Chapter 25

 

 

 

Oliver felt restless. The stitches were taken out this morning, and Doctor Drew stated the infection and fever had passed and that his recovery was remarkable. Thank God he was young and fit enough to bounce back from the injury swiftly.

But much had been left unresolved. 

What to do about Bryan. What to do about Danaher.

And more importantly—Claudia.

He tapped the wrapped parcel sitting on his desk. He had bought Claudia leather-bound editions of The Picture of Dorian Gray and a Sherlock Holmes novel, The Sign of Four. Lady Ainsworth mentioned the fictional detective to Claudia. Claudia told him about stopping at Mitchell’s place, meeting Lady Ainsworth, and how much she liked her and promised a visit soon.

Claudia lamented about not having any books or time to read. Oliver should send a note, but what should he say? Should he pour his heart out? The message should be short and concise, giving her something to contemplate without encroaching on her time. Perhaps he shouldn’t have it delivered, for sending a gift could smack of trying to buy her affection—which is not his intent. Frustrated, he pushed the books away as Rett strode into the room.

“What is wrong, Cousin? Woman troubles?” Rett teased.

Oliver snarled in response. “Yes. And I will not be discussing it. To change the subject. I have an idea.”

Rett plopped into the seat before his desk. “What?”

“The two of us? We go into Notting Dale.”

Rett’s eyes widened. “Has the fever cooked your brain? What if we run into Bryan, or worse, Danaher?”

“I contemplated us stumbling into Notting Dale as drunken swells, but I soon set that aside. Especially after Claudia said that Danaher would question any well-to-do person who crosses into The Piggeries. She mentioned to Danaher that she was following someone for a wealthy client. I do not wish to come face-to-face with Danaher. Not yet. And we could run into Bryan, as you say.”

“Very well. But more importantly, why do you propose this?”

Oliver sat forward, clasping his hands on the desk. “Why? Bryan is in danger whenever he steps into The Piggeries. Danaher will question him if he hasn’t already. The miserable bastard will no doubt compile a list and start methodically checking each name to find Claudia because he believes she will lead him to The Sentinel.”

“Then it was wise for her to stay at Watford’s,” Rett observed.

Perhaps. But it didn’t make the ache in his heart hurt any less by her absence. “Sooner or later, Danaher will have to be dealt with.”

“And that is for the police. You know this.”

“Yes. But Danaher must also pay for his treatment of Claudia—in the past, and most especially in the present.”

Rett shook his head. “You are out for revenge. How bloodthirsty of you. I never thought you had such an overt, violent side, but I was mistaken. It is why you became a vigilante, isn’t it? Anger at the injustice in the world. Or, more specifically, here in London.”

Oliver frowned at Rett’s description, for he went out of his way to avoid violence. Or did he? No, not really. He had been involved in plenty of scuffles since donning his vigilante disguise. “You have to admit the city and the world at large would be a better place without Danaher. Come now, I am not suggesting murder. You know me better than that. I want us to go into Notting Dale disguised as working-class blokes to get the lay of the land. You heard Mitchell when he was here yesterday. Danaher’s men were released, and Inspector Stanhope told Mitchell to stay out of Notting Dale.”

“For the time being. Again, I reiterate. This is a police problem.” Rett folded his arms in defiance. “Mitchell said they will be dealing with it—and soon.”

“Yes, but when? We cannot wait. I cannot sit here and do nothing when Bryan and Claudia are involved.”

 

 

Two hours later, in complete disguise, Oliver and Rett made their way toward Notting Dale. They had taken a hansom cab as far as a few streets away and would walk the rest. They had stopped at a pub, ordered cheap gin, then spilled it all over each other. Oliver wore a fake bushy mustache, and Rett wore a long-haired blond wig under his peaked cap. They wore gloves because their smooth hands would be a dead giveaway about not being working-class men out for a lark. Rett carried a giant pickaxe, not only for protection but also as a prop. Oliver had a claw hammer tucked into his coat.

Their fabrication? A fancy town house near the Notting Hill-Notting Dale border was undergoing a renovation to turn it into small flats. Oliver and Rett would pretend to be laborers on their way home, stopping to imbibe along the way. As they came upon the border of the new park area, the cousins halted.

“Look there,” Rett whispered. “Men guarding the entryway into The Piggeries. No doubt the ones who were released. There are some even in the next alley over. Do you think they will question everyone who crosses the street?”

“Yes. Claudia said Danaher is thorough. I know we knocked at Bryan’s flat, and no one answered, but even if we see them here, Bryan will not recognize us, especially after we rubbed dirt on our faces,” Oliver replied sotto voce.

“I still say this is madness.”

Oliver smiled. “But you are here.”

“It appears I have a sense of adventure after all. If allowed in, we go to the pub, order a drink, then circle about and leave, correct?”

“Aye, Tommy boy,” Oliver replied, mimicking a working-class accent.

“Not bad, Alfie, old sock,” Rett replied in an even better rendition of the accent. “We’d best crack on afore I’m skint like.”

“You are really taking to this, aren’t you?” Oliver whispered.

Rett chucked as they crossed the street, staggering a bit to give the impression they were half in their cups.

“Hold up, you two blighters,” one of the men called out. “What’s with the weapon?”

“On our way ’ome from work, over yonder. Laborin’ at one o’ those toff ’ouses. We be needin’ a drink,” Oliver said, ending on a hiccup. 

“Goin’ to the Black Moon for an ale or three,” Rett nodded. “Let us through, yeah? What’s all the to-do?” 

“Never you mind,” answered the second man, who looked Oliver and Rett over thoroughly. “Go have your drinks, then leave. No wanderin’ around.”

Oliver gave a drunken salute. “Aye, Cap’n. We be as quiet as mice.”

Rett snickered loudly. Then sobered. He leaned in toward the two men. “Aye, don’t want to rile Danaher, yeah? He still be the boss hereabouts?”

Oliver froze. What in hell was Rett doing?

The tall man’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be mentioning his name again, you follow me? Or we’ll be using that pickaxe to dig your grave.”

Rett snorted. “Steady on, mate. No need to go all argy-bargied on us. We’re not complete eejits. A few drinks and out. Ta!” Rett grabbed Oliver’s arm and pulled him forward as they staggered down the street.

“Look back, are they watching us?” Rett whispered.

Oliver turned and gave a silly wave to the men. “Oh, yes,” he replied quietly. “Watching our every move. Continue down this street and take the first right.”

Once they rounded the corner, Oliver halted and faced his cousin. “Why mention Danaher?”

“To see their reaction. The fact that they threatened harm shows the situation is dire. Rooting out that bastard will be next to impossible. Again, I say that it’s best left to the police. Miss Ellingford has made her official complaint. Now it is up to police to follow through.”

Yes, Rett was correct. This place was locked down tight. But he would pass on the information about where the sentries were located to Mitchell.

They continued onward. It wasn’t easy to see as the sun had all but set, and hardly any street lamps were lit. They were about to cross the cobblestones to the pub when the door burst open, and Shinwell, Tolwood, Bryan, and one other man stumbled out, loudly laughing and generally acting like complete—what working-class word fit—plonkers? Pillocks? Prats? Cretins? Imbeciles? Morons. That was the word. It fits them to a tee.

They crossed the street, passing a bottle of cheap gin back and forth, walking by Oliver and Rett without giving them a second look. Rett stuck his long pickaxe low to the ground, and Shinwell tripped over it, sprawling to the dirty cobbles.

The other men burst out laughing, and judging by Shinwell’s look; he was livid.

“Oh, sorry, me lordship, sir,” Oliver said, making a pretense of trying to assist. He purposely stepped on Shinwell’s hand, causing the man to yelp in pain. Then Oliver reached for the lapels of Shinwell’s expensive wool coat and started to bring him to his feet, dragging him toward a large muddy puddle. Then Oliver released him, and Shinwell tumbled facedown into the putrid water. “Sorry again, me lord. ’ard to see in the bloody dark. Lemme ’elp—”

The men laughed harder. “Be quiet, you cretins!” Shinwell shouted angrily at his companions as he tried to stand. They silenced. Then he looked toward Oliver. “You drunken oaf! Don’t touch me again with your greasy hands, or I will have you flayed alive!”

Rett took Oliver’s arm and led him away. Shinwell was still yelling as they stepped into the dimly lit pub.

“Well done,” Rett said. “Do you think he will come after you?”

Oliver shook his head. “No. He is too drunk and too humiliated. My manhandling of him was not gentlemanly and reeks of school-age shenanigans, but I know this much. The sooner we tear Bryan out of that man’s clutches, the better.”

And Oliver felt all this would come to a head sooner than anyone believed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Gentlemen, we leave you to your brandy and cigars, that is, if any of you even smoke cigars,” Olivia smiled.

“Not usually,” Gideon replied, giving his wife a wink. “But we might tonight.”

Olivia stood, and the men immediately jumped to their feet. It had been a lovely meal of crown roast of pork, baked salmon, and all the accompanying side dishes of whipped potatoes and the like. Claudia especially loved the desert, a trifle with whipped cream, custard, fresh raspberries, and blackberries. She had fretted most of last night about this dinner, but it had gone better than she hoped.

The ladies followed Olivia down the hall to the sitting room, where a tea tray with biscuits and small frosted cakes awaited.

Gideon’s Aunt Mirella slipped her arm through Claudia’s as they headed toward the settee. “I am so glad you are strengthening family ties with Gideon and Olivia, even though they are not blood ones. We all need people around us who care. And I would very much like for you to think of me as your aunt and call me so.”

Gideon’s aunt spoke to something Claudia was beginning to realize. Regardless of someone’s independence and dogged determination to remain aloof and removed from complicated emotions, ‘we all need people around us who care.’ 

Claudia wanted that, after all. 

She had it with her mother and, when she passed, acknowledged she would never experience it again. But she found refuge with her ladies in the East End and now with the Galway Agency ladies, The Rakes, along with Gideon and Olivia, taking her into the protective, trusting circle of love and family.

Claudia patted the older woman’s hand. “Of course, Aunt Mirella.”

“Well done,” Mirella beamed. “Olivia and Gideon will be so pleased. You all deserve happiness.”

Yes, blast it; Claudia deserved happiness. And if she could accept it within these groups, there was no reason she couldn’t take that final step toward Oliver Wollstonecraft.

A footman entered the room as they were taking their seats. “A parcel has arrived for you, Miss Ellingford. Shall I bring it in?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Once seated, Claudia placed her teacup on the table before her. The footman laid the parcel next to it. “It came with a card, miss.” The footman bowed slightly and departed.

“Who is it from, Claudia?” Olivia called out.

“I am not sure.” She broke the wax seal and flipped open the paper.

 

 

My dearest Claudia,

 

You have destroyed me for any other woman. You have captured my heart and soul and are the very air I breathe. Our bond is profound and fundamental. I want to hold you close and share everything, including laughter and tears. These emotions are overwhelming. Believe me, I know. But if you search your heart, you may discover that you feel the same. I could write pages about how you fill my heart, but I will say three words encapsulating it all.

I love you.

I am in utter misery without you.

 

With the deepest and most steadfast love,

Oliver

 

 

Tears filled her eyes at the heartfelt words. Claudia reread it, and her heart soared. The joy tearing through her was powerful enough to topple down the last of her reserves.

He loves me. 

Setting aside the note, she grabbed the heavy parcel and tore the paper off, tossing it aside. It was two beautiful leather-bound books from two authors she had longed to read, Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle. Oliver had remembered her mentioning it. With a gasping sob, Claudia grasped the note and stood suddenly, her heart banging against her ribcage.

I love him.

Claudia had the irresistible urge to tell Oliver that exact thing this very minute. The declaration could not be delayed. Just like his note to her could not wait.

Olivia came to her side. “What is it?”

“I must go to him,” she whispered fiercely. “Can you call the carriage for me?”

“To Oliver?”

Claudia held the note to her heart and nodded.

“Then you shall. William!”

The footman entered the room. “Your Grace?”

“Call the carriage to the front entrance for Miss Ellingford, William. At once, if you please.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Olivia clasped Claudia’s free hand and squeezed it gently. “Tell him what is in your heart, my dear. Hold nothing back.”

Claudia gave Olivia an affectionate kiss on the cheek. She would be forever indebted to Olivia and Gideon for generously opening their home and lives to her, but most of all for sharing their pasts and showing her that regardless of catastrophe and tribulation, a person can open their hearts to love.

Excited and smiling, Claudia dashed into the hall, and William stood with her cloak, ready to lay it across her shoulders. They were off once William assisted her into the carriage and the Hill Street address given to the driver.

Claudia reread the note. Sighing, she tucked it into her cloak pocket as she anxiously watched out the window as the horses’ hooves clattered on the cobblestones. What seemed like forever, they arrived in front of the white brick and marble town house. Without waiting for assistance, Claudia tossed her cloak aside, rushed to the door, and banged the brass knocker.

Dalton opened the door. “Miss Ellingford.”

“Is his lordship in?” she asked breathlessly.

“Why no, miss. His lordship went for a walk. You are welcome to come in and wait.”

Claudia’s heart crashed to her toes in disappointment. 

Dalton must have seen her distress, for he pointed toward the end of the street. “His lordship often perambulates about Berkley Square, Miss Ellingford. I am certain you will find him there. He’s been going for walks there the last few nights since he was well enough to do so.”

Claudia stared in the direction Dalton indicated. She could see the square, brightly illuminated by the street lights and the moon above. “Thank you, Dalton. I will find him.” 

It was a good thing it was mild tonight for late October. Lifting her gold gown, she rushed down the steps and called up to the coachman. “Stay here, Murphy. I won’t be a minute.”

And with that, she was off down the street as swiftly as her slippered feet could take her. Pins fell out of her hair, causing her upswept style to loosen, but Claudia hardly cared. All that mattered was finding Oliver.

The park was quiet, except for a slight breeze through the remaining large golden leaves of the London plane trees along the perimeter of the main path. Claudia could hear water trickling and discovered a fountain of a nymph holding a vase. Turning about, she spotted a stone gazebo lit from within, no doubt from gas lamps. 

A figure emerged from the shadows, heading toward her. It was a man with his coat slung over his shoulder. There was no mistaking those broad shoulders. His head was down, and his dark hair tousled from the breeze. The man was Oliver. Claudia knew in an instant.

“Oliver!” she cried.

His head snapped up, and their gazes met. Dropping his coat, he ran to her, slipping his arm about her shoulder and pulling her close. Their cheeks touched, and they stood together, reveling in the intimacy. Claudia sighed contentedly, resting her arm against his torso. His free hand stroked the bare skin of her arm.

“Claudia, my Claudia,” he whispered. “My love.”

Claudia knew. Then and there.

She had found her home.