The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(31)

Forcing herself to move, Reggie walked the remaining twenty paces until only the busy street stood between her and the address in question.

Raising her hand to her brow once more, she peered at the brick facade. Bricks that surely once gleamed bright crimson had faded to a lackluster coral hue, wearing cracks and breaks that marked the passage of time.

This was what her friend Clara had called their hope for the future?

Disappointment swept through her.

“Get out a me way, ya ginger wench.” That coarse Cockney wrenched a gasp from her, and she jumped back, narrowly missing the speeding hackney.

The pair of horses kicked up the thick puddles as they trotted past, splattering the front of her cloak with grime and unknown waste contained within.

With a curse she shook out her skirts. Bending, she swiped her now muddied bonnet from the edge of the sidewalk.

And then froze.

A lone rook making a morning drink of the puddle paused. He cocked his head, the subtle movement tipping his thin beak sideways. The creature ruffled his raven feathers but remained belligerently standing in the midst of Monmouth Street, staring at Reggie. His unblinking, bluish-black eyes locked with hers.

One’s bad, two’s luck, three’s health, four’s wealth . . .

Reggie trembled and did a frantic search for another rook, but that usually social creature sat solitary in his study of her.

It is an omen . . .

How many times had she teased her father for his unfailing belief in those signs around them? Yet just now she proved to be very much his daughter. For standing outside the decrepit building that was meant to represent her future, there could be no doubt that this was not the dream she’d aspired to.

And for a long moment, she contemplated returning to the Devil’s Den and accepting a safer but emptier future.

Reggie briefly squeezed her eyes closed.

She opened them . . .

Another rook stood beside the lone one who’d so watched her.

Her heart kicked up a beat. Two . . .

Reggie stood and sprinted across the street, skirting several street lads who had the look of thievery in their eyes.

She reached the five limestone steps and paused to admire the striking turquoise double doors. So previously fixated on all that was wrong with the building, she’d failed to note the heart-shaped adornments etched upon both panels; framed by a trim of wood roses, there was a breathtaking beauty to them. A beauty that defied the cracks in the paint and wood along the base of the door.

It is called a turquoise, poppet . . . a stone so powerful it protects against evil and ill health. As long as you wear it, you will be safe . . .

Her throat thickened as she allowed herself to think of him once more—the father who’d loved her.

When her life had crumbled under the treachery of false love, it had been so easy to sell off that gift she’d carried. Until now. For the first time, she yearned for that slight reminder of those she’d left behind.

These double panels . . . were a sign.

Finding the apropos Greenman door knocker, Reggie gripped the handle clenched through his teeth and rapped loudly.

Her back prickled, and tugging the folds of her cloak close, she surveyed her surroundings, doing a search of the bustling streets, grateful when that door at last opened.

A pinch-faced fellow with thick whiskers along his cheeks stared up at Reggie with a tangible disapproval. Nearly five inches or so shorter, the solicitor representing the seller had perfected the art of peering down his bulbous nose at people he’d himself determined were his lessers. “You are late,” he clipped out.

“You came,” Clara whispered, coming forward.

“My apologies,” Reggie demurred.

The solicitor gave her another long look before reluctantly waving her in. “Hmph.”

It took a moment for Reggie’s eyes to adjust. In the spirit of conservation practiced at such meetings, only a handful of sconces had been lit. The candles’ glow, however, cast a faint-enough sheen to illuminate the heavy dust hanging in the air. Fishing out a kerchief, she pressed it to her nose.

Staring over the scrap of fabric, she took in the hall. Dilapidated tables and broken chairs littered the space, and the wood floor had long since lost its shine, having been replaced instead with the remnants of spilled drinks and water stains.

Her heart sank.

So it was to be a one-crow day, then.

“Broken furniture can be fixed,” Clara pointed out, accurately following Reggie’s thoughts.

“Yes,” she concurred. “But it isn’t just broken furniture.” She nudged her chin. “It is an entire establishment that is run-down.”

“Hmph,” Mr. Elliot, the testy man-of-affairs, grunted. “The price is fair.”

The other woman gave her a silencing look.

Reggie had amassed substantial funds through the years, serving Broderick Killoran, but she was not like any of the Killorans, rich in money . . . or any other way. “It’s broken—everything,” she said with a wave of her hand. Her plan with Clara to purchase, restore, and build a music-hall business in the Dials was a venture Broderick wouldn’t have lost a nod of sleep over, but for Reggie there wasn’t an unlimited supply of wealth. Everything was costly.

Clara grunted. “That’s what you’ve said about any place we’ve visited.” She cast Reggie a glance out the side of her eye. “I didn’t believe you’d show up.” There was a reluctant admiration in the other woman’s voice.