If I Fall (19 page)

Luckily.

For Jackson Fletcher, ignorance was bliss, for if he knew everything that had transpired that night, he would have been very worried for what was to come. Oh, he was aware enough of most of it, and he cannot be blame for missing two material points, as he had been so rushed and fevered in the jumble of happenings. But—back in the alleyway, as busy as he had been with the various thugs he was landing on and scaring into fleeing, he perhaps should have taken better notice of the woman.

For the first thing he missed was that when she embraced him, her hands went with a decidedly practiced ease, in search of his coat pockets. And finding one, she drew out its contents. But she did not know what to make of it.

After all, what kind of man went around with a pocket full of black feathers? Her Billy—when she told him the story—would think that part a particularly rum bit.

And the second thing Jack missed, in his haste to climb back up to the second floor, was that the woman was not nearly as fast a runner as he had surmised. That she had even turned back once, and could have sworn that she saw, through the fog—the man who saved her hide flying up into the night.

Billy would find that bit of the story funny, too.

I
T
was all Sarah could do to not tear into the packet that was burning a hole in her reticule the minute she walked back into her room that evening. As it was, she had decided to forgo the parties after the opera, managing to claim a headache and earn pouts of dismay from John—Jean … er, the Comte—and the silent Mr. Ashin Pha. And surprisingly, her mother. But as much as Sarah would have welcomed the distraction of society and entertainment, there was no possible way she was going to be able to go through an entire evening without finding out what was in that packet!

Indeed, it was amazing that she had made it through the second half of the opera.

After the mysterious man in an oversized cloak jumped out the window and disappeared, Sarah stood in shock for what felt like an eternity but was likely little more than a moment. There is no way he had … disappeared! Just out into the night!

Suddenly, the world rushed back to her, as Sarah remembered where she was. The muffled sounds of the people in the theatre filled the air from beyond the cupboard door. And she realized she had to get back to her seat.

But not before she did some investigating.

Sarah ducked her head out of the cupboard door and edged her way out from behind the curtain. The ranks of people were thinning, anticipation of the next act starting had them stopping conversation and returning to their seats. Neatly, she edged her way to the main stairs and lightly treaded down them, heading to the opera’s main entrance. She really had no notion of where she was heading, or what she was looking for, but…

But nothing! She had been accosted in a cupboard by an unknown man, and something needed to be done about it! So when Sarah reached the front entrance, she found a house footman and took him aside.

“Do you know that there are men in cupboards accosting women?” she said indignantly, before the servant could speak.

“M—miss?” The usher replied looking somewhat surprised. He was younger than Sarah, and obviously not the man in charge.

“Men. Masked men. Accosting women in cupboards. Did you let a masked man into the theatre tonight? Dark cloak. Scratchy moustache?”

If possible, the footman looked even more surprised. “I don’t believe so, miss. Are you perhaps speaking about an actor? On stage?”

“No! I’m speaking about a man in a cupboard! Who went out the window…” Sarah began, but then sighed. “And you must think I’m ridiculous.”

“No, miss. Er … you saw this man go out a window?” The footman began, to which Sarah nodded vigorously. “So, you were in the cupboard with him?”

Her head shot up, a blush creeping up over her face, as her mind went back mere minutes, to the fact that yes, she was in a cupboard with the man, and to just what they had ended up doing in there.

It seemed as though her blush was enough of an answer for the young footman, because he barely hid his smirk before he continued. “Would you like me to ask the house steward, miss? To see if we should be searching for this masked man?”

And with sudden clarity, Sarah could see the headlines in tomorrow’s gossip sheets: “The Girl Who Lost a Duke Loses
Masked Lover in Cupboard.” Which is exactly how the story would go around, lover or no, and as such, Sarah decided it was time for a tactical retreat.

“Do you know, I think you are right. It must have been something on stage!” She trilled gaily. “I believe I’ve enjoyed too much Madeira tonight.”

The bell rang, indicating that the next act was about to begin. And just in time, too, she thought.

“Very good miss,” the footman said, his smirk in full show. “Would you like me to see you back to your seat, miss?”

“Oh no, I’m certain I can find it,” she said, raising her hand in a little wave.

“Well, would you like me to take that refuse from you, miss?” the footman pressed, his eyes on her hand in the air.

Sarah looked down at the small packet, still clutched in her hand. In the candlelight of the main hall, she could see that the oilcloth was smudged and frayed, and the twine holding it together practically black with dirt. She almost dropped it, certain it was destroying her gloves. But of course, she didn’t.

“No, thank you,” she murmured, and hurried her way back up the stairs, slipping into her box just as the curtain began to rise.

“There you are,” the Comte said, rising as she entered. “We had begun to despair of you.”

“Not at all,” Sarah replied. “I—ah—ran into your sister on the way back; she despairs of ever seeing
you
again.” She smiled, focusing her fractured attention on the man in front of her.

The Comte laughed. “Unfortunately the next act has begun,” he whispered as they took their seats. “Or should I say, fortunately, else I should have to abandon you and attend to my sister’s calls.”

“No need.” She’d smiled shakily. “Your sister and Mrs. Hill have gone home with a headache.”

Sarah had nestled herself into her seat as the Comte expressed the correct amount of worry over his sister, which gave her time enough to let her heartbeat slow down. She almost didn’t notice when Bridget took her eyes off the performance long enough to whisper, “And did you lose Jack in your travels, as well as time?”

Sarah’s mind snapped back to the present. Jack! She had completely forgotten about him! She scanned the Forrester box, and then, her eyes roamed the dark to the other side of the theatre boxes and landed on Jack’s uniform.

“He’s with the Devlins. Right where I left him,” she replied nonchalantly. And then as her sister’s gaze shot across the theatre, her eyebrows up in surprise, Sarah settled back into her seat and focused her eyes on the trials and tribulations of Figaro, surreptitiously sliding the oilcloth packet from her hand into her reticule. The mystery would have to wait.

Until now.

As soon as her bedroom door closed behind her, Sarah moved quickly to her white cherub covered dressing table and began tearing at the buttons of her gloves, the knot of her reticule.

“Would you like some help with that, Miss Sarah?”

Sarah’s head came up so fast that she was surprised she didn’t break her neck. Her maid, Molly, stood by the wardrobe, having been waiting for her mistress, ready to assist in the preparations for bed.

“What?” Sarah said sharply. Then, her tone and panic softening, “Oh, no thank you Molly, I can manage on my own.”

Molly’s eyebrow went up. “If you’ll forgive me, Miss Sarah, you cannot reach the buttons on that dress by yourself.”

Oh hell, Sarah thought, sighing. She would have to let Molly undress her, and then brush out her hair, and then send for tea, all delaying her ability to open this blooming packet!

But, Molly was right. She couldn’t manage the buttons by herself.

Thus, she submitted herself to Molly’s ministrations and chatter. Which before had always been soothingly pleasant, but now, it was interminable! But Sarah hummed at the right spots, and replied that the opera was very nice when asked about the evening—all in all giving Molly just enough information to keep her from suspecting anything was amiss.

Finally, finally, Sarah was in her nightdress, her hair pin free and combed through.

“Thank you Molly. I believe I’ll read a little before bed. You may retire.”

Molly curtsied before she left, and Sarah was at last alone with her reticule.

She tore it open, delicately sewn jet beads being loosed from their threads in the process and scattering across the floor. But it mattered little, as Sarah withdrew the packet and undid its string.

The contents of the packet were few, she laid them out on her dresser table one by one as she withdrew them.

A map, creased and yellowing along its folds, ink bleeding through the back. She could not decipher what area it was meant to depict, and there were no places named upon it.

What Sarah originally took for a timepiece turned out to be a compass—broken, with some mathematical markings scratched on the back.

And a black feather, similar to the one she had found in the hallway of the theatre.

A black feather, that led her to the man in the cupboard.

Could it be … ?

Sarah’s mind flew back in time, to days spent playing pirates and secretly pouring over the newspapers that her father sneaked to her. To stories of glories won on the battlefields of Europe.

But, those stories, they were all myths, were they not?

Well, her mind reasoned, if they were myths, why were they in the newspaper?

But … if it was true, she thought, awe tingling along her spine, didn’t he disappear? After the wars?

Maybe he’s back
. Her mind teased her.

She sat down at her dressing table with a thud.

A black feather. A masked man.

The Blue Raven
.

But it was utterly ridiculous! If he was back, why on earth would he have pulled her into that cupboard …
why would he have kissed her like that
… why would he have entrusted this packet to her care?

“For heaven’s sake, things like this simply do not happen to ordinary people!” she told herself in the cherubic mirror’s reflection. “Do
not
get carried away.”

Then again—she was hardly ordinary Sarah Forrester anymore.

“
Everyone knows your name.”

Sarah looked down at the items spread out across her dressing table. And suddenly she felt that most curious sensation of being pulled toward them, as if they held their own gravity, and held the promise of adventure.

Maybe she should let herself get involved.

Get carried away.

Because if he
was
the Blue Raven, and he did come back for his packet, she would see him again.

And this time, she thought, with a quickening heartbeat and a growing smile, she would be ready for him.

W
HILE
Sarah Forrester sat contemplating the packet on her dressing table, attempting to decipher its meaning and unaware of the game being played out around her, a spare few blocks from Upper Grosvenor Street, another game was afoot.

Namely, chess.

“Checkmate!” cried Lord Fieldstone’s son, Reginald, who, at the age of seventeen, was nearly as tall as his father was wide, which was a goodly height indeed. Scheduled to start at Cambridge in the fall, he was a smart lad with a sweet tooth, which, when he was no longer the energetic teenager that sat across from his father, would lend him to the same general rotund shape as said parent.

Lord Fieldstone took a moment to study the board as his son popped a petit four (far too late in the day for such tea cakes, but Cook was indulgent to master Reggie and Lord Fieldstone alike) into his mouth.

“I’ll be damned,” Lord Fieldstone murmured to himself. He traced the movements on the board—Reggie had indeed bested him. At
chess
.

It had been a long time since anyone had bested him at chess. And never his son.

“I don’t know whether to be livid or proud,” he said, finally looking up, catching his son’s grin.

“I’d go with the latter,” Reggie said as he stood, stretching his frame. “After all, you taught me.”

“True enough,” Lord Fieldstone conceded, laying down his king and then extending his hand to his son. “Well played.”

Reggie lit up like he did as a child confronted with a tray of sweets, and then, stifling any youthful enthusiasm, gravely shook his father’s hand.

“Well, it’s late, and I’m meeting the Burtons at the park tomorrow—we’re to have a shooting match, and then Vincent wants to haunt Tattersall’s. Again,” Reggie said, popping one last cake into his mouth.

“Again?” Lord Fieldstone replied mildly. “Hasn’t young Mr. Burton decided on a mount yet?”

“He has, but for Vincent, it’s less a matter of deciding on a horse than it is convincing Mr. Burton of the expense.”

“Ah,” Lord Fieldstone grunted. “Well, have a good time. Just don’t come home trying to convince me of the same.”