The anger Marcus had repressed flamed to searing life. He gripped the arms of his chair briefly until the initial heat turned to ice in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he was able to reply coolly, “And what have you heard about that incident?”
A self-deprecating smile twisted Gaunt’s mouth. “A tall, dark man was seen—but then, we both may be described that way, my lord. My own appearance seemed to cause the, um, lady I questioned to wonder if I might have been the culprit, myself, and searching for anyone who might have witnessed my misdeed.” He chuckled. “Offering her a few shillings for the information only seemed to deepen her conviction that I was the murderer she’d seen, until I suggested that she go along with me to the local constable to make a report.”
While Marcus could well imagine the scene and might have been amused at Gaunt’s efforts to maintain his own innocence under such circumstances, the information only pointed to a worse fate for his little niece. It was horrendous enough to imagine her terrified and alone, trying to survive on the streets of London, without the fear that she’d been thrown into the Thames to drown.
Frustration gnawed at him. He’d spent a full month searching for her. He’d finally taken the advice of his lawyer and enlisted the aid of Mr. Gaunt. Progress was slow, however, and irritation at their continued inability to locate her kept Marcus up at night, pacing in his bedchamber.
Surely, if she’d been thrown into the Thames, her pitiful remains would have been discovered by now? Some evidence would exist, somewhere. A shoe, a scrap of clothing, something. He’d certainly offered a large enough reward for any information or evidence of Cynthia Chenneour’s existence. Scores of people had reported seeing her, or had brought bits of clothing or shoes to him, hoping for a reward. But none of the detritus had ought to do with his little niece.
The strong-willed child had always been so particular in her dress. She insisted on wearing a specific shade of blue or yellow, or if she had her way, a combination of the two colors. None of the pitiful fragments brought to him were the right colors, or could ever have belonged to the child.
He considered Gaunt’s words. “What precisely did this witness say she had seen? How did she describe the child?”
“That is what gives me pause, my lord,” Gaunt replied. “She says the child must have already been dead. The man she saw carried it slung over his shoulder and wrapped in a small rug or blanket.”
“So she never saw the child. In fact, it could have been anything rolled in a blanket.”
“She says she thought she saw two small feet sticking out of the bottom.” Gaunt’s sharp eyes studied him.
“Feet?”
“I am sorry, my lord, but that is what she reported.”
“What about shoes? Did she notice if there were any shoes on these feet she says she saw?”
“She indicated there were small, leather shoes on the child. Dark shoes. And she could see white stockings covering the ankles.” Gaunt tipped his head to the right as he examined him.
“Dark? She couldn’t tell the color of the shoes?” Marcus asked abruptly, his hands once again tightening on the wooden arms of the chair.
“I asked, but she wasn’t sure—it was nearing six in the evening. The white stockings were clear in the twilight, but the shoes just looked like leather. She felt they might be brown.”
Marcus sat back and let out a long breath. “And what day was this?”
“The evening of March the fifth. She was fairly certain of the date, my lord.” Again, Gaunt’s head tilted to the right, his brows rising. “You have asked or commented several times about the color of shoes or other articles of clothing. Is there a special significance to the color? Something that could identify the child?”
Marcus’s mouth twitched with a smile. “Now I must apologize to you. Yes, there are certain colors that my niece always wore. However, I would prefer to keep that information private.” He raised a hand, forestalling Gaunt’s next question. “It is not that I do not trust you—I do—implicitly. It is simply that by keeping such details private, it will be simpler to confirm anything you or someone else discovers.”
“I see.” Gaunt nodded once, but the wrinkle between his brows showed that he was not entirely pleased.
“She was sure about the date?”
“Yes.” Gaunt chuckled. “Seems she got in a row later that evening with another lady. The Watch gave them both accommodations for the night, so she has a particularly good memory of that day. Or night.”
“What did this dark man of hers look like? How did she describe him?”
“Dark hair, dark clothing, tall, slender—a gentleman, she said. In fact, since she thought I was the one she’d seen, and she was scrutinizing me the entire time she was talking, I got the distinct impression that she was pretty much describing me.” Cynical amusement glinted in his black eyes, and his mouth twisted wryly.
Marcus grinned. “At least she didn’t describe me, then.” Although they were similar superficially, Marcus’s shoulders were broader, though Gaunt was a few inches taller, and Marcus’s hair was still black without any touches of gray. Similar, yes, but Marcus guessed he was half Gaunt’s age. He was also not quite as somber as the man sitting on the other side of the massive desk, despite his fears for the safety of his niece.
Alive or dead? Which was it? The story about the little girl dumped into the Thames persisted, although Marcus felt in his gut that whatever tragedy had befallen that poor child, it had nothing to do with Cynthia.
He sighed and rubbed the polished curved ends of the armrests with his restless hands. “Whoever—or whatever—was thrown off new London Bridge, I do not believe it was my niece. Tell me about this other rumor, the one of a child seen in the vicinity of the bridge.”
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 f
rom 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 persecuting 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 thi
s 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.
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