Spellbreaker

The young officer hesitated a moment, perhaps unsure what he was allowed to share, but he gave in easily enough. “Cuthbert Ogden has fled his home, but a neighbor claims to have seen him headed north.”

Elsie’s chest tightened. The last vestiges of hope dissipated, making her feel like a dried corn husk. She added Ogden’s name to the list carved into her heart. He was yet another person who’d left her behind. Another father who’d abandoned her. Maybe he’d always planned to, once Elsie’s usefulness ran dry.

Elsie rubbed her wrist. “Why would he head toward London? If I were a fugitive”—she very much did not like how that sounded—“I wouldn’t go into the crowds. I’d run away from them.”

“He has the cover of darkness,” Bacchus offered. “He can get lost in the throng.”

Elsie bit down on the knuckle of her index finger hard enough to leave prints. Pulling it free, she asked, “Would you ask after the maid? Emmeline Pratt? Make sure she’s all right?”

“We do have priorities, miss. Any staff will be seen to.” He tilted his hat toward her and continued on his way toward the front entrance, perhaps to report to someone outside. Elsie watched him go, her stomach cramped.

After several seconds, Bacchus asked, “Are you hungry? You’re welcome to stay here tonight, until we sort this out.”

“I doubt I’d be able to sleep.” Though she’d gotten precious little of it lately. It suddenly struck her that the policeman had said a neighbor had seen Ogden leave home. He’d taken off before the police had arrived. Why? “How would Ogden even know to flee?” she asked. “I sent no word ahead, and I know Abel Nash didn’t, either.” She paced at the end of the stairs. “They shouldn’t have too much trouble catching him. He doesn’t own any horses. You can’t get a cab at night in Brookley unless you order it ahead of time. But there’s no possible way he’d have known to do that—”

If things ever do get bad, we’ll steal away, you, Emmeline, and I. Ride up to the Thames, maybe even the St. Katharine Docks, and take a discreet boat out to the channel. How’s your French?

She froze.

“Elsie? What’s—”

“He’s going to the docks. Of course.” She spun toward him. “Bacchus, I think I know where Ogden is going.” It was strange that he should have told her, and in such detail, yet there’d been a certain look on his face as he said it. He’d been in earnest. He’d considered an eventual escape and planned it in advance. “We have to stop him! With all these opuses . . . he’s powerful, and if he flees . . .”

Bacchus’s face darkened. He considered only a moment. “We have to tell the police.”

This time, Elsie agreed with him. She loved Ogden, but . . . “Yes, tell them. If they leave now . . .” But would a carriage be fast enough to catch up? How much of a head start did Ogden have?

Bacchus rubbed his jaw. “How well can you ride?”

Elsie paused. “I . . . I know how to stay on the saddle, at least.”

“Good enough. The police will take the main roads; we’ll ride the back routes.” He offered her his hand.

She took it.

There were many docks that lined the River Thames, but if Elsie knew how Ogden thought—and despite the secrets he’d kept, she thought she did—he’d aim for a smaller, more discreet boat.

She could be completely wrong. And if she was, the outcome would be the same as if she’d taken Bacchus up on his offer of food and rest. But if she was right, that would change things. Yet she couldn’t think of what she’d possibly say to him when, if, she saw him again. Her chest hurt at the mere thought.

The ride was hard. Elsie had traveled on horseback before, but she’d never taken lessons. The Duke of Kent’s thoroughbreds were lean and amazingly fast, which Elsie might have marveled at were she riding for pleasure at a slow, serene pace.

As it was, she clutched the reins with white knuckles, her skirt flapping immodestly behind her, because there was no way in hell she was riding this thing sidesaddle. Fortunately, holding on for dear life was the only thing really required of her; the animal was well trained and followed Bacchus’s mount unquestioningly, its nose nearly touching the first’s whipping tail.

The beasts were tired by the time they neared the pier. Bacchus slowed, and Elsie quickly adjusted herself for as much modesty as she could manage, though it was hardly one’s first concern when chasing a traitorous murderer. Her heart panged again at the thought. Ogden . . . She never would have guessed it to be him.

Even now, she struggled to believe it.

A gaping loneliness yawned inside her, but she couldn’t dwell on that now.

They trotted by a hospital, and the large warehouses of the pier came into sight, each six stories high and built of sturdy yellow brick. She noted two dockworkers by a gaslight up ahead.