Gracious. Those could be Isolde’s own future children in just a handful of years.
Arriving at the Serpentine, they followed the shore to the cement bulwark at its southern end—the point at which the River Westbourne had been dammed to create the lake. The path continued right onto the top of the dam, the retention wall dropping straight into the water. Children ran about here—some shooting marbles and some playing tag—all under the watchful gaze of nurses and maids. No railing or balustrade separated the path from a perilous drop into the water. A childish tumble could easily turn deadly.
Pausing, they surveyed the expanse of water, Allie and Isolde keeping some space between themselves and Lady Lavinia. Isolde had no desire to experience more of the lady’s vitriol.
Cousin Aubrey, in an attempt to redeem his manhood, explained how the dam had been built. Or rather, shouted his explanation over the crying and laughter of the children.
He carried on for several minutes. “As you can see, the cement poured here provides . . .”
Screams from two boys playing marbles on the level flagstones drowned out the rest of Aubrey’s words.
“. . . and then an outlet was built for the river to flow—”
A particularly loud shout of triumph from a blonde boy interrupted Aubrey’s pontificating.
At that point, the duchess made her impatience known.
“Yes, that is all well and good, I am sure, but my ears grow tired of this mayhem.” She glanced pointedly at the children darting to collect the rolling glass marbles, a nurse bending to help them. “Ah, look. I believe I see an acquaintance. Shall we walk on?”
The duchess pivoted and continued walking without looking to see if they would heed her words.
Ethan lifted a hand to Allie, gesturing for her to join him.
Stifling a smile, Isolde turned to follow.
Two of the children playing tag raced past, causing her to pull up quickly to avoid running into them. Instinctively, she placed herself between the children and the lake.
At the same moment, a pair of hands pushed against her upper spine—hard—sending Isolde pitching toward the water.
Arms windmilling for one breathless second, she teetered on the edge of the dam. And then her body lost its war with gravity, tipping over the edge. Intuitively, Isolde twisted in the air as she fell, anything to avoid hitting the water face first.
This meant she caught Lady Lavinia’s triumphant smirk and a wee boy shouting, “The lady pushed her!”
And then, the cold, dark water of the Serpentine swallowed Isolde whole.
16
Tristan alighted from his carriage, motioning for the footmen to remain in their high perches behind the coach.
This was his final stop of the day—the last clue from his newspaper advertisement to hunt down. This particular reply was intriguing. Some informants came to Gilbert House in person with their information, but this one had simply included an address and a terse message written in a crude hand.
I know what happened to Mr. Adam Ledger. I will tell only if ye promise that the bobbies won’t be called.
The note was the first to lack obsequious words and fawning promises. Instead, the tone sounded careful and even a mite scared. If this person was afraid that the police would be summoned, it meant that whatever they had to reveal was not precisely legal. All of which, naturally, amplified Tristan’s concern. If this was a legitimate source, what nefarious thing had occurred?
Of course, like every other missive, this one could simply be a dead end, as well.
The address had led him to a ramshackle boarding house on the fringe of Seven Dials, the grimmest rookery in London. Though not within the rookery itself, the townhouse had certainly seen better days. Its shutters hung loose at ungainlyangles, and refuse gathered in murky heaps beside the front stoop.
Tristan climbed the dirty steps and rapped the grimy door with the head of his walking stick. The proprietress answered—a middle-aged woman with hair pulled into a severe bun and an equally severe expression upon her face. Unlike Ledger’s sister, this woman looked Tristan and his gleaming carriage up and down with wary disdain.
“Can I help ye, sir?” she said in a thick Northumberland accent.
“I am Kendall. I received a summons from this address.” He waved the battered bit of foolscap in his gloved hand. “Someone here claims to have knowledge as to Mr. Adam Ledger’s whereabouts.”
The woman licked her lips. “I never said nuffin’ about knowing Mr. Ledger’s current location.”
“You are the sender of this then?” He tipped the foolscap in his hand.
