“Is the butler already living at the house?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to send the Bow Street agent to talk to him.”
“Of course! And my name is Montgomery. Lilias Montgomery. I am a widow, and I have brought my family to London so my daughter Aileen might have her come-out under her great aunt’s auspices,” she said, indicating Viscountess Syford.
“Might I call on you tomorrow?” Cecilia asked. “Oh, forgive me, I am Lady Cecilia Branstoke, and this is my husband, Sir James Branstoke.”
“I should be happy to receive you,” Mrs. Montgomery said softly. “Might I keep the flyer?” she asked.
“Yes, of course!”
“Cecilia, we should go now so I might find Mr. Martin before it gets too late,” James said.
James and Cecilia bid their farewells and hurried toward the doorway.
Cecilia stopped briefly to hug Lady Amblethorpe, who jerked back, startled.
“Thank you, Lady Amblethorpe, for granting us permission to speak. Your actions may lead us to solve the mystery of the missing child.”
“You’re quite welcome,” said the flustered woman to their retreating backs, as the Branstokes hurried down the stairs.
11
Cecilia stared up at the bed hangings. She swore she had every fold and pattern memorized such that they stayed in her mind when her eyes closed.
But they weren’t closed now and hadn’t been for some while, and all she could do was stare and think.
She couldn’t tolerate waiting for something to happen. She’d spent too many years in idleness. During her marriage to George Waddley, each day passed like the previous day, time passing with nothing different from one to the next, save the weather. She seldom even knew the day of the week for the sameness of her existence.
With her first husband’s death, she’d been reborn. She became alive to the seasons, alive to the sounds and happenings around her, alive to her own thoughts and feelings. James had done much to awaken her to life. He did not treat her as a possession, a puppet for whom he pulled the strings. James welcomed her as a thinking, acting-upon-life woman—though sometimes he’d shake his head at what he deemed her machinations.
She smiled in the dark. Like the day he’d calmly trusted her to free herself of the ropes Stephen bound her with when they’d been tied up in the Woodhaven Manor basement and nearly burned alive. He was amazing, this husband of hers. Outwardly unflappable and bored with life, inwardly preternaturally canny and alive to everything that went on around him. His outward mask was far better than the one she’d donned as a fragile, sickly woman. And he wore his mask effortlessly.
She turned her head to look at him sleeping beside her, only to find his eyes open, staring at her.
“You are awake. I thought you yet slept.”
“I fear I have slept as little as you have,” he replied, his voice rough with nighttime disuse.
“Hmmm. Yes.” She turned he head to look up at the bed hangings again. “I don’t like not knowing if Mr. Martin received our message or not.”
“Nor I.”
She turned back to face him. “We should go to Mount Street.”
A slow smile pulled at his lips. “I knew you would say that.”
“Well, if you did, why are we still lying abed?” She sat up, tucking her legs underneath her. “What time do you think it is?”
“Too early for your maid or my valet to be stirring.”
“Then we shall fill those roles for each other.” She leaned over to give her husband a kiss, then pulled back quickly before he could pull her down beside him as she knew he was wont to do.
“I suppose as I’ve become adroit at taking your clothes off of you, I can assist you in putting them back on,” he drawled.
Cecilia laughed, threw back the covers and got out of bed, picking up the tinderbox and striker from the table and lighting the candle there.
