Free My Surrender by Connie Brockway Page B

nearly overpowered her. Tipping with drunken disregard for symmetry, the rookery buildings loomed over her, sprouting larger overhead like dark seeping mushrooms, the windows boarded over to avoid the taxes on them, rackety stairs leading to the mean little apartments above. Far below bands of silent, bellicose youths slouched in the doors of subterranean taverns and exhausted-looking men trudged past vacant-eyed women cradling earthenware jugs and listless, raggedy children.
    Charlotte looked about for some signpost. There was none. No indication that she was in the London she knew at all. She spied a woman sitting on the top step leading down to yet another public house, a half-naked toddler perched on her knee sucking his thumb.
    “I’m looking for Sparrow Lane. Number Twelve,” she said. “Can you tell me where it is?”
    The woman’s gaze fell on the tan calfskin half boots Charlotte’s cloak could not hide. “Fer tuppence.”
    “Here’s a farthing.”
    The woman’s hand shot up, snagging the coin. “There.” She jerked her head back over her shoulder. “Standing right in front of it, ye be.”
    “Thank you.” Charlotte climbed the steps to the indicated door, looking up at the tilting rooflines. Were the messenger pigeons Toussaint used to communicate with Father Tarkin in Scotland up there?
    She rapped sharply on the door. She did not have to wait long. The door swung open and a hard-looking man stood before her. “Miss Nash. I am so grateful that you have come. Please.” He stepped aside.
    She ducked her head under the low lintel emerging into a windowless room lit by a single lantern. Inside, it was stiflingly hot and dark, the single window having been boarded up. Still, she was greatly relieved to see that it was more tolerable than the outside of the building suggested. True, the floor rolled beneath her feet and the walls bore several large cracks but someone had recently scrubbed it well, for the unmistakable scent of lye stung her eyes and filled her nose.
    “Won’t you be seated?” Toussaint said, a hint of French accent in his voice.
    Charlotte shrugged the simple cloak from her shoulders and sat down on the edge of the chair, studying the soldier-monk who’d summoned her. When she’d met him some months ago her first impression was that he was older than he looked. His brown hair was only lightly touched with gray at the temples and his face, though weathered, possessed a firm jaw and strong throat.
    Her second impression had been that he would make a most uncomfortable sort of monk. She could almost feel the hum of purpose driving him. He moved with staccato precision, as though only the greatest of efforts kept his movements in check. Even his hands, at his sides, closed and opened like the mouth of a beached fish. She was certain he was unaware of the spastic motion. But it wasn’t only this ill-contained energy. Though his mouth wore a smile, the keen eyes boring into her were merciless. His quick assessing gaze stopped abruptly at her modest neckline.
    “Is that…could that be one of the yellow roses from St. Bride’s?” Disapproval invested his voice. “One of those that the boys brought your family?”
    “Yes,” she answered. She’d forgotten she’d pinned it to her bodice this morning. “I suppose you think that dreadfully sentimental?”
    “Sentiment can destroy a person. Or a cause. Be careful.” His pensive expression faded. “Thank you for coming. The news regarding Mrs. Mulgrew is most distressing. Most alarming.
    “This tragedy may well hold far-reaching repercussions. Ones we may not be able to counter or offset. We cannot afford to lose that letter,” he said in a hollow voice. “Tell me the extent of her injuries. Tell me if Mrs. Mulgrew might recover sufficiently to go north at some later date.”
    He sounded desperate.
    “I am afraid I cannot do that. There is no chance she will recover sufficiently to go forth with the plan as proposed.”
    He