“It can’t be. We’ve been less than a mile!”
“We’ve beenonemile,” the cabbie insisted.
There was no time to waste arguing. The woman’s cab had pulled farther ahead already. Leo leaped from the cab and started following on foot. She had no choice but to run, and asshe did, she drew quizzing looks from those she passed. Bracing one hand on the top of her hat to keep it from flying from her head, and the other gripping her skirt to lift the hem just enough so that she wouldn’t trip and make a complete spectacle of herself, Leo grew breathless as she kept a taxing pace.
The cab slowed as it met with traffic, giving her a chance to catch up. She was still at least twenty yards behind it when the cab turned toward Bloomsbury Square and disappeared.
Sweat streamed down her neck and back and dampened her forehead as she hurried to reach the busy garden square. When she did, she stopped to both draw breath and search for the cab. Most hansoms and their drivers looked alike, but the horses pulling the one she wanted were dappled-gray mares and easily spotted across the square. To her relief, they’d come to a stop along the curb. Had the cab continued away from the square, Leo wasn’t sure she would have been able to trail it any longer.
Bloomsbury was home to only the wealthiest Londoners, and the terraced homes boxing in the lush, green square were unlike any Leo had ever visited. Even 23 Charles Street was shabby in comparison. As the blue-caped woman stepped from the hansom, her hood still in place, Leo slowed to a brisk walk, though her pulse still hammered.
The woman went to one of the whitewashed terraced homes, but she did not need to knock or wait at the front door. After a moment spent fitting a key into the lock, she let herself straight in and closed the door behind her.
She lived here, at Bloomsbury Square.
What in the world had a woman of her status been doing at Martha Seabright’s home?
The perspiration that had built up during her run now stuck to the cotton chemise under her corset. Leo evened her breathing as she walked toward the home the woman had entered. She needed to find out who lived there. However, if shewere to knock upon the front door and ask, she would surely be turned away.
Close to the townhouse, Leo spotted a twist of rose and white checkered steps leading down to the servant’s entrance, hidden beneath street level. If she wanted answers, it was that door to which she would need to apply. Of course, she would need to devise a reason.
Leo took a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped the perspiration from her brow. She then tucked a few strands of hair that had come free from her combs behind her ears and repositioned her hat. With a bracing breath, she opened the wrought iron gate at the top of the steps and descended to the swept landing, all the while cobbling together the reason for her knocking at this particular servant’s entrance.
After three purposeful raps upon the door, she stood back and waited, her pulse still irregularly high in her throat. When the door opened, an older woman in uniform and a mobcap met her with an expectant stare. “Well, what is it?”
Leo cleared her throat. “I’m here to answer the advertisement in the paper.”
The woman squinted as she wiped her hands on a towel. “What advertisement is this?”
Mind scrambling, Leo replied, “For a new maid. A lady’s maid.”
The servant’s perplexed expression remained. “We’ve nothing in any papers for a maid.”
“Isn’t this the Rupert household?” The name of the dead fishmonger back at the Spring Street Morgue was the first one that came to mind in her moment of need.
“Rupert? No, no. You’ve the wrong house, missy,” the woman said, then moved to close the door.
“But this must be the Rupert home. It’s 10 Bloomsbury Square, isn’t it?” Leo pressed.
The woman sighed and opened the door again. “It is, but this here is the Hayes residence, not the Ruperts’, whoever they are.”
A shudder snapped Leo back a step, her skin prickling. “Hayes, you say?”
The woman’s patience dried up. “That’s right. Hayes. Now, off you go.”
The door shut, and Leo was left staring at her startled face reflected in the pane of glass.
Chapter Eleven
Detective Sergeant Warnock was waiting outside Jasper’s office at eight o’clock when he arrived, a surly mood already setting in for the day. He’d slept, though poorly, and only after apologizing to Mrs. Zhao for not eating most of the dinner she’d prepared. After Leo had left, his thwarted desire for her still stringing him tight, he’d been impossible to please.
That morning, before leaving for the Yard, Jasper had gone to the kitchen and apologized to Mrs. Zhao again.
“Did the two of you argue, Mister Jasper?” she had asked, her forgiveness clear when she poured him a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.
“No.” He’d considered leaving it at that, but the truth was he’d wanted someone to talk to. Rubbing his jaw, he’d continued, “Mrs. Zhao, there is something I should tell you.”
The housekeeper pulled out a chair and sat, her grin effusive. “Does it have to do with Miss Leo and how you would like to court her?”
