All she wanted was her sister back.
She had everything else: a busy, rewarding life, a respected place in her community, friends who shared her interests, and the wherewithal to help better other women’s circumstances. Her charities were making a difference, not just holding meetings. She ran orphanages and training schools and hospitals. Ellianne Kane answered to no one and feared no one.
No, that was not true. She did fear being forced into marriage by some man unscrupulous enough to abduct her, as she feared had happened to Isabelle. Kidnapings were not that uncommon, according to Mr. Lattimer of Bow Street. No ransom note had been received, however.
Lord Wellstone would know the people she had to speak to about her sister’s disappearance, and he would know just which greedy, groping gentlemen Ellianne had to avoid meanwhile. If he was not one of them, he would certainly recognize their kind. According to Timms, his lordship was circumspect in his dealings, so could protect both her and Isabelle’s reputations. His size and strength alone afforded physical protection.
“So what do you think, Atlas? Will he do?”
He’d have to. If Lattimer was no help, and Ellianne could not get in to speak to Baron Strickland, Lord Wellstone was her best hope.
Atlas growled at his own shadow.
Chapter Seven
“So, will she do?” Gwen wanted to know.
“Do for what?” Stony replied. “For the farce between dramas at Drury Lane? For the interment of a truly despised relation? You may send Miss Kane to star in either, with my blessings.”
“For your wife, silly! You know that is what we intended.”
“No, that is what you intended. I would rather marry the old auntie. At least she does not speak.” The two were attending a musical evening at Lady Woodruff’s, not a particular friend, and not a favorite form of entertainment. Gwen, however, had decreed that they had to go, to show their faces so no one thought they were ashamed of anything or in retreat. One of the Misses Woodruff—the unfortunate Lord Woodruff had been presented with four frilly tokens of his wife’s affection, with nary an heir—thought she could play the flute, to another of her sisters’ accompaniment on the pianoforte. Neither could follow the other or the musical score, so Stony was suffering through two horrible renditions instead of one. All he had to look forward to was the other untalented pair, one singing, the other on the harp. Or was that the harpsichord?
“What was so awful about Miss Kane? Nothing that cannot be improved, I am convinced,” Gwen whispered, but a matron on her other side glared at her. An aunt of the Woodruffs’, undoubtedly.
Stony waited for the obligatory applause between pieces. “Even you would be appalled. She is a long Meg, for one, thin as a rail, and with the fashion sense of a simian. I have no idea of her age, but she might be rather old for childbearing, which renders her useless to a man seeking an heir. She has manners, but only when she remembers to use them. She is awkward and addlepated, at the least.”
“Yes, but money can fix a great deal.”
Stony raised his eyebrows. “Her height? Her age? Her lunacy? I think not.”
Gwen’s eyes started to fill with tears of disappointment.
“Deuce take it, you are not going to cry here, are you?” Stony pulled out his handkerchief. “Cough instead.”
So Gwen coughed, and Stony excused themselves to those seated nearby. The viscount and his stepmama fled to the adjoining room, where servants were setting out bowls of punch. Gwen’s tears instantly disappeared, fortunately. They could still hear the music, unfortunately.
Placed in a much more comfortable chair than the hard-backed wooden seats in the music room, Gwen tried again. “Surely the young woman cannot be totally ineligible, dear. You have always been able to discern and enhance the best qualities of those females in your care.”
“The best quality about Miss Kane is that she is not in my care. Rid yourself of the notion of her as a daughter-in-law, Gwen. Even if I were interested, which I swear I am not and never could be, were her father King Midas or a coal miner, she is not looking for a husband. She says she has no intention of attending balls and such, and the way she dresses could only discourage the most ardent suitor, rather than attract any.”
“Then what does she want with your escort?”
“I have no idea, and never will find out, now. That is, Miss Kane does not want me as an attendant.” Which still rankled, despite his relief. “She decided not to engage my services after all.”
“Oh my. She must truly be peculiar to decline your company.”
Stony patted Gwen’s hand in thanks for her gratifying but biased opinion. “Worse yet, she seems to prefer the attentions of a Mr. Lattimer, who is nothing but a Bow Street man.”
Gwen had never met one of the new policemen. “Perhaps she developed a tendre for the gentleman who was investigating her aunt’s death, and that is why she has no interest in finding another suitor. After all, the Kane Bank heiress can wed wherever her heart wishes, without needing to consider income or social standing.”
“But a Runner, who is hardly considered a gentleman? No, I do not think Miss Kane bears affection for the fellow.” Stony had seen signs of infatuation aplenty in the young girls he’d chaperoned. Miss Kane showed none of those indications: no lilt to her voice when she mentioned Lattimer’s name, no blush of color at the thought of her beau, no oblivion to any other gentleman’s existence.
“Worse,” Stony went on, “I believe she is considering that old reprobate Strickland to fill whatever need she has.”
“The baron? He is not so bad.”
“How can you say that, Gwen? Everyone knows he gambled away his entire estate years ago.”
“As your father would have done, if the property were not entailed to you. And, as you say, that was years ago. He has never been in debtors’ prison, has he?”
“He has been in enough houses of ill repute to make up for that.”
Gwen did not need to mention Stony’s father again, or as he was before her time, of course. “No more so than many gentlemen.”
Stony frowned. “Why are you defending the man, Gwen?”
She fanned herself, so that anyone coming into the room would believe she had been taken ill. “He has always treated me courteously enough, the few times we met. He looked lonely, I thought. If your Miss Kane is as old as you think, she might find Lord Strickland attractive.”
“He is fat, in his fifties, and wears his breakfast to dinner. Great gods, how could any woman be attracted to him?”
Gwen fanned harder as the applause became louder and more enthusiastic, signaling the intermission. Soon the other guests would pour into this room for much needed—and well-deserved refreshments. “If Miss Kane is as odd as you say, she cannot afford to be so choosy.”
Stony bowed and nodded to the members of the audience who’d run fastest out of the music room. Gwen coughed a few times, discouraging anyone who would have approached them. “Still,” she said, behind her fan, “it is a shame, your not securing her confidence.” Or her hand, although Gwen could not like an attics-to-let spinster for a stepdaughter-in-law. If they were barely holding on to their position in society now, who knew what a vacant-headed viscountess would do. “I know you could have used the money. But just think, dear, that if Miss Kane is so impossible, you are well rid of her.”
“Who said I am rid of the woman? I have every intention of returning to Sloane Street in a day or two.”
Now tears truly came to Gwen’s eyes. She hated the thought of her dear stepson debasing himself, begging for work from a harebrained heiress. “If it is about the money, I could sell—”
“It is not the money,” Stony said, surprising himself more than Gwen. “It is the woman. I think she needs help.”
“Oh, Aubrey, not another lost lamb?”
He nodded. “How could I sleep at night, thinking of what could happen to a woman of great means but little sense? You said it yourself, but she would not be a lamb going
off to slaughter here in London. She would be stew. Once I see that someone honorable is looking after Miss Kane, then I can rest easy.”
No matter what Stony said, he slept perfectly fine, despite a green-eyed crow flying through his dreams, screeching in distress. That screeching was Miss Woodruff’s singing, yet he managed to sleep right through the second half of the musical program.
*
The day following Lord Wellstone’s call, Ellianne tried once more to speak with Baron Strickland. She had gone to his house the first day she arrived in London, of course, since he was the most logical person to ask about Isabelle. Hadn’t he been a friend of Aunt Augusta’s? Hadn’t Isabelle mentioned his name in her last letter? Hadn’t he seemed a slimy toad eight years ago when Ellianne came to town for her own so-called presentation?
Two conversations with the baron and one with her aunt had convinced Ellianne she was better off home. They were intending to see her wed to his lordship, no matter her own wishes. Aunt Augusta was determined to see her niece marry into the aristocracy, with the least expense to her. Lord Strickland wanted to get back the estate he had forfeited years earlier to Kane Bank, lands that now belonged to Ellianne and her sister. Marrying the heiress seemed the quickest, easiest, cheapest way to redeem his property. He seemed to think that slobbering on her would hasten the engagement. Ellianne thought differently, and thought she would be happier at home in Devon, single.
Of course, she was a great deal less experienced then or else she might have been able to discourage the baron’s attentions without kicking him in the groin, but so she had. Which was no reason, she felt now, for him to refuse to see her.
She knew he was home that first day. The insolent servant who answered her knock had almost slammed the door in her black-veiled face.
“But I am an acquaintance of his lordship’s. He will wish to see me.”
An old hag, accompanied by an older one and a stooped chap who was older than the two of them added together? Country relatives or collectors for charity, he decided on the spot. No, Lord Strickland would not want them in his house, not by half. Kimble’s job did not pay much, or often, but he wanted to keep it. “’Is lordship ain’t to home.”
Ellianne had seen draperies on the upper level pulled aside when her hired coach pulled up. Someone was there. She took a coin out of her reticule. She almost took the small pistol out, to wipe the grin from the servant’s face, but thought that might be premature. She was right. For the glint of gold, Kimble agreed to take her card up to his master.
Lord Strickland could not see her, the man said with real regret, seeing the gold turn to copper. “He is, ah, indisposed.”
“But he is home? We shall wait.” Ellianne handed him two coins, one to tell his master that he had guests, the other to bring refreshments, for her man Timmy needed a restorative.
“Wine will do, my good man,” the old chap said, “and God bless you for the effort and a good year.”
Ellianne sighed and handed over another coin.
Wine and some slivers of toast arrived, but not Strickland. They could hear feet hurrying down the stairs, some muffled shouts, and a rear door slamming.
“I am that sorry, ma’am,” the servant reported, not looking at her, “but ’is lordship was called away on business.”
“I see.”
So did Aunt Lally, whose vow of silence lapsed. “Ran off, did the old bugger? You should have kicked him in the brainbox, Ellianne. Bigger target than his b— Ooph.” Aunt Lally rubbed at her side, where her niece’s elbow had connected.
Ellianne held out yet another coin. “What about the lady of the house?”
“There’s never been a lady in this house, not since I came, ma’am. Some of the other sort, but none you’d be a-wishing to meet.”
“Now? Is Lord Strickland entertaining any female company? Did anyone leave with him, or is there a woman still upstairs?”
The baron’s man eyed the coin. Lud, the master would have his hide for sure. Kimble was torn between fealty to the gent who paid his pitiful pittance of a wage, or another coin to join its jingling fellows in his pocket until he could get to Sukey Johnson’s rooms. Loyalty might have stood up to greed, but not when lust entered the lists. “No, he ain’t brought no fancy piece here in an age. Why sup at home when the menu somewheres else is bigger, better, and changes every night?” He licked his lips, thinking of Sukey Johnson’s tender morsels.
Ellianne was really tempted to use that pistol—on Strickland or his man, she did not care which. She handed over a last coin instead. “This is to see that your employer gets my message. I would like him to call on me in Sloane Street. At his earliest convenience, is that clear?”
It could not be clearer, nor could Strickland’s guilty conscience. He had not called. Nor had he answered the notes she sent ’round. Why would the man refuse to see her if he had nothing to hide? He could not still be angry over that kick, could he? After all, if he were still visiting houses of accommodation, he could not have been permanently discommoded.
This time Ellianne and her aunt took two footmen, determined to gain entry by bribes or by brawn. The knocker was off the door, however, signaling that Lord Strickland was out of town, out of range of her questions. No one answered the door, no servant to bribe, not even a caretaker.
“Limp-rod loped off,” Aunt Lally said, and Ellianne did not have the heart to chide her for the language.
She went home and sent for Mr. Lattimer, the Bow Street man she’d hired to find Isabelle. Now she wanted him to locate the baron too.
He was not encouraging. With no crime committed, he could not get warrants and such. Not to investigate a titled gentleman. Everyone knew Bow Street’s funding depended on the votes in Parliament, votes by other gentlemen who considered themselves and their cronies above the law.
“But he is guilty of something. I know it,” Ellianne insisted.
Lattimer would ask around. That was all he could do, no matter how much of a reward Miss Kane promised. As a young, ambitious man, there was nothing Lattimer wanted more than to please his employer. Finding a lost heiress would be a feather in his cap and a promotion in his career, to say nothing of the blunt in his pocket.
He was not quite ambitious enough to think that Miss Kane’s gratitude, if he found her missing sister, would extend to more than pay and praise. But he could hope. For now he was nothing more than a hired investigator, paid to make inquiries without making a byword of Miss Isabelle Kane’s name. Why, he was not even supposed to tell anyone the identity of his employer. His superiors knew, of course, but they did not want her presence in London spread through the newspapers, either, for fear they’d have another abduction on their hands. Bad business, they said, when rich young women were not safe in the streets. Another kidnaping would prove their uselessness.
Of course, none of his superiors believed the girl was stolen from her home. A ransom note would have been received long ago, or a tearful bride would have been returned from Gretna Green, with a new husband ready to claim her dowry. They did not believe she was dead, either, or they’d have found a body.
No, what Lattimer’s bosses thought, and what he was tending to believe, was that the young woman, barely nineteen, had run off with a gentleman of whom her aunt disapproved. They’d fought, the aunt died, the girl ran into the arms of her lover. Now she was hiding, and would not be found until she was deuced well ready—or until a bright, talented investigator outsmarted her.
The problem was that Lattimer could not get to speak with the young ladies Miss Isabelle might have confided in. He could not question the matrons who might have noted her dance partners. He could not ask the gentlemen at White’s if one of them had an heiress stashed in his attics. Hell, without the proper papers, he could not get past the door of White’s or into a lady’s drawing room. Without a body, or evidence of a crime, he could not get those papers.
Stymied, that was what Lattimer was, and more disappointed at disappointing Miss Kan
e than anything.
“I am sure you are doing your best,” Ellianne told the earnest young man who was flipping the pages of his daybook over and over, as if he could find answers at the next shuffle. He was near her age, with thick brown hair and ears that only protruded a bit more than they should. He was polite and intelligent, neatly dressed and hardworking, the kind of man she would have welcomed at the bank. The problem was that Lattimer’s best was not good enough.
Isabelle could be held captive somewhere. She could be stranded in Scotland. She could be on a ship bound for the white slave trade! Ellianne had to find her. She’d promised her dying mother to look after the baby, and she had promised her dying father to keep his beloved little girl safe. She had worked so hard to keep Isabelle’s fortune protected from unscrupulous trustees, to keep Isabelle herself protected from unworthy suitors. The nine years between them might have been nineteen, so careful was Ellianne of Isabelle’s health and happiness. Why, she had even urged the girl to accept Aunt Augusta’s invitation, so that Isabelle might see more of society, in case her future lay in that direction.
Ellianne herself was nearly as disdainful of the idle upper class as Aunt Lally was, but she would not have discouraged Isabelle from marrying a title, not if the man was a true good and gentle man and their affections were truly engaged. The fellow would be the father of the nieces and nephews Ellianne was eager to dote upon, so she would come to love him too, for her sister’s sake.
That man, whoever he was, would not have been cad enough to run away to Scotland with Isabelle. No, Ellianne would not believe that her sister was staying away out of choice, not without telling Ellianne. That was too cruel. Isabelle was as selfish and spoiled as any wealthy miss of nineteen years, but she was never mean. She loved her older sister, and knew that Ellianne loved her.
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