Page 34 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“More in the nightly work, Mrs. Cartwright. Now, about your husband. I’ve more information. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes.” One way or another, she must get to the bottom of this, even if she didn’t like the results. First the facts. Then, she’d figure out a plan.
Reed’s bandaged hand flattened. “How much are you offering?”
“Money?”
Exasperated, Reed heaved a gusty sigh. “The customary exchange for information quickly, painstakingly, anddiscreetlyobtained is the coin of the realm, unless you’re offering something else of value…”
Viola stiffened at the man’s insinuation.
“I was only mocking you, Mrs. Cartwright. Yes, I expect you to pay me another twenty pounds to tell you where your husband was last seen.”
“Twenty pounds?” Viola gasped. Anger made her fierce. “I have seven pounds, fourteen shilling. It’s everything I could scrape together. That’s money meant to buy gifts for my family, you extortionate pig.” Perhaps the name-calling was beneath her, but a flash of fury had momentarily gotten the best of her.
Reed regarded the leather purse she flung onto his desk for a long moment. “You’ve wealthy family, Mrs. Cartwright. I understand you don’t want to lean on them. That isn’t my concern. I’ve paid to send messages between London and Upper Cotwarren, express. I’ve paid for copies of documents and bribes at the jail to see their records. I’ve left other investigations—payinginvestigations—hanging loose because I have prioritized your case, Mrs. Cartwright. On the expectation of compensation, you understand.”
Suddenly, Viola felt small and weary. She was one of hundreds, thousands of women trapped in unhappy marriages, but Reed was right. At least she had resources to fall back on. Sam wasn’t the only piss-stubborn person in their marriage, she concluded ruefully.
“I regret calling you a pig. I’d say you’re more like a hedgehog.” It wasn’t quite an apology, but coals of frustration over his demand for more money still glowed in her heart even though she knew his reasons for demanding it now.
“How so?” Reed asked.
“Bristling and rough, with a soft underbelly.”
He chuckled. “You’re wrong about the underbelly, Mrs. Cartwright. I’ll tell you what I know if you promise to work on getting more money.”
“Of course. How much do you need, Mr. Reed?”
“Fifty pounds.”
Viola swallowed. It was so much. Perhaps not to these citified people, but few in Upper Cotwarren saw that much money in a year. The miller, perhaps, but then Sam had bilked him too and landed in debtors’ prison for his dishonesty.
“I shall write to my sister. She’ll understand,” Viola whispered.
But would she? Harper and Viola had been close as children. They had still been getting reacquainted as adults when Harper had been vaulted into a new role as countess. As strange as Viola found this luxurious world, for her, it came with few obligations. Harper had been swept into all the duties of an earl’s wife with none of the training. The scandalous way she and Edward had married meant Londoners were watching for her to make a mistake.
Giving her not-quite-widowed-after-all sister money undoubtedly qualified as an irredeemable error of judgment. If London society ever found out about her predicament, they wouldn’t waste a moment in tarring Harper’s name. Which, Sam would make certain of happening, if there was any way to profit from it.
Piers wants to help you.
Yes, and this afternoon had proved why letting him would be a terrible idea. He knew what these people were like. He never spoke of it, but Viola had sensed how he’d suffered at their hands. More than once, she’d heard him called Fever Boy. Which seemed ridiculous. He couldn’t be the only one who’d lost loved ones to infection. Where was their compassion?
Reed shifted his weight. His scarred chair squeaked in protest. “Samuel Cartwright was last seen at a boarding house in St. Giles. For less than eight pounds, though, I’d be a fool to set aside other business and check the veracity of this sighting. I have paying clients to attend to.”
“I understand.”
“Mrs. Cartwright, if I happen to be in the area of London’s slums, and I often am, I shall see what I can find out about his circumstances. But I make no promises.”
“Thank you.” Relief coursed through her, chased by tendrils of fear. Sam was here. In London. Her fragile new life was about to be torn out by the roots. And what of Matthew? She couldn’t let Sam hurt their son. He was sick, he could contaminate the little family she had left.
“I’m sorry I called you a pig,” she blurted out.
Reed gave her a tired scan. Fatigue was etched in his worn face and in the slump of his shoulders, and again, Viola felt small and mean.
“It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve been called today.” The man doffed his hat and held the door, indicating their interview was over.
Viola made it outside into the snow-flecked streets before she realized she hadn’t saved enough money for a cab to get home. Resigned, she began to walk.
