Charlotte frowned at the unexpected recommendation. “But do you think it odd to leave so quickly? I do not wish to draw censure, and I fear all eyes are now on us.”
“In the end, what you do is of little consequence. Your husband had a certain reputation about the city, especially with regard to debts, and death and money bring out the worst in people. There will always be interest in the heir to a fortune. And at a time like this, all concern should be only for Henry. Fortunately he is quite young. If his mother were to relocate with him before others can get involved, no one could question it.”
The decisions to be made overwhelmed her. How would she even implement such a massive undertaking? Hollythorne House had been empty since her father died more than two years prior. There were no servants. She had no carriage of her own. No actual money other than what Mr. Sires would give her. Obstacles assailed her, one right after the other, and the realization of how little power she actually possessed threatened to undo her. For being the wife of one of the most prominent men in the entire city, her hands seemed tied.
“I can put you in touch with Mr. Ernest Greenwood, Hollythorne House’s current steward, and I can also provide you with the money that Roland has allotted you. As for transportation, I can offer you the use of my private carriage.”
She eyed him skeptically. She trusted him, but no one offered help so freely, especially in such a volatile landscape. “That is very generous, Mr. Sires.”
He narrowed his gaze and lowered his voice to a whisper. “One last word of caution. If you do decide to make a move, do not be secretive about it. You do not want to appear to be making a fool of Silas Prior. That would not bode well . . . for anyone.”
“I understand.” She swallowed hard at the warning, and her mind leapt to life with the details of what needed to be done. “If you are in earnest, I will gladly accept your kind offer for the use of your carriage. I see no reason to delay the departure.”
“Good. Just send word and my carriage and the money will be here for you at your bidding.”
“Is it possible to depart in the morning?”
His brows jumped, then he nodded. “Yes. I agree, the sooner you can leave, the better it will be for the both of you. Have courage, my dear.”
She bid him farewell, and after he walked away, her gaze once again fell to Silas, who even now was speaking with the other men in the room. Planning. Working. She would never have him out of her life—not while Henry was under her care. Silas would always be a threat to her, and she dare not let herself think anything else.
Chapter 4
Anthony stooped in the uneven, dim corridor to unlock the door to the chamber he shared with Timmons. The rusted lock clicked and gave way, and Anthony pushed open the shoddy wooden door to the place he called home.
He stepped through, closed the door behind him, tucked the key back into his welt pocket in his linen waistcoat, and dropped his satchel on the table.
The hour was still before noon—when the rest of the world was rising from slumber and preparing to embark on the day. Anthony, however, had been awake all night. His jaw throbbed from the blow he’d taken, and his tired muscles longed for rest. He crossed to the low-ceilinged chamber’s only window and lifted the threadbare curtain, allowing a single stream of sunlight to filter through the dirty glass, giving life to the dust motes balancing in the stale air.
Shouts and clamoring from the street outside mingled with an infant’s crying from the floor beneath him. The constant noise used to irk him, but now those sounds were commonplace. They faded to the background, giving voice to a more menacing sound—the silence in his chamber.
It was one thing to be out of doors during the midnight hours on watch. Often it was quiet, but something always commanded his attention—the wind whipping through the branches, the call of the night birds, the distant chatter of men who frequented public houses, the pound of rain on the cobbles. An empty room such as this—a confined, tight space with no other avenue for thought except self-reflection—was another matter entirely.
He removed the brilliant armband, then shrugged his caped greatcoat from his shoulders. The planked floor groaned in reaction to his every movement, and he paused before he tossed the garment on the bed.
This chamber had been home to both Anthony and Timmons since they returned from the war on the same hospital ship. It was narrow, plain, and boasted little more than two small beds, a table and chairs, a rickety washstand, and two trunks. He required nothing more, and the thought of spending money on better lodgings seemed a waste, when he had to save every farthing he could. He could not be a watchman forever, and he had another life to return to one day—the legacy his uncle had left him.
When he’d come back to England, becoming a thief-taker had been the furthest thing from his mind. Timmons’s father had been a respected constable while he was alive, and Timmons had used his connection to get them positions with Mr. Walstead. That opportunity, coupled with the fact that the horrors of war had impacted Anthony’s view of justice and dulled his sense of fear, made him seem tailor-made for such a role.
He moved to the washbasin, lifted the jug of water, and poured it into the bowl. After washing his face, he assessed his newly acquired bruise in the mottled looking glass above the basin. He ran his hand over the stubble, noting the need for a shave, but then his fingers grazed a scar.
The scar—his permanent reminder of the brutality he’d endured in the war and a physical reminder that life was fleeting. He looked away from his reflection and back down to the water. He didn’t need to see it to know that it ran from the top of his right ear, down his jawline and the side of his neck. But it did not stop there. The piece of shrapnel had cut deeper as it crossed his chest, and his left arm had borne the worst part of the injury. He was fortunate to still have his arm.
He was lucky to still have his life.
It would not do to linger on it. The longer he did, the more pungent the scents became and the more vividly the visions flashed. He defied those memories to take a stronger hold than they already had, for as soon as he laid his head down and found sleep, they would visit again in horrifying detail.
Timmons entered the room, his heavy footfalls and deep voice shattering the silence. “Walstead put out t’ call for watchmen for t’ houses along Lowburn Street. They want a show of force during t’ daylight hours to deter vandals at night. Interested?”
Anthony grabbed a cloth and dried his face. Of course he was in. He was tired, yes, but anything was better than being alone in a room—alone with his thoughts. Alone with his memories. “Sure. And the pay?”
“Not sure. But if it’s t’ folks on Lowburn Street, they usually compensate well.”
“Fine by me. Every bit helps.”
Timmons sneered as he removed his damp coat and hung it up to dry. “Ye and that mill. Can’t imagine why ye would set thoughts on going to t’ moors when life is so fulfilling ’ere. Isn’t that what ye tried to convince me of just this mornin’?”
Anthony ignored the unmasked sarcasm in his friend’s comment. If anyone had told him five years prior that he’d be saving his hard-earned wages to return to Blight Moor to restore his uncle’s mill, he’d have laughed. But his injuries forced him to sell his commission upon returning to England, so his plans of living out his days as a soldier were no longer a possibility. The money from the commission’s sale, his wages, and the mill were all he had to his name.