Page 49 of Anastasia and the Duke
Hannah cast one last, lingering glance at the contents of the safe, before turning her eyes away with a sigh.
For the second time that day, she was about to do the right thing.
Chapter Fourteen
Adams returned to his office within the hour, his ruddy face alight with triumph.
"I've found her," he cried, as he barged into the office. His eyes then fell to the desk and the open bottle of brandy upon it, and he frowned. "You found my liquor stash, I see."
"Add it to my bill," Oliver answered blithely, as he jumped from his seat, "Tell me, tell me what you found."
In a rushed outpouring of words, Adams informed Oliver that, included amongst Pritchard's many ventures, was a boarding house on Henrietta Street, just on the outer periphery of St Giles'.
"They take in some regular guests," Adams continued, "Merchant sailors, travellers and the like, but mixed amongst their regularclientèleare some shady folk, with connections to seditious groups up North."
"Who," Oliver asked, barely able to contain his excitement, "Arethey?"
"A Miss Nancy Browne and a Miss Hannah Smith," Adams answered triumphantly.
Though Oliver had been expecting it, he still felt staggered at having had his suspicions confirmed. Hannah was connected to Sidney Pritchard, that much was obvious, but was his second hunch correct, was she also Anastasia de Bonneval?
"What do you know about Miss Browne?" Oliver pressed, wondering how the other woman fit into the tale.
"Couldn't find out much about her," the investigator answered, striding over to the table to top-up Oliver's glass and pour himself a measure, "Keeps to herself, by all accounts. The few neighbours I found that were willing to talk said she doesn't go out much. One said she suffers from her nerves, the other one thinks her to be two pennies short of a shilling."
"Charming," Oliver replied, lifting his drink to take a deep sip, "And Miss Smith?"
"Hasn't been seen in weeks," Adams stated, a wide grin stretching across his face, "You've found her."
"You'vefound her," Oliver corrected him, before finishing his drink and setting the glass down upon the table, "My thanks, Adams. I shall tell my man of business to reward you handsomely for your efforts. Now, if you will excuse me, I think it prudent that I pay a call on Miss Browne."
"It's number sixty-eight," Adams called after Oliver, as he swept from the room.
Down below, Oliver threw the young lad who had been watching his steed a shilling, before he mounted the saddle and took off at a gallop. As he raced through the streets of London at a breakneck pace, he was cursed and shouted at by dozens of faceless drivers, but he did not slow his speed. He was so close to knowing everything, that he could not waste even one second in his pursuit of the truth.
After what felt like hours, but in actuality was mere minutes, Oliver arrived at Henrietta Street, which was lined with almost identical brown-brick buildings, in various states of disrepair. He passed a mercers, a drapers, and even a very unappealing surgeon's offices, until he finally sighted number sixty-eight. He was glad that Adams had shouted out the number of the boarding-house, for there was not even a plaque upon the wall to announce it.
Oliver dismounted his ride and tied the beast to the railings, before climbing the steps to the front door and delivering a knock so loud, that it dislodged flakes of black paint.
"Just a minute!" he heard a voice call from beyond, followed by the sound of someone unlocking multiple locks and chains.
The door was then opened and a woman of about forty years peered out at him nervously. She wore a mob-cap, drawn low over her eyes, but it did not disguise the purple and black bruise which marred her cheek.
"Miss Nancy Browne?" Oliver asked, and the woman nodded nervously.
"I am Hawkfield," Oliver stated, "I should like to have a word with you, if I may?"
Miss Browne nodded and took a step backwards, ushering for him to follow her. As she made to close the door, she cast a nervous glance up and down the street, as though making certain that no one was watching.
"I'll put the kettle on, your Grace," Miss Browne said, as she scurried down the hall in a manner which put Oliver to mind of a mouse.
He followed her, his eyes taking in everything, as he tried to imagine Hannah in such surroundings. The house was spotlessly clean, if a little tatty. The wallpaper upon the wall in the hallway was so faded that it was impossible to discern what its original pattern had been, and beneath his feet the runner was threadbare.
In the kitchen, Miss Browne placed the kettle atop the stove, before turning back to Oliver with a nervous smile.
"Please do sit down, your Grace," she twittered, as she began to flit about the room gathering cups and saucers, "I'm afraid I don't have any good biscuits to offer you, but I do have some rout-cake. You might chip a tooth, it's that hard, but it's sweet."
"I am fine for rout-cake, thank you, Miss Browne," Oliver answered.
