He lifted a finger and summoned a footman. “Check the books for a Mister Marcus Smith.”
The footman scuttled away.
Pen gaped.
“Yes, it is as easy as that.”
Alworth refilled her brandy glass—he counted for the third time—and mentally set a bet with himself that she’d pour it into the poor Philodendron before the footman returned.
He was right.
The moment he turned aside to fiddle with his cigar case, her hand shot out and, to his great delight, tipped the contents of her glass into the plant. She’ll kill it before the afternoon was over. It was a challenge for him to keep a deadpan expression on his face.
The footman returned not five minutes later. “There is no Marcus Smith in the books, my lord.”
Pen groaned. “But he must be! He said he played cards here. Most definitely. Can you check again?”
“I am sorry, sir. I am positive the name does not appear anywhere.”
“But—”
“Very well. Thank you,” Alworth intervened. He flipped a coin at the footman, who caught it deftly.
Turning to Pen, he said, “I must say, I spend quite a bit of my time in this club. In fact, I veritably live here. I have never had the pleasure to encounter a Mr Marcus Smith in the last fifteen or so years I have been a member here.”
“I don’t understand it.” Pen tore at her already dishevelled hair. “Now what am I to do?”
“May I enquire as to who this Marcus Smith is? Since you assume him to be a member here, he must be a gentleman of quality. Is he a relative?”
“He’s my guardian.”
“Guardian! Well.” Alworth digested this piece of information. “He certainly doesn’t seem to take his duties as a guardian very seriously.”
Pen sat up straight. “He is the best guardian in the world! There is none better.”
“Indeed.” Alworth raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say. Aside from the fact that you’ve misplaced your guardian and don’t know where to find him, do you have any idea at all what he does? Does he have an occupation? He must be residing somewhere.”
Pen grumbled something.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, I’m not entirely sure what he does. He no longer lives in Bird Street. I thought he’d be here because he mentioned playing cards at White’s. I am certain he must be in the books, and the footman did not look properly.”
“How excessively odd.” Alworth put out his cheroot, deep in thought. “Let us sum up the facts. Your quest, I gather, is to find this Marcus Smith. Who is your guardian. Who, contrary to every definition of guardianship, is quite content in leaving his charge romping alone about town. Are you even of age?”
“Not that it is any of your business, but I will come into my majority in four years.”
“So you are. Additionally, this guardian of yours is being most uncooperative by not being a member of this illustrious club. Are you certain he is in London to begin with?”
Pen paled. “He must be! Where else should he be?” She jumped up and walked up and down in agitation.
Alworth admired her slim figure, her shapely legs and the manly stride she’d acquired. She also adopted the manner of pulling her hand through her hair. She made a pretty, if somewhat dishevelled youth. He wondered what she looked like as a girl. She must be quite incomparable in skirts.
As if she suddenly recalled a detail, Pen spun to look at him. “I just remembered something. He could certainly be travelling since he works for the East India Company… I think. I am not certain. He might be abroad. Maybe even in India. Then what do I do?” The look of despair on her face touched him.
“My dear boy. Sit down.”
She plopped back into her chair and chewed on her fingernails.
