by Amy Corwin
Gaunt nodded. “There is a shopkeeper in the area. I spoke to him and to his wife—Mr. and Mrs. Cavell. Like her husband, she reported that there is a child living rough nearby. Mrs. Cavell said that she has often found things—food, mostly—missing from their house. She has only caught a few glimpses, however, and she thought—again like her husband—that the urchin was most likely a boy and a young one, at that.”
“Why? On what evidence does she base the child’s age?”
“Just general dimensions.” Gaunt shrugged, his long fingers touching the base of the crystal and brass stand at the edge of the blotter. “She indicated the child was small and thin, and often wore an old cap pulled down over his forehead that shadowed his eyes and upper face.”
“I see.” A boy. Of course, Cynthia could be dressing as a boy to avoid the disadvantage of her sex, and the child reported was small and thin. His niece was small for her age and might certainly be thin by now, although she hadn’t been particularly slender before she disappeared. “What about her—his—clothing?”
“Well, the cap, of course.”
“What color?”
Gaunt frowned at him, his intelligent gaze searching his face. “Blue—dark blue, she indicated.”
“Oh.” Marcus shook his head. Dark blue—not the pure mid-tone blue Cynthia preferred. “What about the rest of his clothing?”
Gaunt’s gaze sharpened briefly, apparently noting his firm use of the male pronoun. “The urchin’s shirt might once have been white, she said, though it was a dingy gray now. Oddly enough, he seemed to be wearing both the tatters of a bright blue skirt and a pair of brown trousers.”
His heartbeat quickened. Marcus straightened. “Skirt?”
“Well, perhaps not precisely a skirt—she wasn’t entirely sure—but it was wrapped around his waist.” Gaunt’s lips twitched with amusement as he spoke. “Like a pirate’s sash. Her, um, imaginative words, not mine. She rather thought it came in handy when the child wanted to steal something. He could hide anything away in a blink in all those folds of fabric. Clever, she thought. I got the distinct impression that she harbored some affection for the little imp, as she called him, even though she certainly feigned righteous indignation at the theft of items from her kitchen.”
“Follow up on that, would you?” Marcus ordered. “And see if anyone else saw this dark man with a burden on the bridge. There was nothing else?”
“No. As I indicated in my report—we traced several rumors of children, but none of them seemed promising. I am sorry if it appears we are taking an unreasonably long time, but I have two men as well as myself working on the inquiry, my lord.”
With a nod, Marcus stood. “I understand—better than you might imagine.” He’d spent the first long month performing his own search and had turned up even less than Gaunt, so he could hardly fault him.
“Thank you, my lord. I will keep you apprised of any new information we may discover.”
Although Marcus gleaned little additional information, he preferred to speak directly with Gaunt than read and reread a dry report of the agent’s activities. A sense of urgency twisted through his gut when he thought of Cynthia. Was she still alive? If so, for how much longer?
London was not the place for little girls to roam, alone. Often, it was dangerous enough for a man—even one armed with a sword hidden inside a walking stick. He couldn’t imagine her alone, in the darkness of an alley on those damp, cold March nights. March, April, and May had come and gone. It was already June. Warmer, but still damp at night, assuming she wasn’t floating somewhere in the turbulent currents of the Thames…
No. Not the Thames. He refused to accept that answer. She was alive. He just had to find her.
Chapter Eight
Uncle Cyril’s mood grew increasingly foul and short-tempered over the next week. Oddly enough, during that same period, Aunt Mary’s smiles grew so wide that at times, she seemed almost giddy, simmering with secret delight. In fact, it was becoming quite normal to see her chuckling to herself, her grin widening when she caught sight of Dorothy. All of which made Dorothy’s back go rigid whenever she looked up to see her aunt studying her with a smile of satisfaction dimpling her face.
Her aunt’s behavior seemed almost ominous when Dorothy paused to consider it.
Restless, she contemplated the irritating possibility that she may have completely misunderstood the conversation she’d overheard between Lord Arundell and her aunt. Maybe her aunt had found a way of separating Dorothy from her supposed inheritance. She might even have paid her debt to Arundell already, confident that Dorothy would never know the difference.
Throwing aside her mending, which currently looked more like something she’d practiced on when she was six, Dorothy went in search of Cecilia. Perhaps a walk would let her clear her mind, although she had no confidence that her cousin would agree to accompany her.
For the last three days, Cecilia had obstinately refused to go out. Chin held high, she declared she had no wish to meet Lord Arundell in Hyde Park again. Nonetheless, sufficient time had passed since their last accidental sighting of Lord Arundell to encourage Dorothy to think that Cecilia might be bored enough to risk a walk.
Dorothy sighed as she folded her sewing and placed it in her work basket. Anything to get out of the townhouse and stop worrying about the plotting and planning of Aunt Mary and Uncle Cyril.
After searching the ground floor and then the formal drawing room on the first floor, she finally discovered Cecilia huddled in an armchair in the small morning room at the back of the townhouse. The delicately furnished room, with pink, blue, and lavender patterned silk wall coverings and chairs upholstered with deep rose moiré, was clearly meant for the pleasure of the ladies of the house. Sadly, the room was rarely used by anyone and had a bleak, forgotten air. The lovely furnishings couldn’t make up for the lack of light from the sole window and as a result, a gray pall wrapped around everything. The furnishings seemed dusty and dingy, even though a close examination showed that they were relatively new and regularly dusted by the maid.
“Cousin Cecilia,” Dorothy said, weaving her way through an awkward grouping of chairs. She paused when she saw her cousin’s swollen eyes and red-tipped nose. “Is something the matter?”
“I told Papa I simply will not do it. Mama agrees with me, too!” The words burst from Cecilia in a rush.
“Then there is nothing to cry about, is there?”
Cecilia sniffed and stared at her. “Nothing to cry about? Nothing? You do not know Papa if you think that. He can be cruel when he wishes! He will get his way—you will see.”
Her lips twitched at her cousin’s exaggerated manner, but Dorothy managed not to laugh. “Your father is not cruel. I am sure he only wants what is best for you.”
“He is a cruel beast! He insists that I marry Lord Arundell, even though I have told him I do not wish to do so.” She crossed her arms and hugged herself, a petulant expression on her face. “I heard father say that no one would persecute their own father-in-law, but I don’t care if he is persecuted. I feel persecuted—so why shouldn’t he? Though why my father should fear that the earl would do such a thing is beyond my comprehension.”
Persecute? Uncle Cyril must have discovered that his wife had been gambling again and feared the earl would bother him until he paid what she owed to him. Perhaps the earl had mentioned it to him, believing that Aunt Mary would never repay her debt if her husband didn’t know about it.
Fortunately—at least for the Polkinghornes—gambling losses were only debts of honor, not legal debts. That meant that while Society might frown on or even ostracize the Polkinghornes if they failed to repay such a debt of honor, the earl could not take them to court over the matter. Arundell really had no legal recourse, at all. He had to trust the Polkinghornes to act honorably.
But then again, Dorothy could understand her uncle’s somewhat odd statement. If the earl married Cecilia, there would be no question of him annoying her uncle or persec
uting him in order to be repaid. Cecilia would bring five thousand with her, and the debt could be crossed off. And for the Polkinghornes, well, no one would be ostracized for ignoring a debt of honor, and they would gain the advantages of a familial connection to an earl.
That actually made more sense than what Dorothy thought she’d heard Aunt Mary say. There was no reason for the Polkinghornes to want Dorothy to marry the earl. They would gain nothing except a distant connection to Arundell, when they could have all the advantages of a much closer one.
A small stabbing pain pierced Dorothy as the picture of Cecilia marrying the earl arose.
Why should she care? Nonetheless, she pressed her hand over her stomach with a sense of irritation.
Her chin rose. “I fail to see why you dislike him so, Cecilia. He is very handsome and seems extremely personable. And he is an earl. I should think you would look upon the match with favor.”
“Personable? To you, perhaps. I find him excessively sarcastic and cynical—not at all agreeable. A kinder man would be far less critical and easier to manage.”
Dorothy sighed. The idea of marrying a man so weak that he required daily management did not appeal to her in the least. She didn’t want to spend her life with someone who was afraid to express his own opinion or disagree with her.
“Have you met someone you prefer?”
Cecilia flushed and fixed her gaze upon her lap. Her fingers repeatedly crumpled and then smoothed her handkerchief over her knee. “No,” she finally admitted. “Not yet. I am not out yet, as you recall. I have not had time to find anyone.”
“Not being out didn’t prevent my sister from attracting the attention of a very fine young man,” Dorothy replied, thinking of Martha.
“Oh, your sister.” She waved a hand through the air and sniffed. “I am sure she has attracted any number of young men. Even my brother is infatuated with her.”
“Cecilia!” Dorothy bit her lip to keep from saying something in defense of her youngest sister that she might later regret. “I wasn’t speaking of Grace—I meant Martha.” Returning to their initial topic, Dorothy asked, “Have you received a formal proposal, then?”
Cecilia shook her head. “Not yet. But I expect one any day. Perhaps this afternoon. Mama mentioned that she was expecting Lord Arundell to call later today.” She hiccupped, swallowing back a sob.
“I see. Is that why you are so worried?”
“Yes. My fate will be sealed today! Even though Mama promised she would not sacrifice my happiness in such a way, I am sure his title will weigh more with her than my fears. It certainly does to Papa!” Tears dripped over her cheeks. She sniffed again and blew her nose on her handkerchief.
Despite her sternest self-control, Dorothy’s gaze flashed skyward. “Let us take a walk, then. It will take your mind off matters.” She smiled. “And if we go now, we may very well be gone when Lord Arundell arrives, so you won’t have to face him.”
Rubbing her red nose and blinking, Cecilia looked at her. Hope glowed in her red-rimmed eyes. “I shall get my shawl immediately.” She jumped to her feet. “Don’t leave without me. Please!”
“I will wait in the entryway, then,” Dorothy replied with a laugh.
Sadly, their timing was somewhat off. No sooner had Dorothy arrived in the hallway then a loud knock sounded from the front door. The maid, Elsa, hurried past her. She paused in front of the door to wipe her hands on her dingy apron and flick a glance at Dorothy.
Dorothy nodded.
Elsa swung the door open, curtseyed, and glanced over her shoulder at Dorothy again. “It’s Lord Arundell, Miss Stainton.”
Dorothy smiled encouragingly. Elsa continued to stare at her, her mouth hanging open.
“Please let him in, Elsa,” Dorothy said at last, when it appeared the maid wasn’t going to do anything without being explicitly told to do it.
Elsa didn’t move.
“Now would be an excellent time.”
“Very good, miss.” She bobbed another curtsey and pulled the door further open, standing to one side. “Please enter, Lord Arundell.”
“Thank you.” Lord Arundell walked inside. He removed his hat and handed it to the maid.
His hat clutched in her red hands, Elsa peered at Dorothy.
“Place it on the table, Elsa. That will do nicely,” Dorothy suggested, wincing as Elsa’s fingers crushed the brim.
The maid did as she was told, glanced once more at Lord Arundell, gazed at Dorothy, and then, as if fearful of being asked to perform any additional difficult tasks, she skittered away down the hallway.
Dorothy smiled as she caught Lord Arundell’s amused gaze. “I apologize, my lord. Elsa is very busy these days.”
The excuse was actually quite accurate. Her uncle still had not hired a butler, and the lack of either a butler or footman grew more noticeable each day. Mrs. Jolly simply refused to go anywhere near the front door any more in a subtle attempt to force her employers to hire the required servant. So far, her strategy had failed to gain the desired effect.
Stepping to one side, Dorothy gestured to the sweeping staircase. “Do you wish to visit my aunt? I believe she is in the drawing room on the first floor.”
A clattering footstep sounded from the staircase.
Cecilia stood on the first floor landing, looking like a pale ghost hovering in the grainy gray light. When she caught Dorothy’s gaze, she turned and fled into the shadows. Her footsteps grew fainter as she raced upstairs, presumably back to her bedchamber on the second floor.
Lord Arundell’s brows rose. He cleared his throat.
“I was just going to speak to Aunt Mary,” Dorothy said, draping her light shawl through the crook of her left arm and pretending Cecilia had never appeared. “Would you care to join us?”
“You appear to be about to go for a walk,” he commented as he followed her to the staircase.
She laughed. “I’m unforgivably fickle, I’m afraid. I changed my mind in the two minutes it took me to come down the stairs. I was just going to hand Elsa my shawl when you knocked.”
His lopsided smile indicated that he saw right through her flimsy lie, but in opposition to Cecilia’s unfair assessment, he was kind enough to make no acerbic comment.
When they reached the drawing room, Dorothy was disconcerted to find that her aunt was not alone. Aunt Mary was industriously working on her sewing near the window, but right next to her sat Uncle Cyril, reading a book.
Uncle Cyril glanced up when Dorothy ushered Lord Arundell through the doorway. He frowned and shut his book. His frown deepened as he turned to stare at his wife.
As if sensing his gaze, Aunt Mary looked at him and then at the door.
“Dorothy! Oh, is that Lord Arundell?” Aunt Mary stood, placing her sewing on the small oval table next to her chair. “Do come in and sit, my lord! It is such a pleasure to see you. Dorothy, ring for Elsa to bring us some tea—there’s a good girl.”
Dorothy did as requested. After Elsa went to fetch the tea, Dorothy hesitated near the door, unsure if she should stay or leave.
Her aunt settled the matter, however, with alarming firmness. She ordered Dorothy to drag yet another chair over to the group by the window and sit down. With the flash of his familiar lopsided grin, Lord Arundell rose and stepped between Dorothy and the chair. He picked it up and positioned it near his own before gesturing for Dorothy to sit.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She was just seating herself when she caught her uncle’s frown. She gripped the arms of the chair, nearly standing again.
Black brows lowered, Uncle Cyril’s mouth thinned. His hands squeezed his book more tightly. His mouth opened and then shut, his jaw muscles bulging. Clearly, he would have preferred for her to leave, but he remained silent—even if it was a silence simmering with irritation.
Dorothy glanced at her aunt, fearing she might change her mind in view of her husband’s disapproval.
Aunt Mary smiled back at her and nodded. “This is excellent! I am so p
leased that we have both of you here.” Aunt Mary’s bright eyes flickered from Dorothy to Lord Arundell. “So exciting!” She leaned forward to touch the arm of Dorothy’s chair.
“Mary!” Uncle Cyril said in a low voice portentous with warning. He scowled at his wife.
Aunt Mary ignored him. “Lord Arundell is doing our family such a great honor, Dorothy, and he has such an important question to ask you.” She sat back abruptly and covered her mouth with her hand in a dramatic gesture. Her eyes widened. “Oh, dear.” Laughing, she shook her head. “I could never keep a secret—I am so sorry, dearest Dorothy—I meant for Lord Arundell to tell you, himself. Or rather, ask you.”
Dorothy glanced from her aunt to Lord Arundell, her icy hands stiff in her lap.
Waves of frustration and anger rolled off of her uncle, though he remained silent. He glowered at his wife, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his book.
“May I tell her, Lord Arundell?” Aunt Mary clasped her hands in an exaggeratedly imploring gesture.
“I wish you would,” he replied in a dry voice.
Aunt Mary flashed a triumphant smile at her husband before leaning forward again. She grabbed the arm of Dorothy’s chair. “Lord Arundell has requested your hand in marriage, Dorothy! Say yes—oh, do, say yes!”
Numbness settled over Dorothy. Her thoughts scattered like elusive mice in a field. She didn’t know how she felt, despite knowing that this question might be coming. Or fearing that she might be asked.
“Dorothy, it is quite unnecessary to answer now, if you would rather not,” Uncle Cyril announced. Flicking a grim look at his wife, he added, “And we shall all quite understand if you wish to decline. No one would blame you—no one at all.”
She glanced at him, surprised and touched by his support. “No—yes,” she whispered at last, startled at her own response. At least Cecilia would be relieved. And there would be no question of Grace sacrificing herself, instead. Or Cecilia, for that matter. It was the right thing to do. Her heart pounded. In a firmer voice, she repeated, “Yes, I would be honored, my lord.”
