“Badgers are the natural predator of hedgehogs,” Jacob informed Miss Henry.
“Mm-hm,” she said without glancing up.
Perhaps she’d acquired Rufus for that precise reason. So he would attack innocent little hedgehogs like Tickletums. Or anyone who smelled hedgehog-friendly.
There could not be a clearer sign that Jacob and Miss Henry did not belong together.
Keeping watch on the allegedly napping beast out of the corner of one eye, Jacob made his way around the Henry home on scratched but silent feet.
There were only four rooms, including the kitchen. The next room was a small parlor, containing a pair of armchairs, an unlit fireplace, and mantel piled with curious artifacts. He made a note of the contents on a blank page of the poetry journal he carried in his pocket:
thick wax impression of a cameo
travel cutlery
unicorn-shaped lock plate
loose gears (from old pocket watch?)
Back when Jacob was still confined to the circus, how he would have longed for lodgings such as these! A parlor in which to place his belongings.Havingany belongings, to begin with. A private bedchamber of his own? Unthinkable luxury.
Then he’d met Baron Vanderbean, and everything had changed. Instead of sleeping in a tent that smelled of animals, Jacob suddenlylived in a two-wing residence with so many rooms, most were left empty. It often still didn’t feel real.
The Henry home was a vast improvement over the poverty of Jacob’s youth, but still a far cry from the Wynchester mansion in Islington. It was curious that Quentin should have a trust fund yet only be able to afford cramped rooms in a rather poor section of town.
Normally, enquiring about someone else’s finances was none of one’s business, but in this case, perhaps there was a pertinent detail the Wynchesters ought to know.
Jacob turned from the parlor and faced the other two rooms. Both bedchamber doors were open. Miss Henry’s was barely large enough to fit a narrow bed and a small wardrobe. It was so neat, it almost looked as though no one lived there. From this, Jacob could only conclude that the detritus in the parlor belonged to Quentin and not the missing lad’s cousin.
The final room was Quentin’s bedchamber. The interior looked like a tempest had blown through, followed by a hurricane, and perhaps a tidal wave. Or wolves.
Jacob wished he were with those wolves now. He was not at all convinced he was the right Wynchester to send on an exploratory investigation. His domain was inside the barn, not out in the field. And he absolutely did not know what to do with Miss Henry.
Nonetheless, he tried to pick his way through Quentin’s room as carefully as he could. He jotted down notes of everything he observed, in case it was useful later.
The number and style of waistcoats. The rapier under the bed, next to a dried-out paint set. A pile of chalk, some of which had been crushed to powder. A collection of glass jars filled with random objects: marbles, feathers, tiny wheels. A stack of penny caricatures poking fun at Parliament and polite society.
And… what was this? Jacob flipped through the next stack ofclippings with bemusement. A four-inch stack of gossip columns and newspaper articles about the Wynchester family. Everything from cases they’d won to hand-painted illustrations of Chloe’s latest bonnets.
Perhaps Tommy was right. Was this what Miss Henry had elided, when she’d stressed that her cousin had gone missing dressed as a normal boy? Did Quentin long for ribbons and ostrich feathers, only to be told by society—and his cousin—that men were not allowed such fripperies?
When he felt he’d amassed a comprehensive list of the disparate props making up the missing lad’s life, Jacob made his way back to the kitchen.
He came up behind Miss Henry as silently as he could, not because he wished to startle her, but because he did not wish to wake the sleeping attack badger at her feet.
“All finished?” she asked, again without looking up.
Apparently, he had not been as silent as he’d thought. At least he hadn’t awakened the badger.
“For now,” he answered, then hesitated. “I came across quite a bit of intelligence gathered in relation to my family.”
“He’s your biggest admirer,” she said in the same tone as one might regard a fondness for bathing in cesspools. “He’d rather be related to you than to me.”
A sore spot, clearly. Perhaps there was a reason Quentin wished to separate himself from his family. Was there a nice way to ask if perhaps the sketch Marjorie had made of him didn’t quite tell the whole story? No easy way, but out with it.
“If your cousin is off with a lover and you’re not giving me the details we need to narrow the search, we’re not going to be able to help you.”
“To my knowledge, Quentin has never been enamored withanyone,” Miss Henry said in surprise. “Though he has acted uncharacteristically secretive lately, he knows all I care about is his safety and his happiness. I cannot imagine him keeping the identity of a paramour secret for long.”
