Claimed by the Rogue (20 page)

Apparently chastened, he sat back in his seat. “Of course, please go on.”

She quickly recounted Mary’s situation. “Though her mother was never able to raise the funds to reclaim her, they’ve kept in touch all these years, contriving to meet on Saturdays in Russell Square. Now Mary’s been found a position as a scullery maid in a household in Cornwall. She’s to leave within the week.”

“Cornwall is hardly the ends of the earth,” Robert remarked with a shrug.

“It might as well be. For Mistress Fry to pay the postage on a letter coming all the way from Launceston would amount to taking bread from the mouths of her other children. I’ve promised to deliver this last letter, which includes Mary’s direction, and to faithfully take down her reply.”

“It seems an innocent-enough endeavor. Why the stealth?”

“Once a mother has surrendered her child, further communication is forbidden.”

His handsome face registered surprise. “That seems harsh.”

She nodded. “The intent is to act in the best interest of the child, but in practice it is not always so. Were she to be discovered, poor Mary could find herself turned out. Without a letter of reference from the Hospital, I’m sure you know what sort of position she could hope to obtain.”

An orphan girl on her own without references to recommend her would be forced to beg her bread or, worse, sell her favors to make ends meet.
 

“And what of you, Phoebe? Were you to be discovered abetting her, what would befall you?”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. Folding her hands over her reticule, she admitted, “I would likely be dismissed.”

“And yet you risk your place to help them. Why?”

She edged her gaze up to his. “Perhaps because I know what it means to love someone and believe you’ve lost them forever.”

For a charged moment, they stared at one another, so intensely that for the span of several heartbeats Phoebe was insensible to the carriage bumping along, to the streets streaking by, or to the dubious odors wafting inside the window, anything save Robert. Staring into his eyes, reading the raw pain etched upon his handsome face, in that moment she understood in part what he must have been trying to say these past weeks.

Despite the adventures he’d had and the wealth he’d amassed, he truly did regret leaving her.

Breaking their silence and spelled state, he asked, “Did the girl say where in the market her mother has her stall?”

Phoebe hesitated. “I didn’t think to ask. Is it a very large market?”

He stared at her askance.

“The city’s main fish market, quite.” Summoning what optimism she might, she said, “Well, I’m, er…certain we shall discover her readily enough.”

He opened his mouth as if to demur when the carriage struck a rut. Phoebe lurched forward, her bottom slipping off the seat. Robert caught her against him. “Are you all right?”
 

Pressed against that powerful chest, Phoebe managed a nod. “I should ask the same of you. You’re the one with the sore shoulder.”

Her solicitude seemed to amuse him. “This body has weathered many a buffeting. A sylph such as you shall scarcely put any new dins in me though for such a slight woman, you do have an impressive grip,” he added, a smile in his voice.

Drawing back, she saw that he hadn’t been the only one of them to reach out. Her hand curved about his biceps, the muscle beneath his coat feeling nearer to granite than fleshed bone. Recalling the expert ease with which he’d pinioned her on that first night back, she felt a frisson of that same dark, lingering excitement and eased her hand away.

Phoebe cleared her throat. “You may release me now.”

Gaze slipping to her mouth, he asked, “May or must?”

“Must.”

Holding steadying hands to her shoulders, he set her back against the squabs. As soon as she was secured, his hands fell away. Phoebe felt their loss as though a part of her own body had suddenly gone missing.
 

He sat back with a begrudging air. “As you wish,
friend
.”

From thereon, it felt infinitely safer to turn her head to look out the window despite the unprepossessing scenery. As they headed farther east, the streets grew narrower and more labyrinthine, the crooked thoroughfares and alleys as squalid and stinking as Phoebe remembered them from her brief glimpse six years ago. It seemed as though every block bore the same sort of ramshackle lodging houses and nefarious tradesmen—rag-and-bone shops, pawn shops and on every corner a gin palace announcing
Drunk for a penny, dead drunk for tuppence, clean straw for nothing.

Catching a strong whiff of the foulness wafting up from the open ditches, she ducked back inside and snapped the leather curtain closed.

“Mind this was all your idea.” Arms folded, Robert appeared unaffected.

She regarded him with watering eyes. “I…n-never said it wasn’t.” A fit of gagging threatened to bring up her luncheon.

Apparently taking pity upon her, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his handkerchief and passed it to her. “Use this to cover your nose and mouth until you’ve become accustomed to the odors.”

“T-thank you.” She accepted the square of snowy linen with genuine gratitude. “But I doubt I shall ever become accustomed to…this.”

“You’d be surprised what one can learn to live with,” he said, more to himself than her, and even in her current state, she wondered at the bitterness lacing his voice.

Once they turned onto Lower Thames Street, the breeze picked up, the smell of fish overtaking all others. Seagulls and various birds of prey circled low, keeping a keen lookout for their next meal. Caleb drew their team to a halt. He climbed down from the box, opened the door and lowered the carriage steps. Robert stepped down and then turned back to offer her his hand. She took it, alighting amidst the mayhem.
 

“I’ll just have a word with Caleb,” he said, leaving her side.

“Of course,” she said.

Leaving the two men to converse, Robert in a mixture of English and some exotic foreign tongue and Caleb through intricate hand gestures, she took the opportunity to get her bearings amidst the hubbub. Admittedly, the market was larger than she’d anticipated. She’d been naïve to think she might simply walk up and locate Mary’s mother straightaway. In addition to a large shed that must serve as the main market, there was an open area on the north side of the dock sprinkled with a number of booths and huts. Myriad people moved betwixt and between it all, hawkers with their baskets, costermongers with their three-legged handcarts, the latter loading up treats of jellied eels and freshly shucked oysters to sell elsewhere in the city. Men pushing carts heaped with fishes and other sea creatures bustled between booths.

Rejoining Phoebe, Robert explained that only licensed porters were permitted to move fish through the market. Cockney curses filled the air, some good-natured, others less so, all various shades of blue.
 

Fighting blushing, Phoebe turned to Robert. “I know Mistress Fry sells oysters. Does that help?” In truth, she wasn’t at all certain where to begin.
 

“We’ll try the main market first.” Taking her hand, he moved them toward the large shed backing onto the wharf. Approaching the entrance, he firmed his hold on her hand. “Stay close to me,” he warned, pulling back on the entrance door.
 

The din within was ear-splitting, the traders all crying out their wares with full force of their lungs, each man or woman claiming to possess that which was most stupendous and savory. Stepping inside and slipping into the sea of sweating faces and buffeting bodies, Phoebe felt momentarily overwhelmed. Looking from left to right to get her bearings, she allowed she’d never felt more a fish out of water in all her life.
 

Fortunately Robert seemed entirely at home. He towed them along one straw-strewn aisle after another, occasionally pausing to inquire if one of the vendors was acquainted with an oyster woman by the surname of Fry. Dodging jamming elbows and buffeting hips, Phoebe struggled to keep pace beside him. Booths and stalls piled with fish of every conceivable kind and quality lined the four walls and formed aisles between. Along with fishmongers, there were vendors selling cooked foods and cakes, fruits and vegetables, saloop and beer. Pinch-faced children and skinny cats prowled the stalls, scrounging for scraps.
 

A sharp cry of “Halt, thief!” preceded a scrawny boy whizzing past, an enormous fish tucked beneath his arm. Two sellers in stained aprons hared after him in hotfooted pursuit. Robert grabbed hold of Phoebe and hauled her out of their path before one or more might barrel into her.
 

“I told you to keep close,” he warned sharply before letting go and, shaken, Phoebe didn’t require telling a second time.

“Pearls o’ da sea, ’alf dozen fer tuppence, full dozen fer a dime,” called a voice from the aisle opposite them.

Phoebe and Robert exchanged looks. Had they found their Mistress Fry? They trailed the singsong chanting to a half dozen stalls at the back of the building, each displaying oysters banked upon a bed of salt. Going down the line, Phoebe saw that only one of the sellers was a woman. By silent assent, she and Robert headed over.
 

Behind the booth, a woman sat upon a stool working away at the hard shells with a short, wicked-looking knife. Weathered and white-haired, she glanced up as they approached.

“Pardon me, but might you be Sally Fry?” Phoebe asked.

Resuming her shucking, the seller shrugged. “That depends. Who is what wants ter know?”

“My name is Phoebe Tremont,” she said, deliberately leaving off her title. In light of the hardscrabble lives most here seemed to lead, the title seemed more a silly affectation than pertinent information.

Cutting her a look, the woman snorted. “Unless you’re buyin’ oysters, what’s i’ ter me?”

“I’m a schoolmistress at the Foundling Hospital.”

The knife stilled. The woman’s head jerked up. “My girl, me Mary, is she—”

“She is quite safe and well,” Phoebe hastened to assure her. “She asked me to bring you this.” She reached inside her pocket and brought out the letter.

Rising, the woman made no move to reach for it. Hanging her head, she admitted, “I never learned me le’ers.”

Mary had prepared Phoebe for as much. “I shall be happy to read it to you and to take down any message you might wish to return to Mary.” She paused, casting a sideways look to Robert. Holding several paces back, he made no attempt to interfere.
 

Turning back to Mistress Fry, Phoebe asked, “Is there somewhere we can be private?”
 

Mary’s mother jerked her chin to a curtained-off area backing up the booth. “I sometimes tuck inside ter put me feet up. It’s not much, two stools, not at all what a lady such as yahrself is used ter, but—”

“I’m sure it shall do splendidly.”
 

Again she glanced over to Robert. The approving smile he sent her warmed her to her toes. She tried to imagine Aristide here instead but couldn’t. Her betrothed would never condescend to enter a market, not even to ensure that a mother and daughter remained reunited. But Robert would. More to the point, he
had
. Whatever else he might have had planned for the day, he’d set it aside to see her safely here and home.
 

She thought back to her earlier skepticism about their rekindled friendship and felt a stab of remorse. True, he hadn’t kept faith with her six years ago, but did it necessarily follow that he couldn’t be trusted now?
 

Since his return, he’d proven himself to be a friend in need and deed. Her rules aside, in her heart of hearts she owned that she wished he might be so very much more.

Chapter Eight

Though Mistress Fry appeared to be exactly what Robert had hoped, a mother who dearly loved her daughter despite their precarious past, Phoebe was far too precious for him not take precautions. It was far too easy to spirit a person away, especially on the water. Back stairs leading down to cellars or out to the docks, opiates and other drugs that could render a body senseless, the grave robbers known as resurrection men who sometimes helped the living to an early demise—the scenarios his mind spun chilled him. Though ordinarily no eavesdropper, he kept an ear cocked toward the curtain. The voices carrying out were held too low to make out their meanings, but they sufficed to confirm that Phoebe remained both well and within.
 

Several passersby cast him curious looks and one of the oystermen grumbled that he was blocking the view to his stall, but otherwise he was left alone to wait. Eventually the curtain was drawn back. Phoebe emerged, her arm linked with that of Sally Fry. Both women’s cheeks appeared damp. Stepping out onto the aisle, they embraced, looking more like longtime friends than minutes-old acquaintances.
 

“Tell me girl I love ’er,” Mistress Fry sniffed. “And that I’m proud, terrible proud o’ da fine bird she’s become…thuff ’tis no thanks ter me.”

Heedless of the seller’s stained apron and coarse homespun brown dress, Phoebe hugged her hard. Stepping back, she said, “I shall see Mary later today and give her your message, but please know how very important you are in her life and always will be.”