by Heather Boyd
“One can only hope.” Gibbs paused. “I wish you luck in your search for your wife today, my lord. You have not asked directly, but I have read the papers too, as Miss Crewe has done, and we both concluded you might have come here in search of her. Miss Crewe would not have minded the question you wanted to ask and attempted to do discreetly. We have never known Lady Taverham to be at one of Lord Louth’s estates.”
Kit grunted that he’d been so transparent, said good-bye, and plodded down the town house’s front steps. He paused at the base to wait for his carriage to draw up and considered where to go next. Miranda had few acquaintances in London that were not his too. Perhaps she would not go to the normal places at all. He’d have to consider where she ought not to be.
His eyes stung and he rubbed at them in annoyance. Once he could have stayed awake for days but no longer. He was getting old. Almost thirty. Old enough to know when he was utterly beaten. He would not find her by stumbling all over London in exhaustion. When the carriage stopped, he had his coachman take him home.
CHAPTER SIX
The burned-out ruin nestled beside the brook on the outskirts of London sent a chill racing through Miranda’s heart. She glanced anxiously at Martin’s stunned expression, then started up the overgrown garden path, wishing her eyes deceived her. But it was very clear the occupant she had expected to find in this place might have moved on long ago. Weeds infested the once-pleasant front garden, and when Miranda craned her neck toward the formerly thriving kitchen garden, she had trouble discerning edible plants.
The front step wobbled as she put her weight upon it and she stopped. “Hello. Mr. Miles Fenning? Are you there?”
Silence, except for the faint scrape of a branch against a blackened window frame as it tossed against the glass in the soft breeze. She took another cautious step and stretched to knock on the charred front door. Slowly, with a creak that sent gooseflesh up and down her arms, the door opened to reveal a catastrophe inside.
The once-cheerful entrance hall lacked its polished and normally rug-strewn floor. Flaking plaster walls and ceiling let the pitiful sunlight shine directly through to the ground beneath. A few tangled weeds attempted to flourish around the house footings where the sun reached them.
Mr. Fenning couldn’t live here anymore. Which meant Miranda had a serious problem. Fenning and Christopher were gone.
Martin’s arm curled around her shoulder and he squeezed her to his side. “Dear God. Miranda. I am so sorry. I didn’t know about this.”
“Where are they? I cannot believe this is happening. Stay here.” She pushed out of his arms and hurried away toward the carriage she’d left behind at the garden gate. On her way past, she handed the picnic hamper intended for Mr. Fenning to the nearest groom. “Enjoy with my compliments. I will return soon.”
Then she turned on her heel and strode toward the nearest cottage in search of answers. This house at least sported no weeds in the garden. An old man halfheartedly cropped at the long grass at the side, pausing occasionally to view her approach. At the gate she stopped. “Forgive me, but I wonder if you might help me.” She gestured toward the ruined house she’d just left. “I was wondering if you could tell me what happened over there.”
“Fire,” the man said without looking up.
“And?” she asked when he didn’t elaborate. Miranda fought to keep her panic at bay. “What happened to the man who lived there?”
“You a friend of his?”
“Not exactly. I employed him. He held something of great value of mine that I’d like returned. That’s why I am here.”
The man paused, wiped his brow, and then leaned on his scythe. “Don’t know he had more than the clothes on back by morning.”
“Nothing more?”
“Fair broke his heart to leave but there’d not been his line of work needed in these parts. Young folks always move on to greener pastures. Nothing else to do but the same.”
Miranda looked at the quiet surroundings with a heavy heart. If Mr. Fenning had lost all she had given him, he would have had no choice but to seek gainful employment elsewhere. “Do you know where he went?”
“Heart of London, I expect. It’s where they all go eventually.”
London was a very large place to look for one gentleman and a small boy. “I don’t suppose he left a message behind should anyone come to call on him?”
“Not as I recall.” The old man sucked on his teeth. “Here now, you’re asking a lot of questions.”
“I do apologize, but it is imperative I find Mr. Fenning.” More important than she’d ever dare let on to this stranger.
The old man hefted his scythe and then laid it beside the house, out of the way. He came closer, his eyes narrowing as he inspected her. He turned his gaze on Martin, where he’d stopped a few feet away to give her privacy. “You Miranda?”
She sagged against the gate. “Yes.”
The old man snorted. “Should have said so in the beginning. Fenning said to be cautious when it came to strangers asking after him, especially when there was a gentleman involved. I have something you’ll want.”
He shuffled into the house, leaving Miranda to wait at the garden gate. She anxiously gripped the wood of it with both hands. Panic crept over her as the time the old man was away lengthened unbearably. She could feel the pulse of her blood as it traveled all the way from her toes to the top of her head. She was too excited to see Christopher again to ever hope to remain calm.
When the old man returned, she glanced behind him eagerly but saw no movement in his shadow. He had only a dirty scrap of paper, much folded and aged in his hand. “He left only this. Said I wasn’t to show it to none but you.”
Miranda took the note but didn’t read it immediately. The state of this man’s garden and the ruined house beyond brought a realization to her. There were weeds thriving inside the burnt-out house Mr. Fenning had once lived in. “How long ago was the fire?”
He considered a moment before answering. “Spring before last.”
Miranda’s legs turned to jelly. Christopher. She clutched the two-year-old message and prayed it contained news that was still valuable to her. Fenning was so long gone that finding him might be impossible. Miranda collected herself enough to smile, but hope threatened to leave her completely. She’d been assured her son would be well taken care of and safe during her recuperation. Taverham’s guardians had lied to her.
From within her glove, she plucked a coin for the man’s troubles and held it out, trying to keep the shake in her hands from his notice. “My thanks, good sir.”
He looked at her outstretched hand and then at Martin as he hurried toward them.
She licked her lips. “For your continued discretion.”
At last he nodded and took the coin. “Someone did come looking for Fenning last year. Not him that’s with you. Skinnier fellow and a pale-haired woman. Didn’t much care for their smiles.”
A chill ran over her skin and clamped ice about her heart. “Do you recall anything further?”
“Top lofty fellow, a swell in boots that never seen a speck of mud they gleamed so brightly. The woman was soft-looking. Pampered.” He shrugged. “The gent poked a bit in the ruins and then they went on their way.”
“What direction did they go?”
“Toward London, same as Fenning.”
“Did you mention where Mr. Fenning had gone to him?”
The old man smiled kindly. “Fellow never asked, so I didn’t have to lie.” He raised his hand to the horizon where dark clouds loomed. “Rain coming. You’d best be on your way.”
He caught up his scythe and disappeared around the back of the house as the first drops pattered the earth around Miranda.
She gratefully took Martin’s offered arm for support and quickly retraced her steps to the carriage. She gave the coachman instructions to return to London and her temporary residence at Mivart’s Hotel on Lower Brook Street. As soon as they were underway, Miranda unfolded the note to r
ead Fenning’s message aloud, ignoring the distraction of her shaking hands as best she could.
You’ll find what you seek where the roads meet and tally seven, one title lower than you married, when the sun is high, and the week at an end.
Oh, thank heavens. Fenning had left her a clue to Christopher’s location in a riddle. Clever, but an odd thing to do just the same.
“I hate puzzles.” Martin grumbled as he shook raindrops off his beaver hat and set it aside. He handed her a blanket, a flask of bitter medicinal her doctors insist she drink when agitated, and a fine sherry glass to pour it into. Given the way her hands shook, Miranda would likely spill the lot.
She handed the glass and medicine back. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all.” Martin unstopped the medicinal and his nose wrinkled at the scent that filled the carriage. “God, this stuff is vile.”
Miranda agreed with him. “Try drinking it.”
He shook his head quickly. “No, thank you. My heart beats at the right pace, unlike yours.”
Miranda quickly downed the bitter potion. When stressed, her heart would beat so erratically and fast that Miranda had fainted dead away more than once. A situation everyone found unnerving and she tried her best to avoid. This potion, and a retiring lifestyle, had reduced her fatigue considerably and prevented further relapses of late. Dealing with Taverham, however, was bound to increase them.
She sat back, attempting to slow her breathing and heartbeat while pondering the message. After a time, some of her tension eased.
“Meet where the roads meet and tally seven. Seven roads. That could be anywhere. Except that Mr. Fenning may have gone to London so he might mean a London location, and perhaps one so well-known to all that we’d be able to guess,” she told Martin.
“The only one I can think of is Seven Dials. Surely he could not mean there?”
Miranda’s heart skipped a beat at the idea that Mr. Fenning had retreated to that location. She was grasping at straws, but that was all she had for now.
She shuddered. Fenning had gone so close to her husband’s London residence that they might even have passed each other on their way about Town. He might have been recognized. Christopher might have been noticed. “Is there another place in London with the same feature of seven roads converging?”
“None springs to mind. One title lower than you married,” Martin murmured, rubbing his jaw as he stared at the paper. He looked up swiftly. “Earlham Street, off Seven Dials.”
“The rest is easier. When the sun is high surely means midday. And the end of the week could mean Sunday.” She eased back into her seat, relieved to have new directions for Fenning and Christopher. Her son was surely safe still. “I cannot wait as long as Sunday to have my son back.”
She pulled the blanket tighter about her. With so much time elapsing since Mr. Fenning had quit the district, Miranda could only hope he still protected what had been entrusted to him.
Martin shifted to sit beside her. He took up her hand and held it firmly. “Miranda, I cannot allow you to go into the Seven Dials. Regardless of your need to retrieve the boy, it’s no place for a lady.”
She pulled her hand free and clutched them together. “Fenning will never hand Christopher over to you without seeing me first. That was our agreement.”
Martin scowled and turned on the bench. “Let me investigate first. Discreetly, and then bring you to the boy when I have found them. You must think of your health. It doesn’t do to become agitated, and traipsing about London’s worst districts isn’t good for you.”
“Yet, what if Fenning sees you and runs? What if Christopher doesn’t remember you and becomes frightened?” She shook her head vigorously. “I cannot allow that to happen, so I will go, alone if your disapproval is so strong. This has gone on long enough. It is all my fault for listening to those three devils. He should have stayed with me despite what the doctors warned could happen to my heart.”
Martin grunted a grudging agreement and sat back, folding his arms over his wide chest. The three devils were Taverham’s former guardians. Grown men with a propensity for meddling and causing even more trouble. As the carriage rolled toward London, a brief shower of rain passed over them and promptly disappeared again. Miranda leaned her head against Martin’s shoulder and tried not to worry over who had sought out Mr. Fenning last year and especially what they might have wanted him for.
Miranda hoped it hadn’t been her husband in that village.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kit’s bedchamber door banged open with neither a knock nor apology, and Viscount Carrington rushed toward him. “Tell me it is true and not a cruel hoax?”
“True. Miranda lives.” Kit frowned. “I thought you’d already left for the country?”
“Not yet, thankfully.” The viscount, a friend but more importantly related to his wife through his own marriage to his wife’s cousin, Agatha, stopped dead in the center of the room and let out a relieved breath. “Agatha will be so pleased to learn her cousin is alive and here once more.”
Kit winced. Since Miranda was not actually here, he felt it best to be honest. “I lost her. Temporarily.”
Carrington gaped at him. “What? Are you sure it was her then?”
“Oh, I am sure.” He straightened his cravat and took his coat from his valet to slip on. He saw little point of hiding anything now, as he was surely the laughingstock of London already. “My wife appeared and then disappeared from the theater. She made sure everyone saw her make a grand reentrance into society. Quite theatrical. She’s not the product of a lonely mind, I assure you.”
“I see.”
Fury built in him anew. Miranda was determined to make him look a fool, and he’d let her get away. The papers this morning were damning. That would change. He glared in the direction of the empty marchioness’s suite. “If I’d imagined her, I’d be much less irritated.”
“Ah.” Carrington shook his head. “You’ve already had an argument.”
“How could that have happened? I’ve barely seen her long enough to get two words spoken. She never gave me a chance to be her husband, and now I have to pay the price for her behavior all over again.”
“It’s a good thing you never loved her. Agatha will never forgive me for suggesting this, but perhaps you should divorce her and be done with the pretense of convincing society you want her back. At least now there’s proof you didn’t murder her as some speculated.” Carrington shook his head. “It shouldn’t prove a difficulty to find a woman who wants to be your marchioness.”
Kit bit the response burning on his tongue. After so long, he could barely remember much about his wife either, but he did remember a little of the way he’d felt about her before they married. He’d been obsessed. Her warm and teasing smiles had hinted she was eager to marry him, and not just for his title. He’d done everything he could to understand why he couldn’t stay out of her bed when he should have. It was a shock now to discover those disquieting feelings of attraction had never completely gone away.
The absence of her affection now was further proof that her suitability to be his wife and marchioness was simply a product of his own flawed thinking. “No divorce. I expect to locate Miranda today and resume our marriage forthwith. I’ll make sure she knows where her place is. She’s made enough of a fool of me, and I’ll be damned if I’ll put up with it a moment longer.”
A throat cleared, a childish pitch that made Kit spin around and stare at the door. Carrington had brought his adopted children with him, and they were standing in his bedchamber no less, listening to him rant and rage about Miranda’s failings. At the door stood the smallest, a girl of barely five and the eldest boy, Simon, gazed at him, wide-eyed in shock.
“Children,” he spluttered, reining in his rising temper quickly.
“Lord Taverham,” they said together, one bowing and one curtsying. They looked at him in such a disapproving manner that he felt uncomfortable.
Kit addressed his friend and sco
wled. “Do you take them everywhere with you?”
“They were with me when I heard the news, so we came straight here together.” Carrington made a feeble attempt to appear cross. “They were supposed to wait below.”
Neither one appeared to take any notice of Carrington’s gentle scold. Kit had never been sure of the boy’s age. Some days Simon appeared very young and others, like today, his world-weary gaze made him seem so much older.
“Mabel wanted to know,” Simon confessed quickly.
At the mention of her name, the little girl ventured closer. “Do you have any lemonade for Simon?”
Kit shook his head.
The little girl looked at him hopefully and then reached out to tug on his coat. “A biscuit? He does love ginger ones.”
Carrington stepped forward and laid a hand on the girls’ head to halt her impertinence. “Forgive her, Taverham. She is young and we are due to return home and shall have tea soon. I know you must have much on your mind. We won’t stay long enough to require entertaining.”
The little girl looked so disappointed by the news that Kit leaned down to the girl’s level. “Forgive me, Miss Mabel. Unfortunately I have no time today to entertain you properly as I must go out. When I return, I will certainly invite you for tea and we can have all the lemonade and ginger biscuits that Simon likes.”
The little girl leaned forward and stared into his eyes. They widened with excitement, and then to his surprise, she kissed his cheek. A little startled by the kiss, Kit touched his face and straightened. Children did not normally warm to him, but these two were an exception. Mabel liked to shock him every chance she got. Simon always had questions about his estate.
He glanced at Carrington quickly. “If she does that to everyone that offers to feed Simon, you may have a problem there, my friend.”
Carrington shrugged. “She is extraordinarily attached to Simon. I swear it’s almost impossible to find him alone except when she sleeps.”