Where? To Juniper Down, perhaps. The Halls had kicked her out before, when she was merely another mouth to feed, but she was a capable woman now, and she could work crops and clean a fireplace. Emmeline as well. Or they could go far away, to Liverpool or the like, and get a job in service. They wouldn’t have a reference from Ogden, but times were changing. Maybe they wouldn’t need one.
There was also Bacchus. Unless the duke had passed while she was away, he might still be in Kent. Perhaps, if things got ugly, she could steal away to Barbados—
Stop thinking like a fictional character. She switched her valise to her other hand. She had her savings, and Emmeline would have something, and Elsie had already mentally listed anything she might be able to sell. They’d get by, one way or another—
A flash of yellow caught her eye, and Elsie paused right there in the street, earning a curse from a factory worker as he ran into her.
Nash.
The way was crowded despite the evening hour, but Elsie was sure it was him. His usual smile was nowhere to be seen, his face tight and serious. Perhaps he was innocent of any wrongdoing, but the way Emmeline had always felt so cowed in his presence bit at Elsie. And so, when he turned the corner, Elsie found herself picking up her skirts and hurrying after him, taking one turn and then another when she saw the bright flash of his hair disappearing down a side road. She pardoned herself countless times as she took off after him, accidentally swinging her valise into passersby or nudging them with her shoulders. The throng thinned, and soon she was following Nash much more covertly, though she felt she stuck out like a whale in a bathtub with her luggage.
Finally, the man turned into some downtrodden flats in desperate need of repair. Third door, two-story. Elsie dipped around the side, stowing her valise out of sight. Should she confront him head-on? Act like she was in town on some sort of business, and Ogden had told her where to meet him? Should she be stealthy and sneak up behind him? Perhaps ask the neighbor if she might come in and press her ear to the wall? That wouldn’t be strange at all—
She deliberated for several minutes before Nash made the decision for her. He re-emerged with a bag over his shoulder, his strides more purposeful now. He took off down the road quickly.
Elsie, coming around the building, eyed his door.
Then she snuck around back. She used her hatpin to unlock his window, and lifted it.
This was utterly the least elegant thing she’d ever done.
When Elsie dropped into the narrow, filthy kitchen beyond, her skirts toppled over her head, and if Nash had any roommates, they’d certainly gotten a good view of her knickers. Fortunately, the flat appeared to be empty once she righted herself. Empty and dark. And dank.
Something about the atmosphere raised gooseflesh on Elsie’s arms. She proceeded quietly, though the floorboards creaked like an old woman’s jaw. This was most certainly the dwelling of an unrefined bachelor. The furniture was sparse, belongings few, and yet the place looked untidy. Mold grew in one of the corners. A half-eaten plate of something sat on a nearby chair. It had to be at least two days old.
Elsie eyed the thin stairs leading to the second floor. After ensuring the front door was locked, she carefully ascended them.
There was only a single bedroom up top. A narrow bed, a window that had never been washed, a side table that looked to be used as a desk, a narrow wardrobe without doors, and a chest. Elsie shifted to the wardrobe, looking inside. Nothing except clothes. There was a single drawer, but it was empty. Just her luck—she really was a criminal now. Best Bacchus never hear of it . . . not that it mattered. She couldn’t add him to the tangle of her thoughts, not now, or she’d douse the entire flat in a new rain of tears.
Focus. She crept to the chest, and a familiar shimmer danced on its lid.
“Hello,” she whispered, crouching before it. No lock, but a spell that fused the lid to the base. A lock Nash likely undid with an enchanted key. A lock that was unpickable.
Except to her.
Grasping the ends of the simple rune, she pulled them apart, and the spell puffed into the air like face powder. She lifted the lid.
Her stomach sank.
It was full of firearms. Enchanted weapons. Lockpicks, cudgels, a few things she couldn’t identify. Touching one of the blunt rods, Elsie spied a physical spell. Parts of the rune were familiar to her, but she wasn’t quite sure . . .
She swallowed. If she had to guess, it was a lightning rod. Not one used to diffuse a storm, but to bottle it. Viscount Byron’s demise instantly came to mind.
Was this Nash’s true job? He was not a delivery boy, but an . . . an . . .
Assassin.
Elsie practically leapt from the chest, and the lid smacked loudly down. Pulse racing, legs desperate to flee, Elsie turned for the stairs—
—but in her peripheral vision, she spied a familiar parchment on the side table. It was thick, gray. Cowls.
Her fear flared into anger. How dare he be a part of it, too. How many people did she dance for?
Three strides were all it took to cross the room. She recognized the writing on the letter. It matched every other letter she’d ever gotten from the “Cowls.” Now that she knew, it did look like Ogden’s—if he were trying to disguise his hand. The flourish on the T . . . something about it was painfully familiar.
Again at Seven Oaks. Disregard the heirloom opus and go for the Master. He’s too much of a distraction.
A chill rushed through Elsie’s body.
Seven Oaks was the Duke of Kent’s estate. And the only master there was . . .
The Cowls’ next target was Bacchus Kelsey. The duke must have owned another’s opus. That had been the first target. But now . . .
“Oh God,” she muttered, dropping the letter. “Oh God, oh God.”
Nash had been in a hurry. Night was falling. Perhaps he was heading to Kent even now, as Elsie rifled through his things.
Not Bacchus. Not Bacchus.
She flew down the stairs and unbolted the door, too anxious to care if she was seen. But she made it only a few steps before turning back. She’d forgotten her valise and didn’t want to leave anything connecting her to Nash. Snatching it, she hurried to a busy street and nearly got herself run over trying to flag down a carriage that had no intention of stopping. But she stepped right in front of the next cab, forcing the driver to stop or run her over.
“Are you mad?” The man had long gray sideburns poking from beneath his hat, and his two black horses stamped nervously.
“Where are you going?” Elsie did sound mad, but she didn’t care. She even grabbed the reins so the driver could not leave her.
The man sputtered. “What’s it to you? I’ve passengers heading for the train.”
“They’re close enough! Let them out here and take me to Seven Oaks. I’ll pay you three times your asking price.”
He paused, considering.
“Now, man!” Elsie cried.
The driver jumped from his seat, and though his passengers had likely heard the entire exchange, opened their door and said, “Way’s too crowded, but the station’s just ahead! Out you go!” He grabbed their luggage and practically chucked it onto the cobblestone. The passengers—two women and a man—gawked, and one of the women complained in an accent Elsie couldn’t place. But to her relief, they got out, and she got in.
“As fast as you can go,” she pleaded, pulling her gloves off her sweating hands. “Please. It is a matter of life and death.”
“Duel?” the driver guessed, but he didn’t wait for an answer. Returning to his seat, he whipped his horses forward.