William Gordon stepped into the library, his helmet under his arm. He was in full dress uniform. So was the young major accompanying him.
The major bowed smartly. “Lord Innesford.”
Gordie, though, came forward with his arm outstretched. “Williams, you’re looking old.”
“It is the thought of yet another season which makes me look that way,” Cian told him.
Gordie grinned. “I’ve told you before you should attend the parties I do—no stuffy protocol and high society rules.”
“I know someone who would like a party of that kind,” Cian admitted. “Alas, I am a responsible man these days.”
The young major looked from his senior officer to Cian with growing amazement at the quick back and forth. Gordie waved him forward.
“Lord Innesford, may I present to you Major Joshua Etienne Seymour, newly appointed to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”
“Major Seymour,” Cian acknowledged.
Gordie said, “I’m sorry to drop by without an appointment, only I have some good news I thought you would like to hear sooner, rather than later.”
“Oh?” Cian said.
“I just got word. The public lists won’t be out for weeks yet. Your brother is being promoted to Captain.”
Cian laughed. “That is good news! I haven’t had a letter from him in weeks. He is clearly thriving in Australia.”
“Very much so. His commander there is impressed with him. Says he has drive beyond endurance, which I don’t find at all surprising, as Neil is a Williams.” Gordie winked.
Cian clapped his shoulder. “You must come into the drawing room and tell everyone. They’re almost all family.”
“Yes, I saw the gathering from the front hall,” Gordie said. “Is that little Lisa Grace in the wing chair? She has grown up.”
“Yes, and far too fast,” Cian admitted. “She is the youngest of our family and the only woman still to marry…if she marries at all. She is deeply involved in her art. Come and tell your news.”
He took the two officers into the drawing room and moved around the room, introducing them. Cian knew almost everyone there. Catrin was curled up in the corner of the sofa, by Lisa Grace, as usual. Blanche and Emma sat on either side of Peter, their elder brother. Sharla and Wakefield were in attendance, too, which pleased Cian.
Blanche was chatting with Peter in French when they reached them. She spent increasingly more of her time using French with whomever could understand her, now she knew who her father was.
They both looked up as Cian stopped before them. “Blanche, Peter, Emma, do you remember Brigadier William Gordon, Neil’s previous commanding officer?”
“Indeed, I do,” Peter said, in his deep voice, getting to his feet. He shook Gordie’s hand.
“And Major Joshua Etienne Seymour,” Cian added. “My cousins, Miss Blanche Bonnay, Miss Emma Wardell and Peter Wardell.”
Major Seymour bowed stiffly.
“Brigadier Gordon has brought good news,” Cian added. “Neil is to be promoted to captain.”
Peter’s smile was small and warm. “Good for Neil,” he said.
“And you brought the news to us personally, Major?” Blanche asked Seymour. “How kind of you.”
Seymour’s cheeks turned pink. His gaze shifted to Gordie, then back to Blanche, who smiled up at him with her clear blue eyes and pointed chin. “Thank you, Miss Blanche,” he said finally.
“Your middle name is Etienne, Major Seymour?” Emma asked.
“Yes, Miss Emma.”
Emma’s gaze slid to Blanche. “How interesting,” she said, with a small smile.
Peter smiled, too.
Blanche’s brow lifted. “You are French, Major Seymour?”
Seymour looked crestfallen. “English, I am afraid, Miss Blanche. My mother was French, though.”
“She was?” Blanche’s smile was radiant. “Mais c’est merveilleux!”
“Je suis content que ça te plaise, Miss Blanche.”
Blanche’s face glowed as she studied the major.
Gordie rolled his eyes. “Not at all sure what that means.”
Cian took his arm and guided him toward Lisa Grace’s chair, for Gordie to tell her the good news about Neil. It wasn’t until they had reached Sharla and Wakefield, sitting together by the fireplace, when Cian realized Major Seymour had remained where he was and was still speaking softly to Blanche.
Then Travers handed him a hastily scratched note from James Gainford begging for him to come at once. Cian instantly forgot everything else, including Neil’s good news.
At first, Eleanore simply assumed she had misplaced the book. She did that sometimes—especially if her attention was pulled sharply away by something else. However, it seemed odd that she would forget to put the book away later. Particularly that book.
She rang the bell for her maid, Smithers, before she remembered Smithers was at home with an illness. Smithers was one of the new style servants who lived in her own rooms and rode upon trains and buses to report for duty each morning, instead of sensibly living in the house where they served.
The maid who answered the bell was one of the newly promoted kitchen staff, who looked nervous and wiped her hands down her starched apron. Eleanore couldn’t remember her name. Names often slipped her mind since the storm.
“I’m sorry to pull you away from your duties,” Eleanore told her. “I seem to have left my book somewhere in the house and now I can’t find it. I wanted to ask Smithers where she put it.”
“Smithers is home sick, my Lady,” the maid replied. “I can help you look for it.”
“I’ve turned my dressing table inside out already,” Eleanore told her. “Fresh eyes might find it, though. It could be in the drawing room, too. I hope someone hasn’t put it away in the library—I’ll never find it there.” There were two levels to the library, and thousands of books. It would take days to check every book.
“Let’s start with your room, my Lady,” the maid said. “What is the name of the book?”
“Perhaps we should start with your name, first,” Eleanore replied. “It has slipped my mind.”
“Polley, my Lady.”
“Thank you, Polley. The book is Lady Audley’s Secret by Miss Mary Elizabeth Braddon.”
Polley’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard of that one, my Lady.” She blushed.
“Most of the world has heard of it,” Eleanore assured her. “A brown cover with gold and black on the spine. Please find it for me. I want it back.”
“Yes, my Lady,” Polley murmured, moving over to the dressing table.
It only took fifteen minutes to determine the book was not anywhere in her bedroom. Eleanore squeezed the edges of the upholstered stool she sat upon. “Please check the drawing room and the morning room…all the rooms downstairs.”
“All of them, my Lady?” Polley said, her eyes widening. “Even the conservatory?”
“Especially the conservatory,” Eleanore said, for she spent a great deal of time there.
Polley’s face was stiff as she nodded. “Yes, my Lady.” She moved to the door with steps which seemed ridiculously slow to Eleanore’s mind.
Eleanore stared at the door Polley closed behind her, as the tightness in her chest increased, making it hard to breathe. Where had she left the book? She couldn’t remember the last time she had thumbed through the pages, although she wouldn’t just leave the book out somewhere where others would find it. Not that book.
Why couldn’t she remember the last time she had looked at it? Had it been so long ago? Her memory could play tricks on her. She was well aware of that. Especially memories from before, which were unreliable at best. They came and went according to their own schedule.
The tension was unbearable. Eleanore got to her feet and almost ran down the stairs. “Tennyson! Tennyson!”
The gray-haired butler magically appeared as he always did. “Yes, Lady Eleanore?”
“I need everyone in the back hall to come and
help you find my book, Tennyson. It is very important. I mislaid it and now I can’t find it and Polley on her own will take days to search the house. We must search every inch, Tennyson. Every single inch!”
Tennyson tilted his head. “A book, my Lady?”
“Yes, my book! I must have it back. Please call everyone—they must come at once.”
“What on earth is all the racket about?” James said from the door to his private salon. He moved over to where Tennyson was still standing.
“Lady Eleanore requested the staff help her find her missing book,” Tennyson said, his voice bereft of any emotion.
“It isn’t any book,” Eleanore told James. “It is a particular book and I want it back. It’s missing and it must be somewhere in the house. Someone must have put it in the wrong place, James. Everyone must search the house. Now.”
James frowned. “For a book?”
“Yes! My book is gone. I want it back. Tennyson, go now. I want everyone here this instant. Go!”
Tennyson looked at James.
James nodded. Tennyson turned and trudged to the staff door.
“Hurry, Tennyson!”
The butler’s steps did not increase.
Eleanore turned to James. “Tell him to hurry!”
James took her hand. “We’ll find the book,” he assured her. “If it is in the house, it will be found. Only, you must relax while we do it.”
“I am perfectly relaxed!” she shot back. “I just want my book back. I’ve had the book for years, James. It isn’t right that someone would move it from where I left it…” She looked at him, horror building in her. “What do you mean when you say if it is in the house? Has someone taken it somewhere else?”
James’ grip increased. “Come and sit in the drawing room, Eleanore. I’ll have tea brought and…”
She wrenched her hand out of his. “No, they must look for the book, not make tea. Don’t you understand, James? I want the book back!”
From the back hall, Eleanore could hear many feet moving on the boards. The staff had been stirred.
Tennyson came through the staff door with the footmen and maids and kitchen staff behind him. He spoke quietly, sending them upstairs, into different sections of the front of the house, and even down into the cellar.
Coleman came rattling down the stairs from the upper floor. He paused three steps from the bottom, his hand on the banister. “Good lord, what is going on?” he demanded, as staff streamed past him.
“Eleanore has misplaced a book. We’re looking for it.”
“The entire household?” Coleman asked.
“Yes, everyone,” James said flatly.
Coleman’s gaze fell on Eleanore. He shook his head. “I came down to see about afternoon tea. Tennyson, be a good chap and hook back a couple of the kitchen staff, hmm?”
“No!” Eleanore cried, as her belly cramped. “They must find the book first.”
Coleman stepped down onto the front hall tiles and crossed to where she stood. “You don’t need everyone,” he said reasonably.
“Yes, I do. I want it found.”
“It’s just a silly book, Eleanore. The world does not have to stop while you recover your diversions.”
Eleanore gripped her elbows, shivering. “It is not a diversion! You don’t understand! I’ve had the book for years and years. I must have it back. Someone has moved it from where I left it and I must find it again. Now. At once.”
Coleman took a step backward, surprise skittering over his worn features.
James took her arm. “Eleanore, come with me,” he said, his voice soft.
“No, I must wait,” Eleanore told him.
“You can wait in the drawing room. Come along. I won’t call for tea or take the staff away from the search, but neither can you stand in the front hall screaming at them to go faster. Let them search. Come.”
She let him pull her toward the drawing room, deep reluctance making her steps slow. If she left her position in the front hall, the staff might slow to the same speed Polley had moved and Tennyson had used, too. They wouldn’t be thorough. They might miss things.
James’ pressure on her hand tugged her into the drawing room, despite her reluctance. “Will you sit, or would you rather remain standing?” he asked her.
“Standing,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her stomach. Had she been laced too tightly this morning? Was that the reason for this tension in her middle?
She moved over to the window, then changed her mind. Knowing the weather would not help her find the book. Instead, she moved toward the fireplace to look on the mantle shelf. It clearly contained nothing but the usual candles and tapers and match boxes.
Eleanore turned, looking for another place to search. James was already lifting the cushions on the sofas and armchairs, so she moved back toward the window. Walking helped, she realized. The pressure in her chest and belly eased a little. So she continued walking in a tight circle, from window to hearth, to sofa and back.
Coleman came into the room, poured a hefty glass of port and threw himself into an armchair with a snort of frustration. He drank the port moodily.
Eleanore ignored him. He didn’t understand. How could he?
The house echoed with steps and the opening and closing of doors and cupboards and drawers. Still, Tennyson did not appear with the book in his hand.
Her pace increased.
Sometime later—she had no idea how much time had passed, for it seemed like years and years while she waited for the book to be found—Cian walked into the drawing room.
“Eleanore,” he said softly.
She hurried to him. Just seeing him sent a bolt of relief through her. Cian would fix this, as he did all things. Her relief was so great tears gathered, making her eyes ache. Her throat closed. “Oh, Cian!” she whispered, unable to speak any louder. She threw her arms around him, her trembling increasing.
“Wonderful,” Coleman muttered. “Williams is here.”
His sarcasm reminded Eleanore that James and Coleman were both in the drawing room, too. She didn’t remove her arms from around Cian’s neck, though, because it felt so good.
Cian held her against him, his arm comforting. “Tell me,” he coaxed.
“My book…I can’t find my book.” She drew in a shuddering breath and gave him the details. The name of the book, where she normally kept it—in the left-hand drawer of her dressing table—and that it was now missing and her useless attempts to find it.
“Everyone is searching for it, including rifling through the spines on the shelves in the library,” James added. “It has been forty minutes. I don’t think the book is in the house.”
Cian lifted her chin. “Do you ever take it out of the house?”
She shook her head. “No! I don’t take it out of my room…although I must have.” She wiped her cheeks.
“Your maid, Smithers. Did you ask her?” Cian said.
“She’s at home, ill,” James supplied.
“She is?” Cian sounded surprised. “That is…curious.” He eased Eleanore’s hold on him. “Go and find a shawl or a jacket, Eleanore.”
“Where are you going?” James asked.
“To ask Smithers where she put the book,” Cian said, sounding as if it was the obvious and natural thing to do.
Chapter Six
Eleanore’s heart leapt. She ran up the stairs, lifting her hems with both hands, her boots rattling on the polished steps. She burst into her room, breathing hard. The paisley shawl was flung over a panel of the modesty screen. She pulled it down and hurried back downstairs.
When she got there, Cian was waiting at the front door, listening to Tennyson.
“…boarding house in Islington, number 15, Gaskin Street.”
Cian nodded. “Thank you. Ready, Eleanore?”
She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. “Yes.”
Cian rested his hand on James’ shoulder. “We’ll sort this out.”
James nodded.
Tennyson opened the door for them and Cian swept her out to where a cab waited for them, the door open.
Most of the tension in her middle had eased by the time the cab started forward at a satisfyingly fast clip. Eleanore sat back, able to relax and let out the first full breath she had taken since she realized the book was missing.
Cian watched her. She gave him a small smile. “Thank you for this.”
His gaze was steady. “Are you recovered enough to think now, Eleanore?”
She considered. “Yes, I believe so.” She grimaced. “I suppose this seems as incomprehensible to you as it does to James and Coleman.”
“On the contrary. I know exactly why you are so upset.”
“You do?” she said, startled…and a little wary. How could he know?
“You and I both know how your memory fades and returns. You remember putting the book back in the drawer and now it isn’t there. It means you’ve lost memories and you hate that more than anything else.”
She drew in a calming breath. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” she murmured. “Although now you have said it, I must agree with you. I presumed someone else moved it and didn’t tell me.”
“As Smithers is the most likely person to have moved the book, we will find out soon enough if that is what happened,” Cian replied. He took out his pocket watch and glanced at it.
“I pulled you away from something, didn’t I?” Eleanore said.
“My little sister is having an at-home today, which I am more than happy to miss,” Cian replied. “I check the time only because I want to ensure we return you home before sunset.”
“James won’t mind if I come home after dark,” she assured him.
“Your neighbors might notice.”
“You brought me home after midnight, a few days ago,” she pointed out.
“After midnight, nosy neighbors are usually in bed and snoring,” Cian said. “You should care more about your reputation, Eleanore.”
“My family care enough about my reputation that I have no need to bother,” Eleanore replied.
“Does your uncle always drink so heavily in the afternoon, by the way?” Cian asked.
“Coleman? Oh, he was annoyed by the fuss over the book,” Eleanore said. She recalled the tall glass of port he had been drinking. “Now you are involved, I am sure he will drink even more.”
Rules of Engagement Page 5
