She looked at him, stricken. “What am I to do?”
“My employer is a good friend of the Earl. I know she and her husband will help you. We will get a search on for the boy, and then I will take you to their home.”
Rani’s steps slowed. She bit her lower lip. What was she to do?
David looked back at her, then stopped when he noted her hesitation. “You are frightened, I know. And you don’t know me; however, I vow to you I will protect you. The docks are not a safe place for you to stay.”
He couldn’t imagine what thoughts and emotions must harry her like dogs nipping at her heels. It would be best if she could trust him. How do you convince someone you mean them no harm when they have just had harm done to them? How does one grant trust and accept trust under confusing circumstances?
He saw when her shoulders relaxed. She nodded at him and took a deep breath, as if using the breath in and out to expel some of her fears. He hoped it did.
David led her to a small wood structure built against the last warehouse on the wharf. It was a ramshackle building, an afterthought to the wharf plans, built of the odd bits of construction materials left from building the wharf and warehouses in the past ten years. It was the local office of the Thames River Police.
They stopped in the doorway, their eyes adjusting to the gloom inside. One man in blue uniform pants and jacket stood behind a rough wood counter, leaning his elbows on it as he read a newspaper spread out before him.
“Excuse me,” David interrupted from the entrance.
The man hastily looked up and stuffed the paper behind him.
“A ship came in from India today.”
“Yes, the Lady Abernathy,” the man said, nodding. “Came in on the mornin’ tide.”
“Yes, yes! That is the ship!” Rani said excitedly.
David nodded. “This woman and her charge, a young boy of five, were among the passengers. While she was seeking directions to her destination, an older woman snatched the boy up.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Wearing?”
“Yes, what was he wearing?” the man repeated as he pulled out paper and pencil from below the countertop.
“Orange shirt,” she ran a hand down her arm to indicate long sleeves. “And light-colored pants,” Rani said.
“Shoes?”
“No, just sandals. As I say to this man, Sahib says to me to buy clothes in city.”
“Is the boy Indian?”
Her head bobbled. “Some,” she temporized.
The man’s head jerked up. “Some?”
“His father is English,” David explained.
The man grunted and nodded in understanding. “His name?”
“Christopher Sedgewick,” David said.
“But he is called Krishan or Kit,” Rani added.
He jotted down the name.
“I believe the child is a relative of the Earl of Soothcoor,” David gravely told him.
The man looked up and let out a low whistle through the gap between his front teeth.
