A Rip Through Time(48)

He hunkers down against the drizzles and picks up his pace. “I believed you when you said you were interested in my work. You only wanted information you could pass on to your friends.”

Goddamn it, Catriona. Just when I think you couldn’t stoop any lower, you need to prove me wrong, contrary wench that you are. So that’s why she flirted with Findlay. Not for his trinkets. Not for the hope of a wedding band. For information she could sell.

Wait.

How angry was he?

Angry enough to ambush her in an alley?

I say, carefully, “I am sorry to push this. I truly have lost my memories. That attack…” I shiver. “It was nearly the end of me.”

As I speak, I watch his face for even a flicker of guilt. Nothing passes behind his eyes except a spark of hard anger.

“Yes,” he says. “It was. When I heard you had been hurt, I silently vowed that I would bring your attacker to justice myself. I started asking questions, poking about the Grassmarket, and what do I hear? How you were selling my information the very night you were attacked.”

So Findlay didn’t know about Catriona’s betrayal until after the attack. No wonder he’s so angry. He strode in, determined to bring her assailant to justice … only to discover his sweet maiden had betrayed him. That she had been in the act of betraying him when she was assaulted.

Catriona had been attacked while selling police information.

That’s a solid clue. I know she was in a black-market pub. Now I know why.

“You have nothing to say to that, do you?” Findlay says.

“I—I am not certain how to respond, beyond apologizing with all sincerity. I have wronged many people including you. I am sorry.” I meet his gaze. “Very, truly sorry.”

He glances away and says abruptly, “Let’s get this over with.”



* * *



The address leads to a town house sandwiched into a row of them. Several have ROOM TO LET signs. This one has a sign in the window politely declaring it MRS. TROWBRIDGE’S ROOMING HOUSE FOR YOUNG GENTLEMEN.

When McCreadie said Archie Evans lived in a house with other young men, I pictured the modern arrangement, where a bunch of guys rent a place together. Which is silly in Victorian times. If there isn’t a woman in residence, they’ll starve to death, dying in a bed that hasn’t had its sheets changed in a year. Okay, yes, I’m sure there are self-sufficient Victorian bachelors, but I suspect far too many would be like Gray, setting the kitchen aflame when he tries to make coffee. Someone has always done that for them. The solution, naturally, is a boardinghouse, where the proprietress may bridge that inconvenient gap between leaving Mommy and snagging a wife.

I climb the steps and, before I knock, I open the box in my arms to reveal the meat pies within. Then I rap smartly and wait. When no one answers, I rap again.

There’s a male shout, a period-appropriate version of “Someone answer the damned door!” Boots clomp, and the door flies open to reveal a young man a year or two younger than Catriona. He’s dressed in rumpled clothing with no necktie, which in this world is like answering the door shirtless. He looks from me to the pies and back again. Then he smirks.

“Did someone order a tart?” he shouts into the house.

“Excuse me?” I say.

He blinks.

“Did you just call me a tart?” I say.

His mouth works, and his gaze flies to the pies. “I meant the pastries.”

“Of course you did.”

Another young man appears behind the first and slaps him on the shoulder. “Ignore this lout. He’s already nipping the brandy. I’m Henry, by the way.”

This young man wears a tie and looks moderately less rumpled. There’s still a glitter in his eyes that I know well. He’s seen an opening, positioning himself as my savior, and I’m supposed to swoon in appreciation.

“I heard the news about Archie,” I say. “I wanted to say how sorry I am. May I step in? Presuming Mrs. Trowbridge is at home and would find it appropriate.”

“She’s here somewhere.” Henry winks. “She tends to hide when we’re home from classes.”

He ushers me through a dreary hallway and waves toward an open doorway. Through it, half a dozen young men lounge about. Two are arm-wrestling while another two egg them on and share a bottle. A fifth is stretched out on the floor with a textbook, and the guy who answered the door has gone back to reading something that is definitely not a textbook, given the cover art of a very buxom lady in her underthings.

It’s a Victorian frat house.

When I walk in, all six turn to look at me. All six mentally undress me, and the one reading the porn doesn’t even bother to hide the cover. In fact, he lifts it to make sure I see it. Yep, definitely a frat house.

“Well, well, what have we here,” says one of the drinkers, getting unsteadily to his feet. “Did Thomas say something about tarts? Please tell me your wares are for sale, miss. Cheap, I hope. I am a poor student after all.”

Henry raises a hand. “None of that. The young woman is here to pay her respects. She has brought us pies.”

I half curtsy. “I am so sorry to hear of Archie’s passing. I know you are all in mourning, but I did wish to bring these pies.”

I step farther into the room, arranging my features in the appropriate look of sorrow. “I cannot believe he is gone. And in such a grisly fashion.”