her mouth to deny it, but he must have seen the effect his words had on her, because he said, “Just as I thought. Well, Miss Cooke, let me give you a little advice, free of charge. In the business world, everything moves at a snail’s pace until it doesn’t. Young Mr. Bishop may well be innocent, but me storming into the city jail proclaiming that isn’t going to sway the warden, now is it? No, I must go back to my office, compile a list of references of his good standing and character, and speak with the police about their investigation. Then I can go to the judge and present my case and see what can be done about releasing him pending a trial.”
When he phrased it in such a way, it all seemed rather logical, and Tabby couldn’t help but be annoyed at herself for her lack of understanding in such things. But that didn’t change her dislike of Mr. Whitby and his cool, slippery way of talking. “You might have at least visited him and put his mind at ease.”
The pale blue eyes narrowed at her in clear disdain. “Indeed. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Cooke, you’ll remember I have pressing business. Good day.”
She did not for one moment believe that Mr. Whitby had Caleb’s best interests at heart. And that meant no justice for Rose.
As he disappeared into the bustle of traffic, he took up his humming again. A chill washed over Tabby, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. And with a crawling sense of dread, Tabby remembered where’d she heard that song before.
* * *
It had been three days and Caleb’s former life beyond the damp walls was rapidly becoming dreamlike and unimaginable. What did warm, fresh bread taste like? What about wine that wasn’t vinegary? Had he ever really slept on a feather bed and not a hard bench with straw ticking? God, he was not cut out for prison.
“Caleb Bishop, you got a visitor.”
Caleb sprang up. If it was Tabby again he would throttle her, the impetuous, determined thing. Yet at the same time he couldn’t help the anticipation of seeing her again, found that he was desperate to see the sharp tilt of her chin, the shape of her extraordinary eyes in person. Desperate to feel the peace that seemed to surround her wherever she went. He compulsively smoothed back his greasy hair and straightened his collar.
“Oh.” Caleb’s face fell as the tall form of Mr. Whitby materialized from the dark corridor. Then he shook off his disappointment as he remembered just how much he needed him.
“Caleb,” Mr. Whitby