The Promise (3 page)

“Are you interested in the piece or not, sir?”

He ignored her question. “It would be more valuable were the portraits included. Enamel miniatures are highly valued by collectors. Would you consider selling them as well?”

“I would not,” Jane said firmly.

“May I?” the clerk asked as he tried to raise the necklace over her head.

Jane stepped back and the locket fell from his hands. “I’d rather not.”

“To provide you with an accurate offer I must first weigh the gold and measure the stones,” he pressed. “Please remove it.”

The atmosphere in the shop suddenly took on a strange tension. Jane could see the wheels turning in his head. From the corner of her eye she observed the guard slowly moving closer. The clerk reached out his hand, palm down, in a calming gesture.

“Please forgive me; that was bumptious. It is a lovely piece and I’m confident my manager will be eager to acquire it. Allow me to summon him. He is experienced enough to determine your locket’s value with a visual assessment alone.” The clerk glanced at the guard and a silent message passed between them. “Please wait here, Miss Gray.”

The clerk walked through a wide hall behind the glass center counter and stopped in front of a well-dressed man she assumed to be the manager. He had been watching her closely from the moment she entered. The men whispered back and forth, furtively glancing at her several times. They seemed agitated. Jane’s anxiety level soared.

She darted a wary glance at the guard. The friendly wink had been replaced with a steely stare. He seemed ready to pounce.

The manager went into a side room, reappearing seconds later with a sheet of paper. He showed it to the clerk who nodded gravely. Both men began to walk toward her with studied nonchalance as if trying not to alarm her.

Every instinct told her to make a break for it. She backed away. The guard took another step toward her just as the manager shouted, “Hans, seize that woman!”

At that moment two elderly ladies entered, stepping in front of Hans. He lurched sideways to avoid a collision. Jane feinted left and ducked past the women, then ran out the open door into traffic. She wove between the crush of pedestrians, produce carts, and horse-drawn carriages, then darted down an alley, heavy footsteps pounding close behind her. Too terrified to look back, she ran for her life, tacking between empty crates and garbage to emerge on the other side of the block. Her bonnet came untied and spiraled into the wind.

Shouts of, “Stop! Thief!” followed her block after block. Her heart hammered painfully and her lungs burned as she gasped for air. Not until she was completely certain she was no longer being followed, did she slow to a walk. On the way back to Sugarmann’s she struggled to calm herself, considering and discarding several possible explanations for what had happened.

As she entered the bakery, Jane forced a smile.

Mrs. East looked up. “You’re finally back,” she observed sourly. “It’s been very busy this morning.”

“I’m sorry. Thank you again for letting me run my little errand,” Jane said. She lifted a canvas apron off a peg and tied it around her waist, hoping Mrs. East wouldn’t notice how badly her hands were trembling. “Where’s Pip?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“Napping. What happened to your bonnet? Was there a wind storm?”

“Pardon?” Jane said.

“A wind storm. Your hair. It looks like a monkey’s tumble.”

“Oh! I s-see,” Jane smoothed her hair. “I’ll cover it with a scarf.”

Jane hid her panic well, but it worked at her frayed nerves all afternoon. Obviously the men believed she had stolen the locket. If she met Hans or the clerk again, she would see the inside of Newgate Prison within the hour. Thieves were hung in London every day.

Had the locket been stolen? If so, how could Jane prove she hadn’t been an accomplice to the crime? Could she be arrested for fencing stolen goods even if she didn’t know the goods were stolen? She wondered if Pip’s mother had taken it to raise the funds to start a new life. The girl had been pregnant, alone and desperate… but had she been desperate enough to steal?

If she went to prison, what would happen to Pip? Ironically, that very same concern had brought about her current disaster. If she had not been trying to secure Pip’s future, she would have let that cursed locket rest beneath her floorboards for another fifteen years.

None of it made sense. The jeweler seemed to recognize the design. Had it been made in that shop? She desperately wished she had someone to turn to for advice. She dared not confide in Mrs. East. They got along well enough, but if the reward was large enough, she’d hand Jane over in a minute.

That night she spent more time than usual telling Pip stories and talking about the day. After Pip fell asleep, Jane lay awake for hours, trying to come up with a plan.

Chapter Three

The library had been turned into command central. Rutledge was half sitting, half leaning on the edge of his desk, surrounded by a dozen officers who had worked on Maura’s case over the years. Three strangers seemed to have the attention of every man in the room.

“Finn, over here,” Rutledge called out as he entered. “It seems a woman tried to fence Maura’s locket at Garrard’s this morning. She claimed her name was Jane Gray.”

“Not a terribly inventive alias.” Finn said. His stomach clenched. Did his own face mirror the look of dread on his brother’s? They both knew what it could mean for the locket to surface so many years after their sister’s disappearance.

“She had dark hair and brown eyes, so it couldn’t have been Maura. This is the security guard, Hans Torkelsen. He tried to apprehend the woman, but she escaped into the crowd.” He turned to an immaculately dressed cit who didn’t look at all out of place in the ducal mansion. “This is Samuel Spilsbury, Garrard’s owner, and his clerk Paul Monroe. We have Mr. Monroe to thank for spotting the locket.” Finn shook hands with each of the men.

“Where is it now?” he asked.

“Still in her possession. She escaped,” Rutledge bit off the words through a clenched jaw. “At first I was discouraged, but upon further reflection it might be fortuitous. As long as she has it, it could lead us to her, and through her we may yet find Maura.”

“Are you entirely certain it was the same locket?” Finn asked.

“Absolutely, my lord,” Samuel responded. “It’s an extravagant piece and the design is unique. Mr. Monroe observed it closely for several minutes. He has no doubt that it was an exact match for the sketch. The portraits were missing, however.”

Rutledge considered this. “It would make sense to remove them. They are valuable, but would easily identify the locket as stolen property. It was brazen to take it to a reputable jeweler, even after all this time.”

“It doesn’t sound like the work of a professional thief,” Finn observed. “Those sketches have been circulating in London for too long. Every burglar, pickpocket, and cutpurse must be aware of them.”

“You may be right. Mr. Torkelsen says the woman didn’t appear nervous until an attempt was made to prevent her from leaving the store, an indication she may not have known the property was stolen. In any case, she’s aware of it now and will go to ground unless something is done to flush her out. We need to turn up the heat; the only question is how.”

“We have always handled this discreetly for Maura’s sake, but it may be time to bring in the media. If we frame the story properly, we’ll have the sympathy of the entire city. Offer a sizable reward and every man, woman, and child in London will help. It will be like hiring an army of investigators.”

“I agree, but we still have to handle it delicately. When Maura comes home she’ll have a hard enough time rebuilding her life without having to live down a public scandal. I’ll send for John Foster at
The Daily News
and Algernon Borthwick at
The Telegraph
. There should be enough time to get something in tomorrow’s paper.” The Duke dashed off two notes that he folded, sealed, and handed to a footman.

Finn wondered if his brother believed his own words when he spoke of Maura coming home to rebuild her life. Long ago Finn had come to the conclusion that she was probably lost forever. She may have been a victim of random violence on the day of the riots, or she could have fallen prey to an unscrupulous man. Maybe she had left with every intention of eloping to Scotland, only to find herself discarded along the way. Finn had many other theories as well, some too terrible to contemplate, but it did no good to dwell on those.

For months after Maura’s disappearance Finn and the Duke had been called to view the lifeless bodies of girls who fit their sister’s description. Some had been fished from the Thames or found beaten to death in dark alleys. Others died giving birth in shelters for unwed mothers where real names were seldom used. To their relief, Maura had not been among them.

Finn had no idea where she had gone or why, but he knew one thing for certain… if Maura were alive, she would have contacted him by now. His sister had loved her family, would never have been so cruel or selfish as to make them worry for this long.

Within an hour, he was sitting in the library with two of London’s leading newspapermen helping weave a net to catch a criminal.

JANE WAS UP AT dawn. She dispatched her duties as usual, with one slight deviation. At the first cry of a newspaper boy, she rushed into the street and traded several pastries for a morning edition. Mrs. East would not have approved, but Jane had bigger worries.

She laid the paper on the counter, expecting to find a brief mention of her escapade buried somewhere on the third or fourth page. She didn’t have to look nearly that far. It was either a slow news day, or the family who owned the locket was very influential. A banner headline across the top of the front page declared, “Lovely Lady Larcenist Fences Long Lost Locket.”

A steel engraving of a woman far prettier and much more shapely than Jane knew herself to be, was depicted running through the street clutching a necklace. She had been rendered with a decidedly nefarious expression on her face, with Hans, several police officers, and the three snarling dogs in hot pursuit. If the situation weren’t so dire, she might have laughed at the overly dramatic illustration. The rest of the article was no laughing matter, however, and her heart sank with every word.

The locket belonged to no less than the rich and powerful Duke of Rutledge.

God’s teeth!
She might as well walk straight to the gallows, slip the noose around her own neck, and jump.

The writer described her in great detail, everything right down to her gown and bonnet. It accurately gave her height, hair, and eye color, time she visited the jeweler, and the direction in which she’d fled. And the
piece de resistance
… they had printed her name, albeit misspelled. Jane wondered how many people had seen her race across Mayfair. She was well known in the neighborhood. There was a very good chance
someone
had recognized the baker from Sugarmann’s running through the streets like a mad woman. How long would it take someone to link her to the incident at Garrard’s?

In a few hours a constable would probably appear to drag her away. Then what would happen to Pip?

She almost screamed in frustration when she read the next paragraph. To make matters completely hopeless, the Duke of Rutledge was offering a five thousand pound reward for information leading to her capture and arrest. The article stated the gold necklace had been stolen five years ago and contained the portraits of the Duke’s maternal grandparents.

Jane stopped breathing.

Rutledge’s
maternal grandparents? Had Pip’s mother been related to the Duke? A sister or cousin perhaps? It made no sense… there was no mention of a missing relative in the article. If she had been related, however, it would bolster Jane’s claim of innocence. What would they do when they learned about Pip’s birth? She tried not to dwell on the possible outcomes.

That was a bridge to cross if and when she must.

Jane finished the article and realized she had only one option if she hoped to avoid prison. She had to plead her case directly to Rutledge. With her mind firmly set, she marched upstairs, awakened Pip and quickly dressed the child in her Sunday best. Jane used a scarf to cover her hair, which had been flatteringly embellished as “a flowing mane of raven locks” in the newspaper article. Her skin had been likened to “alabaster” and her eyes had been described as “large, doe-like orbs.”

Apparently someone at Garrard’s had found her attractive. She remembered the doorman’s wink. It was almost funny. Almost.

She wrapped up the clothes Pip’s mother had been wearing the day they met, took the locket from its hiding place, and slipped it over her head. She stuffed the paperwork for the trust fund into her pinafore then left a note for Mrs. East informing her that she was taking the morning off. Jane realized she might be sacked, but that was far preferable to hanging. She paused in the doorway and looked at the bakery that had been her home for nearly eight years and wondered if she would ever return.

With Pip’s hand grasped firmly in hers, Jane stepped out into London traffic and struck out for Marylebone.

JANE AND PIP STOOD on the limestone steps to Carlisle House and stared up with their mouths agape. The enormous mansion took up an entire block. Due to its classical Greek architecture, it looked more like a public building than a home. The Ministry of Justice, the National Treasury, or some such, Jane thought.

“Why are we here Mama?” Pip tugged on her arm. “Is this Winchester Cathedral?”

“No,” Jane emitted a burst of nervous laughter. “This is someone’s home. The Duke of Rutledge. I must speak with him about an important matter,” Jane smiled down and squeezed her daughter’s hand reassuringly.

“You know a
duke
, Mama?” Pip’s eyes grew big. “He lives here? Just one man all by himself?”

Jane laughed. “I don’t know how many people live here, but there must be many. Butlers and maids and footmen and cooks and gardeners,” she took a deep, theatrical breath, and Pip giggled. “…And valets and grooms and housekeepers and heaven knows who else. An army before you even start to count the family.”

Pip tilted her head and studied the mansion. She seemed to be considering the list of servants with awe.

“Does he have any children for me to play with?”

“I have no idea, Poppet.”

“I hope so.”

Jane wanted to cry, but instead hugged Pip’s shoulder.

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Jane donned her most reassuring smile and together they scaled the steps. The door swung inward before she had a chance to knock. An older gentleman in crisp midnight blue livery looked her up and down. Blue eyes faded by time were set in a kind, wrinkled face bracketed by bushy white sideburns.

“The servant’s entrance is around the side, Miss.” He gestured to his right with a white-gloved hand and began to close the door.

“Excuse me, sir,” Jane set her foot inside the doorframe to keep it from closing.

The servant glared at her presumption. “Please remove your foot.”

“I must see His Grace immediately,” she insisted.

The butler’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

“Please, I… I
must
be allowed to speak to him immediately,” Jane insisted.

“Need I have you forcibly removed?” He glanced over his shoulder and two tall footmen stepped forward.

Undeterred, she pressed her case. “Sir, I have come to speak with His Grace on a matter of great importance.” Jane slipped the locket off her neck and pressed the spring clasp to reveal the portraits she had replaced the night before. She squeezed her hand through the narrow crack in the door and set it in the man’s palm like a calling card.

“Please give this to His Grace. Tell him my name is Jane Gray. I’m certain he’ll wish to speak with me right away,” Jane tried to sound confident, but her voice came out thin and breathy.

The locket got his attention. His gaze grew razor-sharp and he studied her with fresh regard.

The door swung inward.

THERE WAS NOT ANOTHER person on the planet with more intimate knowledge of the Wallace family than Oliver Peckham. He flattered himself that, having spent fifty-three of his sixty-seven years in service to them, he was something more than a butler. Seven years ago they had offered him a generous pension and a cottage by the sea, but he had asked to remain at his post for a little while longer. He was told the job was his for as long as he wanted. When arthritis made climbing the stairs to the second floor painful and poor eyesight bedeviled him, the duke hired an “under-butler,” whatever that was, to assist him.

The Wallace’s joys were his joys. Their sorrows, his sorrows.

Peckham had known Lady Maura from the day she was born at the Rutledge estate in Somerset where the duchess had spent the last months of her confinement. He had watched her grow from a toddler to a precocious child, to a gangly, coltish girl, and finally to a young beauty on the brink of womanhood.

When she went missing, Peckham had worried and grieved with the duchess and her sons in equal measure. As he looked into the face of the child before him, he perceived her identity immediately. She was her mother reborn. Somehow, by some great cosmic miracle, a piece of Maura Wallace had been returned to her family. Peckham instinctively grasped the salvation this child represented. She was the answer to five years of prayer. This small child would heal his broken family, he felt it in his bones.

Joy had returned to Carlisle House.

He thought back to the terrible, dread-filled days that followed Maura’s disappearance. Since then the family had changed in profound and irrevocable ways. Not knowing what happened to her daughter was a constant torment for the duchess. It was human nature to dwell on the unknown, and the duchess tortured herself with dark imaginings and fruitless worry. She believed it would be a betrayal of Maura to accept that she was gone forever, so she clung to hope, even if that hope was far more painful than letting go.