Viv and the Wynchesters gathered downstairs in the drawing room to interview the Faircliffes’ maid for future testimony against Leisterdale.
The maid sobbed through the entire process. Hannah was desperate to help but felt useless. She couldn’t even confirm the villain’s identity. “I’m so sorry. I failed the entire family. I never glanced up at the visitor’s eyes or even looked at him directly.”
“The blackguard was probably counting on that,” Marjorie said in disgust. “Lords are used to servants shrinking and cowing before him, heads lowered in deference the entire time.”
Hannah nodded. “The only thing I saw were his boots.”
“Let me guess.” Stephen’s lip curled. “Champagne-shined?”
“Brand-new,” Hannah answered. “As if they’d barely been worn.”
“One must look one’s best when kidnapping a baby,” Tommy said with contempt. “He probably purchases a new ensemble every day and then throws it out, so that he’s always more fashionable than everyone around him.”
Chloe’s forehead creased. “Actually, no, that can’t be right. Leisterdale’s clothing is expensive, of course, but he’s hardly the popinjay of Parliament. He hasn’t changed his wardrobe in years.”
“Perhaps he sent a footman or other lackey?” guessed Stephen.
Tommy shook her head. “A servant doesn’t move with the same bearing as a lord.”
Viv turned back to Hannah. “You didn’t look closely, but you must have some idea of the man’s body shape or a vague sense of whether he was young or old.”
She made a face. “Medium age and medium body?”
Marjorie sighed at the still-blank open page of her sketchbook. “Not tall or short, or fat or thin, or old or young. Just new shoes and a limp.”
Hannah frowned in confusion. “Limp?”
“Leisterdale has a touch of gout,” Chloe explained. “His limp isn’t pronounced, but if you were staring at his feet, you must have noticed.”
“No limp,” Hannah said with renewed confidence. “He was in excellent form. He moved so lightly, he could have been a fencer.”
This time, the Wynchesters exchanged concerned glances. As meager as the description was, it did not match Leisterdale.
“Maybe… his co-conspirator is also a lord?” Viv guessed.
“Describe the boots,” Tommy said suddenly. “Marjorie will sketch them. I know all the best bootmakers. One of them will recognize their own work.”
Marjorie’s pencil flew over her paper. Soon, she ripped the completed sheet from the sketchbook and handed it to Tommy, who tilted her head as she considered the craftsmanship.
“Thank you, Hannah,” said Faircliffe. “You can go now. One of our carriages is waiting out front to take you to a boardinghouse. The first month’s rent has been paid in full, and your final wages are in this pouch.”
The maid scrambled to her feet and made a deep curtsey. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’m so sorry. I hope you catch him. I…” She swallowed hard and then ran from the room.
“That was fair of you,” Kuni said. “I’m not sure I could have forgiven her.”
“She’ll never have her post back,” Faircliffe said grimly, “but her crime was deferring to rank rather than good judgment, which one could argue is what the working classes have been instructed to do for centuries.”
“Youhaveargued that,” Chloe said. “Many times. Voting isn’t the only reform we’re hoping to make. But first things first. Would someone please—”
“I’m going now.” Tommy sprang to her feet, sketch in hand. “If I hurry, I can interview the five most fashionable bootmakers before nightfall.”
“Will that be enough to find Quentin before something worse happens?” Viv asked, terrified her cousin’s case had reverted back to nowhere. And the villain’s crimes were escalating.
The Faircliffes had just had a serious scare, but their baby was fine. Quentin, on the other hand…
“We’ll get him back home safely.” Jacob squeezed her hand. “I swear to you.”
As he touched his free hand to his heart, all the other Wynchesters did the same. In unison, they lifted their fingertips toward the sky.
