to save enough to afford a room of my own. I’ve been looking for him since I went free, but as near as I can figure, the orphanage burned in 1816. I assume it relocated, but no one seems to know where, and there are no orphanages called the St. Dismas Home for Wayward Boys in London.”
“Where was it located?”
She told him the address in Spitalfields.
“You asked the shop owners nearby?”
“I did, but no one could help.”
So she’d probably asked a few women. She couldn’t exactly walk up to a man she didn’t know in that area of Town and start a conversation, nor could she stroll into a tavern and ask questions over a pint of ale.
He could. He could do all that and more, but it would mean calling attention to himself. He was willing to risk it for Bridget and his son, if the risk was worth it.
“And what if he’s been adopted? What if he’s been made an apprentice or taken in by a couple unable to have children?”
She shook her head. “You know as well as I that’s unlikely. But if he has, and he’s happy, then I’d still like to see him, tell him I never forgot him, that I didn’t abandon him.”
And what would she tell the boy about his father? That he’d died in prison? The boy probably didn’t know any other father but Lavery, and perhaps that was for the best. Caleb couldn’t be any kind of father to him, not when he had to run and hide for his life.
“I’ll help you,” he said. “On one condition.” Her gaze met his, and he cleared his throat. “When we find the boy, you don’t tell him who I am.”
BRIDGET AGREED TO CALEB’S request and left his room. It was after ten in the evening and far too late to begin searching tonight. She had to be at the academy in the morning, but the day after was Saturday and she would have all day free.
She had to creep back to her room like some sort of criminal, but she couldn’t afford to be caught on the men’s floor her first night in the house. Mrs. Jacobs would throw her out with the rubbish.
She reached her room safely, closed and locked the door, then undressed for bed. Once under the covers, she lay awake staring at the ceiling. She could count on fingers and toes the number of times she’d had a room to herself. It seemed strange not to look over and see Valérie lying in her bed. Not to be able to whisper a few words and have an answer whispered back.
She’d always been the sort of person who fell asleep as soon as she lay down, but tonight, no matter which position she tried, she couldn’t fall asleep. She knew it had to do with seeing Caleb again. He looked a bit older, a bit leaner, but little else about him had changed. When she spoke to him, sat with him, it was as though no time had passed since they’d seen each other. She was as comfortable with him as she’d always been.
She was as attracted to him as she’d always been too.
It had been difficult not to allow her eyes to stray to his bed and imagine him lying on it. Imagine herself lying there with him. It might have been nine years since they’d shared a bed, but she remembered what it was like to kiss him, as though they’d shared a kiss no more than a moment before.
His kisses were very much like the man himself—confident, easy, skilled.
Bridget remembered watching his hands roam over her body—first clothed and then in increasing stages of undress—and marveling at how he managed to make her feel so much with just the touch of a fingertip or the stroke of his thumb.
She couldn’t blame him for her pregnancy. She’d been as willing as he to go to bed. And he had tried to prevent pregnancy. She’d never thought his method wouldn’t work. It was only later, after making friends with several married women in prison, that she realized they’d been taking a risk every time they’d lain together. And they’d lain together quite a lot. She and Caleb hadn’t been able to get enough of each other.
And then one day he’d been gone. He hadn’t come into the Foreign Office, and when she’d gone to check on him at his lodgings, a man she didn’t know opened the door.