“Because that’s how I would have written it.”
Tommy and Adrian exchanged skeptical looks.
“I knowQuentin,” Miss Henry explained. “He may be as chaotic as a badger in a parlor, but he’s a good person when he’s not trying to be like one of you. We have a good rhythm. I cook his favorite meals, and we eat together every morning and night. My cousin might make plans without sharing them with me in advance, but he would never worry me this long on purpose. The fact that he hasn’t communicated with me means that hecannot. Something has happened to him.”
“Yet his friends aren’t worried,” Jacob reminded her. “They insist he’s fine, and is off just being Quentin. Is it possible he’s communicated his safety tothem, and their sense of loyalty is preventing them from sharing those details with you?”
Her lips twisted with annoyance, but her eyes held a glimmer of hope.
“Yes, actually,” she said. “Those scamps love to have a secret.”
“There you go.” Tommy slumped back against the sofa in obvious relief. “Case solved.”
“Solved?” Miss Henry repeated in disbelief. “I still don’t knowwherehe is! I should have known you lot would do nothing.”
Jacob jumped in, “Tommy just means that he’s grown, and there’s a logical explanation, even if it’s one you don’t like. I said we’d look for him, and we will. But please recognize you’ve given us a million potential hiding places, and no actual indication anything is wrong.”
She rolled back her shoulders. “For his sake, I hope you’re right. I’d rather him be deeply thoughtless and irresponsible than hurt or in danger.”
“He’s probably fine,” Jacob agreed. “But in the spirit of thoroughness, we will make the rounds to the best of our ability.”
“Do you have a portrait of your cousin?” Marjorie asked. “I can sketch from your descriptions, but an existing likeness will improve accuracy.”
Miss Henry handed her a painted miniature. “We sat for this a decade ago, just before his mother died. It’s the only family portrait we own, and I’m afraid he’s eight years old in it.”
“Coloring and bone structure won’t have changed that much.” Marjorie pulled out a pencil and a sketchbook and moved to crouch next to Miss Henry’s armchair. “And you’re here. Describe his eyebrows?”
“His…” Miss Henry bit her lip. “Not too thick. Gently arched. Slightly higher on the left side.”
Marjorie’s pencil flew across the page. “Nose?”
Within ten minutes, she brandished what their new client proclaimed to be a surprisingly accurate likeness of her missing cousin.
“Brilliant.” Marjorie handed the sketch to Jacob. “My brother will take it from here. If you need anything at all, just ask for Jacob.”
He glared at her.Stop matchmaking.
She fluttered her eyes.
He turned back to Miss Henry. “Don’t be surprised if word of our search gets back to him and he comes home first on his own.”
A wry smile lit her face. “Once you visit his friends, that actuallymight happen. They idolize your investigative skills, and Quentin would never miss the perfect chance to say ‘I told you so.’ As for payment, I can’t offer you much now, but Quentin can compensate you fairly once you find him. His trust is small, so it might take a while to—”
“It’s no problem,” Jacob assured her. “We don’t need your money. We just want to find your cousin. And we will.”
For the first time, Miss Henry looked at him as though he might be a hero after all.
Something unlocked deep within Jacob’s chest. Something warm and fluttery. He wanted Miss Henry to keep looking at him like that.
Alas, nothing ever quite goes to plan.
8
The next morning, Jacob broke his fast early. Marjorie and Adrian had spent hours making copies of Quentin’s likeness. Jacob was needed on no fewer than five different missions, but he managed to stage one of Graham’s dwindling informants at every address Miss Henry had provided, armed with a portrait of Quentin and instructions to report back every detail they witnessed.
Philippa’s book club was busy writing to every church, hospital, gaol, and gentlemen’s club in a hundred-mile radius. Chloe loaned them her husband’s seal to frank the letters, because no administration would ignore an inquiry from the Duke of Faircliffe. Given that no one on his team had a spare moment to breathe, Jacob had the case as much in control as possible.
With Miss Henry, on the other hand, Jacob was at sixes and sevens. He would love to be the victorious warrior of the tale, riding in like a shining knight atop his faithful stallion—or, more likely, prancing in sideways atop Sheepshanks, the trick circus horse he’d rescued a few years ago.
