by Heather Boyd
Once they made the sidewalk, he let out the breath he’d held. Their attempts to control the children were being met with considerable resistance. The boys wanted to run ahead; the girls wanted to linger and admire every pretty sight to be seen. They were threading their way down the street at a snail’s pace. Oscar would overtake them easily if he wished, or he could divert from the path and take the longer way home. But then the children’s voices rose in disagreement over something on the ground, and Agatha stopped to speak sharply to them. Even from a distance of several yards away, he could hear how vexed she’d become. He hurried after her. Agatha shouldn’t have to deal with this rabble alone.
“Lord Carrington,” Mabel squealed, breaking ranks with the other children to reach his side.
Oscar scowled, imitating how his own father had behaved when forced to walk with him as a boy. “Mabel, that’s no way to behave. Return to your spot beside the other girl and walk quietly now.”
Mabel blushed pink. “That’s Kitty.”
He crossed his arms, and glanced up the line of staring children. “Then return to Kitty. She looks to be waiting for you.”
Mabel rushed back to her former place and took up Kitty’s hand again. The other children were also very quick to resume their places in the line too. As he suspected, all they needed was a father figure to make them behave themselves. Children learned early not to listen to any suggestions made by a mere servant, and Agatha was too soft-hearted for her own good. She might be a good influence on them singularly, but en masse . . . she hadn’t a hope.
Oscar let his gaze travel further up the line and caught her frowning expression. He tipped his hat, but made no move to join her. She’d been adamant they keep a distance. Well, for today, the distance would be seven restless children, one maid, and one groom. There should be enough propriety in that to keep her happy, at least for now.
With a quick flick of her hands to encourage the children, they resumed their fast walk. Oscar followed along, keeping a watchful eye on the children’s behavior, but his thoughts were grim, turned inward to his own troubles. Should he confide his terrors to the morally upright vicar or keep his own counsel?
The Earl of Daventry hadn’t understood. Not really. Oh, he had tried, but then the man had been too preoccupied with his own happy change of circumstances to grasp the extent of Oscar’s distress. Would anyone understand? Would Agatha?
He would very much like to talk to her. When they were together, he felt such intense peace, such perfect symmetry with the world. These days he was beginning to forget what it was to be happy.
On Grafton Street, the children hurried up the front stairs of the orphanage and noisily entered the building. Agatha gave him an odd look as he turned to follow her inside. He had no intention of talking with her, staring at her, or thinking about her soft curves sliding through his hands. But the work he had to do to assess the orphanage would distract him from his morbid thoughts for perhaps an hour. He handed off his hat and cane then turned for the study. He shut the door behind him. The work, however short lived, should distract him enough to let him get through another day.
At least that was the plan until the music started.
Oscar dropped the pen to the desk, listening with every nerve as Agatha’s music filtered through the house from the parlor opposite his door. She played a slow melody—one he wasn’t familiar with, but one that instantly calmed his racing heart. Sitting back, he imagined her playing in the little sitting room opposite his office, her back to the door, the smooth line of her neck bent to the instrument.
His imagination removed her clothes so she was naked at the pianoforte.
Such thoughts were not helping. He had to forget her, but the delicate playing, music that stirred him body and soul, would drive him insane. Oscar closed the book and gathered together some papers. This was not the place to forget the past. Not when the past seemed determined to keep him firmly in its clutches. Taking the receipts and journal with him, he quietly stepped out into the hall, not wanting to draw attention to his leaving. Just across the way, Agatha sat, tapping out the tune for the children. The previously unruly orphans appeared spellbound, their upturned faces enraptured by Agatha’s skill. This was how she’d charmed the children so thoroughly. She’d found the perfect use of her talents.
The butler approached.
“My hat and cane, if you please,” Oscar whispered.
“Yes, my lord.”
At the instrument, Agatha’s head turned as if she’d heard him. He took a step closer and her head turned to an almost painful angle. That she would still acknowledge his presence raced along his clamoring nerves. He couldn’t stay. He wanted more of Agatha Birkenstock than he was allowed.
The butler let him out, ushering him into bright sunshine, but he felt none of the warmth. His soul was chilled to the core.
Partway down the road, a gruff voice hailed him by name.
Oscar turned and found an unfamiliar gentleman approaching.
“Lord Carrington, isn’t it?”
“Yes. May I help you?”
The other man was weathered, expensively dressed, but a complete stranger to him. “My name is Leopold Randall, a silk merchant from India. I was wondering if you might spare me a few moments of your time. I’m looking for information.”
That explained the dark, weathered complexion, but what the man could want with him escaped him. Randall appeared harmless, so Oscar gestured him closer. “I’ll help if I can. I’m headed to Berkley Square. Why don’t you tell me what you’re seeking while we walk?”
Randall glanced behind him toward the orphanage. His lips compressed, but then he nodded and fell into step. He did not, however, immediately launch into his tale.
Oscar grew impatient. “How may I be of service?”
The other man heaved a heavy sigh. “I’ve been away from England for some years now, in India for business, and I’ve lost track of my family. I was hoping to search the orphanage’s records for any information they might contain concerning their whereabouts.”
Oscar stopped, frowning. “The orphanage is a relatively new venture. When was the last you heard of them?”
“Ten years ago, now. The youngest pair, my brother and sister, would be four-and-twenty and six-and-twenty by now.”
Oscar smiled apologetically. “Then I’m very much afraid I cannot be of help to you. The place was established just last year, and the children are all aged under eleven years, I believe.”
Beside him, the other man swore. The colorful oaths that burst from Randall’s mouth surprised Oscar for their complexity and venom. Although he was sure none were directed at him, he started walking again. Randall hurried to catch up but held his tongue. He was no doubt deeply disappointed by Oscar’s news. Poor fellow. It must be dreadful to lose one’s whole family.
As they reached the center of the square, Oscar stopped. “Randall?”
The other man looked up.
“You aren’t by chance one of the Romsey Randall’s?”
The other man’s gaze grew wary. “I am a cousin to the current duke,” he admitted slowly.
Oscar smiled. “Well, that is a spot of good news. I had heard there was some vigorous debate about the duchy’s succession. Lord Carmichael, at one time, petitioned for guardianship of the duke, but met with resistance. You should present yourself to him forthwith so he may be easy again. I know there will be great relief when word spreads that another Randall has been found.” Oscar looked about him to see if he could spot another peer nearby to pass along the good news.
Leopold Randall took a step back. “If I might ask you not to inform anyone of my whereabouts at this time, I would be grateful beyond belief.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
Randall glanced about nervously. “Because I believe the former Dukes of Romsey were responsible for the disappearance of my siblings. I want to find my family first, well before I make my existence known to the current duke and anyone else c
losely associated with the duchy.”
Chapter Fourteen
ASTONISHED, OSCAR SCRUBBED his hand across his chin. “He’s just a child. A drooling infant, if I remember correctly.”
Randall still glanced around them nervously. “Still, it pays to be cautious.”
A memory of a whispered conversation at his club flitted through Oscar’s mind. It had been well known that the old Duke of Romsey had not been a man to cross. Randall’s statement, and the fact that the succession for the duchy was unclear due to the disappearance of all other Randall relations, made Oscar inclined to believe him. “Yet you approached me. Why?”
The other man met his gaze directly. “While I might have little faith in the benevolence of the aristocracy, I have had some dealings with one Mr. Thomas Birkenstock, a fellow businessman living here in London, in this very square. Over the course of our dealings, he’s mentioned some of his connections, and you by name once or twice. I called on him earlier, but was informed that he was away from home. I was invited to contact him as soon as I returned from India.”
Ah, so Birkenstock was the reason for this approach. If Birkenstock admitted this man was a friend, then Oscar would have some faith that Randall spoke the truth about his identity. “I believe he’s attending to his business interests in Winchester.”
The other man nodded. “Thank you for that. I shall have to assume that he will not return to Town for some time.” Randall squared his shoulders. “I should be going. Thank you, my lord, for your trouble.”
Randall tipped his hat and made to leave.
“Wait,” Oscar called.
Randall turned and Oscar approached him. “I would like to help you. If you would care to join me for luncheon, you could provide me with more particulars. I have friends I can approach, decent men of particular discretion, who have a wide range of interests across society.” When Randall shook his head, Oscar rushed to add, “It cannot hurt to try. You do not need to confide your directions to me.”
After a long moment, Randall nodded. “That is very good of you, my lord. But I should not like to put you out.”
Oscar smiled, feeling his spirits lift as a surge of anticipation filled him. “Nonsense. I am happy to help in any way I can to see your family returned to you.” It would be good to be useful. Oscar could engage runners on Randall’s behalf and keep his whereabouts secret. Feeling the nightmare of the past months dim, Oscar led Randall inside his home and through to his bookroom. He slid the orphanage accounts to the side of his table.
Randall looked about him with an amused grin. “I hadn’t realized you lived next door to Birkenstock. No wonder he mentioned you with such fondness.”
Oscar smiled, but didn’t elaborate on why Birkenstock might think fondly of him. “Would you care for a brandy?”
Randall nodded and set himself down before Oscar’s tidy desk.
Unused to such silence in his companions, Oscar poured drinks and settled behind his desk, drawing out his little pocket book and pen to make notes. “When did you see your siblings last?”
“Christmas of eighteen-three.” Randall sipped another mouthful of brandy, but his face had darkened with emotion. “I had returned home from school to spend the holiday season with my family at Romsey.”
“The ducal estate?’
“No, the village. My father was already out of favor with the duke, for having the bad form of producing too many healthy children, I believe. The ducal line produced few offspring that survived infancy, whereas mine produced many more. We lived in a small house on the edge of the estate.”
Oscar stood and pulled his Burke’s Peerage from his bookshelf. The Duke of Romsey’s entry was easy to find without Randall’s assistance. What he said was true. The current duke had no uncles remaining. The only distant relations were of Leopold Ramsey’s line.
“My younger brother and I had been returned to school a full month before we heard of our parents’ deaths. A carriage accident, I was told. My youngest brother and sister were not mentioned at the time, but my parents were uncommonly doting parents and always traveled with their children. I’ve not heard of their whereabouts since the Christmas of ’03. Then, a few weeks later after our parents’ deaths, Oliver, my younger brother by two years, ran away from school during the night.”
Oscar frowned. The tale was quite fantastical, but if the brother had run away of his own accord there was no mystery there at all. “Was your brother unhappy at school?”
Randall’s expression grew darker, if that were possible. “No, Oliver was happiest when surrounded by his books. We were to meet that morning before class. He said he had a secret to tell. He never arrived at the appointed time, and then I was called into the headmaster’s office and informed he’d run off.”
Quite fantastical. Oscar didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
“I can see how you doubt,” Randall said quietly.
Oscar decided to be blunt. “I’m not sure what to believe, but it is clear you fear the worst. Why do you think they were disappeared?”
“Because the Duke of Romsey had the gall to promise them harm if I flinched at doing any of his dirty work to keep me in line several years ago. To keep me in my proper place. He gave me no cause to disbelieve. My family had never wanted more from the duchy. We were no real danger to his power, or to Edwin, his heir, but he wouldn’t loosen his control over me. I was his son’s heir until the current duchess gave birth to a son.”
“I’m surprised he left you alone after that.”
Randall laughed, a bitter sound that chilled him through to his toes. “I am no threat to the child. The old bastard made sure of that.”
Oscar wanted to ask how, but by the fierce expression on the face of the man before him, Randall wouldn’t confide what obviously was an unpleasant memory. He scratched down the date of the accident and the interval till Oliver’s disappearance. “Do you remember what your siblings look like?”
Randall reached into his inner coat pocket and threw a pile of drawings across the table. “These are a fair likeness, but they are over ten years old and may not be of much use now.”
Oscar flicked through three sketches. The images were of children, but he could see a strong resemblance to Leopold Randall. Oliver, Rose, and Tobias Randall. An experienced runner should be able to make use of them. “They are a start. May I keep these?”
Randall sank back into his chair, weariness dragging the animation from his face. “Of course. I have made other copies.”
Randall’s flat tones brought Oscar’s own fears rushing back. While Randall had talked, he’d quite forgotten his own problems. If he kept his mind focused on investigations for Leopold Randall, maybe his own concerns would disappear. He tucked the drawings into his inner pocket along with his notebook just as luncheon was announced.
Once Randall was on his way back to wherever he was staying, Oscar would visit with Lord Daventry and the Rector of St. George. The holy man and the former sinner might be able to shed some light on the fate and potential location of three children the Duke of Romsey had deemed expendable.
~ * ~
Agatha inched the window in her bedroom open, a light breeze wafted across her thighs through her thick nightgown. She shouldn’t open the window, but her day had been haunted by images of Oscar’s distress. Despite the knowledge that he was forever beyond her reach, she needed to talk to him.
She’d caught a glimpse of his expression as he’d sat in church that morning. The strain was so clear her heart had raced, raced so badly she had almost run to him, despite the numerous members of society sitting between them. But that very action would have ruined the rest of her life.
Then he had followed them home, casting a stern eye on the children so they behaved properly for a change. The fact that Oscar had a calming effect on the children had surprised her. He was, quite simply, the most casual of men. But not anymore, it seemed. His silent disapproval of their high spirits had quieted them faster than any words
she’d uttered that morning.
Once returned to the orphanage, the boys had peppered her with questions about the viscount. They wanted to know everything: who his tailor was, did he ride a great hunter, drive a phaeton, and was he Whig or Tory? Agatha had tried her best to appear less knowledgeable than she actually was. She wasn’t quite sure she achieved it because her maid, mending the children’s clothes by the window, kept casting her odd looks. Agatha was very glad when Manning had arrived to distract them all and they’d gone outside for tea.
Agatha popped her head out her bedroom window and let her gaze rest on the adjacent balcony. Oscar wasn’t there. Not yet. She let her head fall, disappointed, and noticed a bag of sweets waiting. The sign of his constancy made her heart ache. She had thought he would stop leaving her little gifts.
She hefted the bag, and tossed it between her hands. By rights she should not accept such small pleasures. She should return them and hope he stopped being so kind. His continuing kindness was a sharp pain that never truly left her. The rattle of a door handle reached her ears. Agatha drew back, knowing the sound came from Oscar’s door. The sharp rap of boots rang on the tile, then a slither of sound and a heavy thump.
When she peeked out the window again, Oscar sat with his back to her. Glass clinked to the tile and she heard his heavy sigh. She laid her head on her arms, staring at the back of Oscar’s head and willing him to turn.
He stubbornly stayed facing the other way, drinking slowly from his glass. When the glass was empty, he stood and brushed off his clothes. His head turned fractionally, finally acknowledging her presence. “I miss you.”
Then he disappeared inside his townhouse.
Agatha lifted her hands to the window frame, slid it shut, and then wiped the tears from her eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
“SO WHAT YOU’RE saying is the orphanage cannot pay its way,” Lord Carter summarized, quite incorrectly, to Oscar’s annoyance.