Page 3 of An Honorable Deception
“Miss will suffice. Miss B.”
A cagey one, then. He could understand that, on the one hand. But if she really thought she could hire a PI without her own identity becoming known, she was in for a surprise. “All right, then. Mr. A. How can I help you today, Miss B?”
The woman drew in a deep breath and let it slowly out. “I would like to hire you to find someone.”
He frowned. The last time they’d been hired to find someone, it had been a kidnapped boy, and it had turned challenging in a hurry. “Missing person?”
“I think so, yes. Some have assured me she isn’t ... but sheis.”
“Uh-huh.” That clarified things. Yates leaned back against the wall of the booth, imagining himself a Scottish laird of centuries gone by. “I’d love to say I ken what you mean, Miss B, but a bit more information wouldn’t go awry, aye?”
Another sigh. “All right. It’s myayah, from when I was a girl.”
Yates sat up again, his brows furrowing even though his guest wouldn’t see it. “You grew up in India?”
“I did, yes, until I was twelve. When we came back to England, my childhood ayah opted to travel with us, rather than my parents hiring a stranger for the task. She left us once we reached London and hired on with another family returning to India. I believe at this point she’s made the journey five or six times, round trip.”
Not uncommon, he knew. Families coming from India were happy to hire cheap nannies to keep track of their children on the journey, but rarely were they interested in keeping such unfashionable help while they were in England. And if the women couldn’t find journeys home, they were oftenleft to fend for themselves in London. It had been enough of a problem a decade or two ago that charities had sprung up to house them and manage funding to send them to and from England—the most famous being the Ayahs’ Home.
This was the first he’d heard of a grown child wanting to find her ayah again, though. “And ... you wish to reconnect? After how many years?” He’d have to determine if the woman was even in England, or back in India, or somewhere on a steamer in between.
“It isn’t like that.” Her words came out in a snap, then she sucked in a breath. “Forgive me. My parents ... wouldn’t exactly encourage this search.”
Unmarried then, most likely, if she was worrying about her parents’ opinion and not a husband’s. He hadn’t been willing to accept as much by the “Miss B” bit. “No forgiveness necessary. But if you could answer the question?”
“We’ve kept in touch through letters. And whenever she’s back in London, I’ve managed to visit her. Only this time, when I went to the Ayahs’ Home, she wasn’t there—or so they said. Even though it’s where she said she’d be. I’ve contacted the others, too, and no one reports seeing her. One acquaintance who serves on the Ladies Auxiliary of the Ayahs’ Home said she had information about Samira for me, only to not show up at our luncheon date today. It isn’t exactly something I can take to the police, though, is it?”
“Mm. I see your point.” Scotland Yard rarely wanted to bother with transients from India, especially when all they’d have to go on here was one young lady’s concern. “Aye, then. What can you tell me about her?”
“She’s twenty-seven years old—”
“So young?” He couldn’t keep the surprise from his tone. Even if Miss B was only eighteen, that would have been six years since her first transit, which would have put the nannyin her early-to-mid-twenties when she worked for the B family. Unusual indeed. Most ayahs were middle-aged or older.
“She is only eight years my elder. It was why we were so close.” Defensiveness colored her tone, yes. And something more.
Fear. Genuine, heartbroken fear.
Noted. This wasn’t idle curiosity. This was a young woman seeking one of her dearest friends. He nodded. “Go on.”
“I went to the Ayahs’ Home on Mare Street, in Hackney, when my luncheon date failed to show up today, thinking perhaps she meant to meet me there instead. But when I got there, they—”
The front doors creaked open again—but not just a creak. They banged against the wall, startling Yates off his bench. Doors that size didn’t swing about in a breeze like a bedroom door at the Tower. To hit the wall with such volume, they’d have had to be thrown with considerable force.
Footsteps—at least two sets of them. Heavy. Running.
Lionfeathers. What was going on? He held his breath, hoping that no one would think to look in the old, abandoned confessional if they were searching for someone. If hiding were necessary, this was the best place to do it.
But James was likely in his office, and the parishioner could still be with him. Washein danger? Yates sent a prayer heavenward.
Miss B apparently didn’t work through his same logic. She drew in a startled breath, and he saw her lurch toward her door.
No!He didn’t dare scream it, though he willed it at her as loudly as he could and reached toward the screen separating them.
Too late. She was already out, already screaming, “You!”
Yates clenched his teeth and his hands, trying to peerthrough the grate without giving himself away. He couldn’t burst out to see what was going on—he had no disguise on, and no one could know that Mr. A of the Imposters was in fact Lord Yates Fairfax, ninth Earl Fairfax. Anonymity was the key to their entire success.
Which mattered for exactly three more seconds. And then the unthinkable sounded—gunshots, there in James’s church.
