Kisses and Scandal (A Survivors Series Anthology ) - Shana Galen Page 0,43

find them out and report them, but much of his debt was to the banks themselves. Bankers were notorious for spotting forgeries, even those as good as Bridget’s.

She’d been angry at Robbie for years for borrowing money for foolish schemes that had not worked out. In the end, though, when he lay dying in Fleet Prison, she couldn’t be angry. He had suffered more than he deserved for his sins. She couldn’t regret choosing not to counterfeit the currency, though. If she had, they would both be dead, and James really would be an orphan.

Now, Bridget reached into her drawer and withdrew a few notes of authentic Continental currency her father had collected. She passed them out, two girls sharing one note, as well as some of the special paper the colonists had used to print the currency and which the British had intercepted. “For the rest of the class, practice creating counterfeit dollars. You’ll see each state produced its own design, so if you finish before time is up, switch dollars with another pair of girls.”

The girls put their heads down and began to work. In the meantime, Bridget went to the window and peered out. The day had dawned cloudy and cool for June. The clouds hung low, promising rain. She hoped that it rained sooner rather than later, as she would have to move her personal items to Mrs. Jacobs’s boarding house tonight, and she did not relish arriving looking like a wet sewer rat.

Not that it mattered, as Caleb would have gone by now. She’d told him to leave, and he was enough of a gentleman to adhere to her wishes. It wasn’t as though he wanted to see her at any rate. For a man with his talents, it would have been easy to track her down when he returned to London. He’d made no effort to do so.

She was better off without him, and she’d waste no more time thinking of him. She had bigger problems—the first of these being how to find James. She’d asked Mrs. Brodie for a recommendation of an investigator who might help with her search, and the lady had provided her with a name. Now, as her pupils forged Continental dollars, Bridget sat at her desk and wrote a short message to the man requesting an interview.

CALEB DIDN’T RELOCATE. He had no great love for Mrs. Jacobs or her rooms, but he did find he cared a great deal for Bridget O’Brien—Bridget Lavery now. He hadn’t forgotten her over all these years. He’d thought of her more often than he would have liked. He’d tried to forget her, told himself she had forgotten him, but though he’d found companionship with other women, he’d never found the sense of completeness he’d felt with Bridget.

She was angry at him. Of course, she was. She didn’t understand that it hadn’t been his decision to leave her or to perpetuate the myth that he was dead. He’d had no choice, or he would be dead in truth right now.

If he wasn’t careful, he could still end up dead.

Caleb paced his small, dingy room in Mrs. Jacobs’s boarding house and tried not to listen for the door. He did not think Bridget would arrive until later that evening, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but her imminent arrival. Knowing she would soon be under the same roof as he was a distraction.

That was all the more reason for him to move. He’d done his work on the Continent too well, and now he had a price on his head. He’d been hiding all over the Continent for years, but the last time the Foreign Office had tried to relocate him, Caleb had insisted on coming home to London. He’d argued he could be lost in London as well as Lisbon or Madrid, and at least in London he’d be home.

They’d given him another name and a new set of papers and housed him in Covent Garden. He was withering away with boredom and obscurity. Every day, he thought it less and less likely that any assassins had tracked him to London or were looking for him there, but the government still advised caution. A man with a price on his head could not be too cautious.

And so Caleb sat in his room, day after day and night after night. He made an occasional trip out for an apple or whatever the hawkers were selling near the theater. Mrs. Jacobs’s cook seemed to