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CHAPTER ONENew Year’s Revelations

EXETER

FEBRUARY 1923

NOW where was that book? I stretched up to the tip of my toes atop the tall rolling ladder along the back wall of the old bookshop—with one small, and particularly daring, black-and-white kitten perched upon my shoulder. James Gregory’s Optica Promota had to be around here somewhere. I’d spent the last half hour perusing our seventeenth-century mathematics shelf in a vain attempt to complete an old baronet’s astronomical collection but had come up empty-handed. The bells of the old cathedral announced the hour. Damn and blast. It was later than I’d realized.

The front window of the bookshop was coated in fog, making it impossible to see the world outside. Not that I had any desire for that sort of nonsense. Not one bit. The world had caused enough trouble for me and so I would stay here with my books, my cats, and copious amounts of gin until this peculiar aching in my chest went away.

In my thirty years of life, I’d seen quite a bit: disgrace, exile from my childhood home in America, a war to end all wars, the loss of my entire family. The last being the most exquisitely awful of all. And yet somehow after everything I’d endured, I could not quite face this newest revelation.

She’s your mother, for the gods’ sakes, my employer, Mr. Owen, had chided this very morning, imploring me to go and find her and learn what my solicitor had discovered. I ignored him as easily as those words emblazoned upon the telegram that I’d received days before—the one currently crumpled in my pocket as I’d not changed clothes in that length of time either.

I’VE NEWS OF THE IMPOSTER AND YOUR MOTHER. AT LEAST I THINK I HAVE. COME TO LONDON AT ONCE. HARI.

Our definitions of at once differed greatly. At first, I’d been buoyed by false hope, and begun to pack, but as I finished the first bag, the reality of the situation settled in my chest. For I, Ruby Vaughn, against all my protestations to the contrary, was a coward. I’d solved multiple murders in the last six months—been shot. Been poisoned. Nearly been killed more times than I could count—but those things paled against whatever truth Hari might have discovered.

For almost a decade, I’d believed my mother dead alongside my father and sister. I’d endured imposters coming and going from my life, like one of those revolving doors in the grand hotels in London. Each one bearing with them a treasonous hope and an even deeper solitude once they departed. This time, however, was different. Roughly two months ago, a new imposter appeared. One who bore information only my mother could have known. And that single moment set off a chain of events leading to this one: with me standing precariously upon a ladder, a cat on one shoulder, a stack of ancient books in my free hand, and ruing the day I received that telegram. For if Hari was correct, and my mother did survive the sinking of the Lusitania, then where had she been all these years? I’d endured her loss and all the terrible things afterward by trusting that my mother had loved me and would never willingly abandon me. But what if I’d been wrong about that? What if she knew what I’d done, who I’d become, and was ashamed of the daughter she’d raised?

And so, rather than go to London, I’d chosen to do nothing at all, pouring myself into the old bookshop I ran alongside Mr. Owen here in Exeter. My eyes blurred with unshed tears. I did not want to believe she had been shamed by me—or the life I’d lived since the war. But it was the only reason I could fathom for her to stay away so long. To not seek me out on her own. She was my mother, for God’s sake, and that had to mean something.

The nameless little kitten mewled on my shoulder—purring loud enough to drown out my thoughts. She butted into my neck, wetly chewing upon my loose curls. Her brother was around here somewhere, likely curled up with Fiachna for the night. My old black cat had brought home two kittens the previous month and the trio made themselves quite at home here in the bookshop. “All right, all right, I can take a hint, little one.” Stifling a yawn beneath my fist, I surrendered to exhaustion and climbed down the ladder as a cheery little bell rang at the front door. Curious for this time of night. Even more so as I had locked the door hours ago.

Stepping out from the storeroom, I spotted Mr. Owen standing at the front desk, bearing a fragrant Cornish pasty upon a chipped plate, courtesy of my housekeeper, Mrs. Penrose. The air took on a redolent scent and my stomach growled in response. I eyed it suspiciously. Never trust an octogenarian Scottish bookseller bringing supper. Particularly that one. With Mr. Owen, his beneficence came with strings attached.

“Peace offering, lass.” The old man must have sensed my suspicion, for he held his hands up, bushy white mustache twitching in amusement.

“I’ve never known your offerings to come without a catch.” The little kitten mewled in agreement. She’d only been a member of this household for a handful of weeks and already had the old man’s number. Best case, I’d be sent off on another adventure to some remote corner of this island. Worst case he’d done something unforgivable. With him, one never knew.

“You wound me, my love.” Mr. Owen had the temerity to look offended and placed his hand playfully upon his heart. Yet there was something there behind his jovial expression. Worry, perhaps? Goodness knew I’d given him plenty to worry about in our nearly five years of acquaintance. The man was the closest thing I had to a father these days—as mine was long dead alongside my mother and sister.

And there it was again … the specter of the imposter and my mother returned. My face fell as Hari’s telegram grew hot as a burning coal in my pocket. The truth was a bitter thing. One I simply refused to deal with at present.

Mr. Owen saw the change in my expression and reached out, taking my hand in his own. “I know you said I shouldn’t meddle in these matters—”

My nostrils flared. Not this again, he was going to try to convince me to speak with my mother. “And you shouldn’t.”

Mr. Owen shifted his stance, revealing the corner of another man behind him. I could make out the line of a well-cut overcoat. The old man had brought reinforcements this time in the shape of Hari Anand. My solicitor. My friend. My own personal Judas.

I tugged my hand back from Mr. Owen and folded my arms tight. “Et tu, Brute?” I shot him a dark look.

Hari glanced up, a book of Romantic poetry in his hand, handsome as ever. Impeccably dressed, wearing a dastar that matched his waistcoat. He hastily returned the book to the shelf and walked over to me, pity written all over his face. A worse sentiment than disapproval.

“I cannot believe you. The two of you conspiring against me.”

“Don’t take it out on the lad, my love. As I haven’t been able to talk sense into you—I thought you’d at least listen to him as you usually do.” He tilted his head in the direction of my solicitor.

Betrayal stung. I took a step backward, bumping into the wooden shop counter behind me. “Well, Hari’s wasted his trip. For if my mother is alive and if she has anything to say to me, then she can bring herself from wherever she’s been hiding and say it to my face.”

Hari’s hazel eyes softened as he took a cautious step in my direction, bypassing a crate of uncategorized books that I’d left in the center of the room to deal with later. “I understand it is a shock.” He paused, studying my every movement, from the twitch at my brow to the slight tremble of my fingers as they gripped the counter hard enough it might snap off in my very hands. “It’s only that I’m not certain she’s able to come to you, old friend. That’s why it’s imperative you must go to her.”

A thousand thoughts raced through my mind at his words. Why couldn’t she? My mother had been impervious. Strong. Impossibly full of life. It was why I’d refused to accept her death upon that ship for far too long. Tears stung my eyes. I shook my head, clinging to my rage as it was a far steadier emotion than the one threatening the edges of my mind.

Mr. Owen pulled a decanter from beneath the counter and blew the dust from an old cup before filling it to the brim with his favorite brandy. He slid it into my hand, folding my trembling fingers around it. “For fortitude, my love.”

I glanced down at our clasped hands. The spots on the back of his, worn and aged skin like a map. A dear map that I loved with all my being—despite the harsh words I’d uttered to him. He wasn’t angry with me. Never that. Mr. Owen and I were just alike. Headstrong and self-righteous, even when wrong. The brandy sloshed in the cup as I drew it to my lips. Fiachna, my great black cat, had also walked over to the bookshop and hopped upon the counter, rubbing against me. Even the cat was concerned.

I took a sip of brandy before breathing out a ragged “Okay…”