Portrait of Peril by Laura Joh Rowland

Author:Laura Joh Rowland
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

CHAPTER 17

Two hours later, when I arrive at home, I’m still burning with anger at John Cullen. I wish I’d picked up my heavy ale glass and bashed his face, the consequences be damned.

I find Mick lying on the chaise longue in the parlor, and after I tell him about my clash with Mr. Cullen, I say, “Barrett was right—I shouldn’t be so quick to go on investigations by myself. I should have asked him to come with me. He could have taken Mr. Cullen to the police station and made him confess that my mother told him she killed Ellen Casey.”

“But you couldn’t’ve known who the guy were,” Mick points out. “You couldn’t’ve known he had a personal stake in protectin’ Lucas.”

“True.” I sink onto the sofa, my anger at myself soothed a little. But my premature plans for celebrating my father’s freedom have burst like a soap bubble, and I think of him hiding at the Gladstone Arms, afraid that his additional day spent in London will increase his risk of getting arrested. “I’ll just have to find some other way to exonerate my father.”

“Don’t worry; you will,” Mick says.

I’m encouraged by his confidence in my abilities and luck, thankful for his companionship. “Any word on Hugh?”

Mick sadly shakes his head. “It’s like he dropped off the face o’ the earth. Fitzmorris is still out lookin’.”

We gaze at each other, sharing a terrible thought: what if he never comes back?

The bell on the front door jangles. “Maybe that’s him, and he lost his key,” Mick says. We run downstairs. Mick unlocks and flings open the door. Outside stands a man wearing a beige mackintosh and black derby, his coat collar turned up and his hat brim shading his eyes so that all I clearly see of his face is his dark moustache and beard.

“I’m sorry; the studio is closed,” I say, disappointed because he’s not Hugh.

“Sarah Bain?” he says. “Mick O’Reilly?”

“Who’s askin’?” Mick says, leery because our notoriety has resulted in strangers showing up at our door, eager for a gawk at us.

“I heard you’re looking for Lord Hugh Staunton.” His accent is crisp, posh.

My hope resurges. “Have you seen him recently?”

“No.” Something in his tone—regret or shame?—tells me that he and Hugh were once lovers. “But I know a place where he might be.”

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