If the Archangel was indeed the man who’d written that letter and brought Penny—and he suspected many more—to this place, then he was clearly fighting on the side of the right. But if he was the one killing those brothel proprietors, then he was also guilty of murder. No matter how terrible their crimes had been, no matter how m
uch they’d deserved to die, they should’ve done so at the end of a rope after facing a trial and not at the hands of a vengeful citizen.
Will massaged his aching temples. What had previously been crisp black and white was now a blurry gray muddle. It didn’t help that he felt a surge of some unnamed and unpleasant emotion whenever he thought of the connection between Trouvère and the author of that letter. She’d rubbed her wrist when she’d talked of him. Somehow, the man was linked to her scars.
He wanted to know how.
Curiosity demanded answers, but it would have to wait. Right now, he needed to work out what he would tell Gonson. The children were easy—orphans brought in by kindly people. As for the anonymous benefactors, his employer would want to know who was supporting this place. Will decided to again ask Trouvère to tell him whatever she could about the school’s funding, but not today. He didn’t want to press his luck.
That evening as he was preparing to leave, he was surprised to find her at his door, tea tray in hand. “I thought we agreed there was no further need,” he said, unable to help the way his spirits rose.
“We did.”
“Then why the tea? Not that it’s unwelcome, of course,” he added, hastening to pull a chair around for her.
“I thought you might have more questions. If not, then there is no prohibition against friends taking a respite over a plate of fresh crumpets, is there?”
Friends. Is that what we’re becoming? Though her manner was light, he marked the roses in her cheeks. The sight brought a flush of corresponding warmth to his neck—and other places. He couldn’t help wondering if she felt the same pull inside every time they got close to each other. Perhaps there’d been more to her bringing him tea every day than mere gratitude. “None at all,” he answered at last, a smile tugging at his mouth that no amount of willpower could stop.
They talked of the students briefly, and she showed him a letter she’d received from Suzette. Though he already knew the girl was happily settled, he read it anyway. “I’m pleased she’s doing so well.”
“Indeed,” she replied, sipping her tea. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your family. Mrs. Hayton told me you have seven sisters.”
Thus was broached a subject he’d been dreading since coming here. “Only five are still living,” he answered, setting down his cup. “Two died when I was still a child. I’m the youngest of the brood.”
“Mon Dieu,” she murmured. “I’m the oldest of three, all girls. That was hard enough in our tiny house—I cannot imagine eight living together in such close quarters.”
He laughed. “Well, I don’t mind telling you it was cozy.”
“Did you grow up here in London?”
“My parents had a home on the outskirts—or, rather, what used to be the outskirts,” he said carefully. “London has grown by leaps and bounds and has long since swallowed our little hamlet. Were you born in Paris?”
“Oh, no. I was born in a tiny village near Limoges and spent most of my youth there. My family moved to Paris when I was twelve.”
“What brought you to England?”
A crease briefly marred her brow. “My father was a skilled painter of porcelain. We moved to Paris when his work came under the auspices of a wealthy family close to the king. It was good for several years, but then Papa’s patron fell out of favor. Hélène married before the decline. My other sister, Adorée, was taken by a fever along with Papa soon after fortune deserted us. Then it was just me and Maman. We made our way sewing for a little while, but Maman was heartbroken. She succumbed to grief, and then I was alone.”
Behind her simple words, he knew there lived a deep pain. She’d watched most of her family die in hardship. “What of your sister, Hélène? Why are you not with her?”
The hardening of her lips didn’t go unmarked. “She said she had not the means to take in a spinster with no income.” In an instant, all traces of bitterness vanished in favor of an over-bright smile. “So I took what money I had and came to England to seek my fortune.”
“With no plan, no references—by yourself?” he asked, incredulous.
Though she nodded, her smile turned rueful. “When I was a girl, I had heard it said many times that well-mannered, French-speaking young ladies were highly prized as lady’s maids in England. I came expecting to earn a good wage and start life anew.”
It was hard enough to be a man alone in this world, but a woman? And to leave the country of her birth for a foreign land with no safe place to go, too. It was an insane move—a desperate move. “So tell me, how did a lady’s maid get involved in all of this?” he asked, gesturing to their surroundings.
Her hesitation spoke volumes. “I never became a lady’s maid.” She set down the remains of her crumpet. “When I arrived here, I had very little money, and it was quickly taken by those with neither compassion nor scruples.”
Here it comes… It was with the greatest restraint that he kept his attention on her face and off her wrists.
“I won’t bore you with an account of my year spent in poverty,” she said, her manner wry. “Instead, I will tell you of my triumph. When I was at my lowest and had lost all hope, kindness saved me. Someone saw my potential, plucked me from the ruins of my life, and gifted me with this chance to help others. And here I am, trying to repay that kindness by passing it on to others.”
He blinked. Her talent for glossing over details was astounding.
“Do you visit your family very often?” she asked, reclaiming her crumpet and taking a bite.