Nick feared that he had really mucked things up this time.
“I am not an authority of any kind, Your Majesty.” Someone in the room hissed, but Lillian fearlessly pressed on, “Yet my pets are most beloved to me. When one of my dear charges is in need, helpless, unable to fend for himself, then I will do anything in my power to see him well. It breaks my heart to hear of your Lancelot in such peril.”
The queen’s eyes widened at the word peril, and Nick could see her attitude toward Lillian soften. “Sinclair was a good man,” she murmured.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Gone how long now?”
“Just over two years, ma’am.”
After a long moment, the queen sniffed. “Very well, you may stay. But do not get underfoot.”
Lillian slowly rose with her head still bowed, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
The queen turned to Nick with a swoosh of her ivory lace skirts. “Find my Lancelot, Redford. Find him at once!” She turned, sending the servants scurrying out of her path.
Before she could leave, Nick rushed on, “Ma’am, I will need maps of the grounds for an organized search. I must speak to the servants in charge of the dogs, and specifically those on hand at the time of the loss. Do you have any paintings of Lancelot that I can view?”
Hushed silence filled the chamber. He had dared to speak to the queen without being addressed first, but he had been unwilling to miss this opportunity.
The queen’s head rotated slowly, her dark eyes fixing on him with ruthless scrutiny. Raising a thin, arched brow, she declared, “Finally someone with a brain in his head!” She peered past Nick’s shoulder. “Mr. Hogan, show Mr. Redford my portrait with Lancelot and Daisy. Then get him whomever and whatever he requires.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hogan bellowed.
Eyeing Nick shrewdly, the queen nodded. “Bring Lancelot back to me, Mr. Redford, and you will be well rewarded.” Turning, she swept from the room, her entourage following quickly at her skirts.
Nick let out the breath he had been holding, and he almost swayed with relief. “Whew.”
Hogan frowned at him, but Lillian sent him a smile of encouragement and stepped near.
“Where do you wish to start, Mr. Redford?” Hogan asked.
“First find the servants who were in charge at the time Lancelot was lost. Then all of the servants who care for the dogs. In the meantime, please procure a map of the grounds for me.”
“Anything else?” Hogan sent Lillian a look that indicated that he was willing to humor Nick, for the moment.
“I would like to view that painting with the dog in it.”
“Certainly, sir. I will have a word with the steward about the maps, and then I will bring you to the Master of the Hounds, Mr. Glen.” Nodding to Lillian with a mischievous smile, he left the room.
Lillian let out a soft exhalation of air.
“So we were not tossed out on our cheeky bottoms,” he attempted to jest.
“Poor Lancelot. Over five hours. What if he is cold, hungry? Thirsty?”
“The weather is mild, he can forage for food and there’s plenty of standing water around to keep him hydrated. I’m more concerned about dangers of the two-legged variety.”
“You think that he was actually kidnapped?” she exclaimed, obviously aghast.
“It’s the clearest reason why he’s been gone for so long without anyone seeing him.”
“I cannot fathom anyone stooping so low.”
“That’s because you are not an immoral person.”
“Many of the ton would disagree,” she muttered, obviously trying to make light.
“I made that mistake once, too, but now I know better. You’re not immoral, just tenacious. A quality that I admire in others almost as much as I do in myself.”
Slowly, her lush lips lifted at the corners, and he was glad to see her smile. She was at her most beautiful when she smiled.
Hogan stepped back into the room. “If this is an instance of kidnapping, Mr. Redford, how do you propose to ferret out the traitors?”
Nick turned to the comptroller. “I take for granted that everyone is guilty until they prove me otherwise.”
Hogan scowled, nodding. “Then we begin. If you will follow me?”
Silently, they moved out into the hallway and began their search.
“So you are saying that those two men kidnapped Lancelot, Mr. Glen?” Nick demanded, leaning over the rust-haired servant.
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Redford. All I said was that they were hanging about and I thought it was odd, Mr. Redford, sir.” Poor Mr. Glen seemed a pitiful specimen compared to the virile investigator. He was weedy, with flapping jowls, pasty skin and hunched shoulders. His brown eyes darted around the room as if seeking rescue from Nick’s inquiry.
“What was odd about it?”
“Just that it’s not a well-used path.”
“So what reason would they have to be there, Mr. Glen?”
“Don’t know, sir, which is why I thought it was odd.” His pasty cheeks shook with agitation.
Lillian watched from her chair in the corner and had to admit that she was impressed with Nick’s questioning skills. He managed to explore every angle for information, going back again and again to the areas where he was dissatisfied with the answers. Thus far, Mr. Glen was providing little enough to satisfy. His assistant, Wilson, seemed more eager to please but also had little helpful knowledge.
Nick turned again to the smaller servant, a youth of about seventeen with a freckled face and brownish hair. “Did you see these men, Wilson?”
“No, sir,” the lad replied. “I was on the other side of the big bushes. But Mr. Glen told me about them right away. Said it made him wonder what they were about.”
“Do you take the dogs to this vicinity often?”
Wilson nodded. “Yes, sir. Most days. The dogs like to run in the tall bushes.”
Since Nick had given her free reign, Lillian interposed, “That must require quite a bit of brushing.”
“Indeed, my lady,” Wilson replied. “We have a nasty time getting the knots out. It feels like it takes forever, but Her Majesty don’t like any knots in her dogs’ coats, so we take special care.”
“And Lancelot has taken off in these bushes before, you say?” Nick asked.
“Quite a few times, sir,” Glen answered.
“Then why do you return there?”
Wilson shrugged. “The dogs like it there. And we always find them. It might take a bit a time, but we did…” The poor man swallowed, and a lock of carroty hair dropped onto his forehead. He swiped it away with a white gloved hand and grimaced. “…before today, that is.”
“Did you always hold this post in the household, Mr. Glen?” Nick asked.
Glen straightened. “I had been a Gentleman Usher of Privy Chamber, but Her Majesty removed me to my current post.”
Lillian would have supposed that this was a promotion of sorts; she knew that she certainly would have preferred handling the dogs.
“Tell me what you recall about the faces of the men on the cart, Mr. Glen.”
“I barely saw them.”
“Think hard.”
The man scrunched up his thin face and stuck his tongue into the corner of his mouth. “Well, perhaps the first man had brown hair.”
“Brown hair? That’s it?” Nick retorted.
“Maybe they both did?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Nick turned away from the man, seemingly in disgust, and looked at Lillian. She shrugged, unable to aid him. The pitiable servants seemed distraught over losing Lancelot and likewise terrified of the consequences that would befall them. And well they should be. The queen’s distress trickled down to every member of the household save for one, and that was His Majesty, King George. According to Hogan, the king resided on the opposite side of the residence from the queen and was being kept well away from the hubbub. No one wanted to further disturb the alre
ady unsettled king.
Nick spun on his heel, unleashing yet another question on poor Mr. Glen. “You saw two strange men but did not report it. You lost Lancelot on your watch—”
Wilson puffed up, defensive. “He told me about it, sir, and we were to report it as soon as we returned.”
“But Lancelot had been gone by then.”
The lad bowed his head and a lock of brown hair fell over his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Hogan charged into the room. “Mr. Redford! The most terrible turn of events!” he bellowed, waving a white piece of foolscap in the air.
Nick strode over to him. “What is it?”
“They demand two thousand guineas for the safe return of the dog! If not, they will kill him!” Cries of shock and disbelief rang in the air.
“Let me see that.” Nick grabbed the note and scanned it quickly.
Lillian stood, alarm shooting through her.
“Who delivered this?”
“A lad,” Hogan replied.
“Where is he?”
“Gone. Handed it to one of the gardeners and told him to deliver it to the queen, then ran off.”
The muscle in Nick’s jaw worked, and Lillian just knew that he would have given a lot to have questioned that boy. Still, he maintained his composure. “Perhaps the gardener can describe the lad to the local vicar and we will see if he can recognize the boy.”
“Very well, sir.” Hogan swiped a gloved hand across his sweaty brow, visibly distressed. “I suppose Her Majesty must be told.”
“How do you believe she will react?” Nick asked.
Hogan’s face contorted. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”
Nick paced the room, his broad shoulders stiff with tension. The servants hovering on the outskirts of the chamber twittered with outrage.
Lillian rose and met Nick in the center of the room. “This is dreadful,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Still, word is out about the missing Lancelot…I must consider the possibility that someone sent the note knowing that Lancelot was missing so they might profit from this terrible situation.”
“And that they do not have him?”
He scratched his chin. “Although it is doubtful, we cannot afford to make any assumptions in this matter.”
Hogan hastened over, mopping his sweat-filmed head with a handkerchief. “I had best go inform Her Majesty.”
Nick shook his head. “It’s my case. I will inform Her Majesty of this dreadful development.”
Lillian blinked. Nick had just offered to place himself in the eye of the storm.
Hogan straightened. Staring at Nick a thoughtful moment, he said, “Dunn always said you had a backbone of steel.”
So that was how Nick got the post with the queen.
Nick shifted his shoulders, as if uncomfortable with the compliment. “I take responsibility when it’s due, and credit just as well.” Turning back to Mr. Glen, he asked, “One more question, Mr. Glen. Who knew that Lancelot was the queen’s favorite?”
The man blinked and sputtered, “Well, everyone, I suppose.”
Nick harrumphed.
Wilson stepped forward. “But this means that it ain’t our fault.”
“Who said that it was your fault?” Nick turned.
“Well, I was worried, sir. That people would think that we had something to do with it, since we was the ones caring for Lancelot when it all happened.” The lad’s freckled cheeks tinged pink. “And now you know we had nothing to do with it since we were here and couldn’t have sent the letter demanding the money. And everyone can see that we don’t have Lancelot.” He turned to Mr. Glen, grinning happily. “We’re cleared. It weren’t our fault, and now everyone knows it. Those men took Lancelot!”
Glen’s shoulders sagged. “Why you’re right, my boy. This proves it! We’re in the clear.” The man’s willowy frame drooped as he whispered, “Thank the heavens. But poor Lancy…” He looked around the room, as if realizing that others had heard him. He shrugged sheepishly. “I always call him Lancy. The poor love is in the hands of thieves. Maybe murderers! Lancy!” The man slumped to the floor in a puddle of tears. Several servants rushed over to give aid.
The servants at the edges of the room grumbled with growing agitation. The words kidnapped and stolen and two thousand guineas shot through the angst-ridden air.
“I need everyone to remain on the grounds,” Nick announced, eyeing the assembly. “Danger lurks. I do not want anyone to leave the grounds unless they have my permission.”
The noise in the room thickened into a chorus of distress.
Nick sent a curt nod to Lillian and strode with Hogan out the door.
Lillian whispered a parting prayer of good luck as she watched his broad back recede.
Feeling impotent, Lillian turned, seeing where she might be useful.
Mr. Glen was sitting up, and someone had brought him a glass of water. He tried lifting the glass to his lips but grimaced with pain.
Lillian stepped near. “Are you all right, Mr. Glen?”
“Kidnappers stealing poor Lancy! The blackguards! What will happen now?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Glen. I suppose that Mr. Redford will help figure it out.”
“Will they pay? Will we ever see Lancy again?”
“Two thousand guineas?” Wilson scoffed, then shrugged sheepishly. “I mean, it’s a lot of blunt for a dog.”
“This is Lancelot we’re talking about.” Glen shook his head. “Her Majesty’s favorite. Oh, if only I’d have been closer. If only I’d have taken better care….”
“You did what you could, Mr. Glen.” Wilson nodded sagely. He turned to Lillian. “Mr. Glen ran him self ragged looking for Lancelot. Cut himself up but good in the bushes, bloodied his best uniform. But he would not give up. No, ma’am.”
“You serve your queen well, Mr. Glen.”
“We all try to do our jobs, my lady,” he muttered, his pallid cheeks flushing pink.
Seeing that the man was recovered, Lillian faced the lad. “Wilson, would you be so kind as to take me to see your charges?”
Wilson looked to Glen, who nodded.
The lad beamed. “Certainly, my lady. They’ve been locked up since this morning and would be glad for the company.”
So would Lillian, for she suspected that it would be many hours before she would be making her way back home. She just hoped that it would be with good tidings.
Chapter 20
A breeze drifted in through the open bedchamber windows, carrying with it the faint scent of honeysuckle. Staring out at the moonless night, Lillian sighed and leaned back in the gilded beech chair. She knew that she would not be able to sleep this night, no matter how comfortable the chambers that Hogan had procured for her. She was in one of the many stately bedrooms in Windsor Castle, and she could not quite believe that she was residing under the same roof as royalty, if only for one night.
King George of England was somewhere in this great building, sight unseen but very present. Had he finally learned about this abominable affair? If he’d been told, what had he understood? Rumors abounded about his madness. Lillian could not imagine how his family dealt with the grief of watching him drift into lunacy.
She stared out the window and bemoaned the black sky, nary even a star appearing on this moonless night. Poor Lancelot was out there somewhere, and so were his hopeful rescuers. She leaned forward and, yes, she could still see the golden torches bobbing up and down as people continued the search. Thus far, the hunt seemed only to have confirmed that Lancelot was indeed gone, his whereabouts unknown.
“The depraved blackguards,” she muttered, wondering at humankind’s capacity for evil. Recently, she had encountered a scheming murderer, and now fiends who kidnapped beloved pets. Was the entire world turning into another Sodom?
The queen must be beside herself with worry being the target of such malicious sport.
“‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,’” she quoted her favorite bard. Could e
ven Shakespeare have invented such devilry?
She worried for the poor staff, who would suffer for their failings in this travesty. Likewise, she agonized over Nick’s future and that of his burgeoning agency of enquiry. She was beginning to comprehend what this enterprise meant to him. He lived for the puzzle and for the chase. He lived for justice and seeing evil punished. He had found his raison d’être and it fit him to a tee. But unless he came up with some answers for the queen, and soon, his business would be routed by a death blow from which it might not recover.
And all the while Dillon was in prison for a crime he did not commit, and the clock ticked toward his doom. The only thing keeping her chin up was her confidence in Nick. If anyone could see through this madness, it would be he.
Someone tapped gently on her door.
Pulling the borrowed wrapper closer around her, she stood and tiptoed to the rosewood-paneled entry. “Yes?”
“It’s Nick, open up.”
She bit her lip, apprehensive about allowing him into her bedroom, at Windsor Castle, of all places. But she was desperate for information.
“Oh, botheration,” she muttered, turning the brass key in the lock.
Nick swiftly slipped into the room.
Lillian took one glance down the empty hallway, sent off a prayer that this wasn’t pure folly and closed the door with a firm thud.
He looked wretchedly tired. His clothes were disheveled, dark fuzz grazed his jaw and his cocoa eyes were red rimmed and shadowed. His hat was in his hand, and his tousled black hair looked as if he had been raking his fingers through it all day. He probably had.
“What news?” she begged.
Mutely, he shook his head.
Her spirits sank even further. “Why are you not out there?” she asked, gesturing to the open window.
“What’s the point?” he asked bitterly, tossing his hat onto a chair. “Colonel Thompson is here.”
“Who?
Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 01] Page 19
