Pen shrugged. “Bah. I neither know nor care.”
He spluttered.
She turned to the clerk. “I insist it is my turn now.”
“It appears some clodhoppers still need to learn appropriate habits of this country and learn to defer to their betters,” he said with a sneer at the clerk. “’Twas well done of us to introduce some much-needed civilisation to these savages.”
The clerk drew himself up stiffly and faced him. “I do believe it is true that this gentleman here has been waiting for over an hour.” He nodded at Pen. “I believe you are next.”
Blackstone jabbed a finger at Pen. “I will remember your face.” He turned to the clerk. “Yours as well.” He stormed out of the room.
The clerk ignored him. “Follow me, please.”
“Thank you,” Pen said breathlessly, as she hurried after him down the hall. “I hope he won’t make any trouble for you. He seems to be the choleric, unpleasant sort of man who enjoys causing trouble for the sake of it.”
“Never fear. We have to deal with people like him daily.” He hesitated before adding, “I lived in India for over twenty years. In fact, my wife is Indian.” A small smile flitted over his tired face. “Alas, she isn’t finding it easy adjusting to life in London.”
He opened the door to an office and ushered her in. It held a desk and shelves which were crammed with papers and ledgers. He pointed to a chair.
“Now. How may I help you, sir?”
The East India Companyhad no records of any Marcus Smith in their employ. No book, ledger, register, or record held his name in any sort of function. He had never worked there, period. Only the passenger book held an entry that a Mr Marcus Smith, together with his valet, Fariq, and his ward, Miss Penelope Reid, had crossed on theEast Indianfrom Bombay in Spring of 1814, but there was no further information other than what she already knew.
“There is nothing more I can do for you, I am afraid.” The clerk closed the leather book. He threw her a sympathetic look.
Pen sagged back into her chair. “Can I ask you something? Where would I go to find a person in London? If I didn’t know where they lived or worked?”
“If you ask me, it is like finding a needle in a haystack. Especially with that name. Smith.” The clerk shook his head. “You might try the Bow Street Runners. We have thousands of Smiths living in this city. It is impossible on your own. I am very sorry I could not be of more help.” He took off his glasses again and looked at her through pale blue, watery eyes.
Pen’s shoulders slacked. “Thank you for your help, nonetheless.”
Pen returnedto her lodgings and fell onto her bed exhausted, with her boots on.
This Lord Alworth had suggested lawyers and banks. However, she did not know who Marcus’s lawyer was. She remembered overhearing Miss Hilversham mentioning once that the Bank of London regularly transferred her tuition fees.
She’d have to visit the bank on the morrow.
However, the next day, Pen did not accomplish anything at the Bank of London either. When she exited the stately building on Threadneedle Street, she was close to giving up the search for Marcus and returning to Bath.
She returned to the club to wait for Alworth. After all, he had said to meet her there. She ordered a glass of seltzer and sat down in one of the leather armchairs facing the fireplace.
She closed her eyes and tried to call up an image of Marcus’ face and found she could no longer recall the precise features. It was blurry, vague. Instead, the smirking blond image of Alworth pushed itself forward. His smoky eyes confused her, the perpetual grin on his face infuriated her, and he was clearly a dandy and good for nothing who had nothing else in his brain other than the colour of his waistcoat and the cut of his boots. He had also gathered a surprisingly correct amount of knowledge on Indian geography, besides a smattering of Hindi, Pen grudgingly admitted. He was more intelligent than he led on. She did not know what to think of him.
He’d asked her to call him Archie.
She felt herself flush.
Why had he followed her to the Hindoostanee Cafe? Why had he helped her into White’s?
He had been enormously friendly to her, vouching for her at White’s. Pen frowned. She mistrusted people who were overly friendly. What was his motive? What did he want from her?
A group of men entered. They were dressed in the pink of fashion and slightly drunk, even though it was not even noontime. Pen picked up a newspaper and slouched lower into her leather armchair, hoping they’d ignore her.
“‘Pon rep, Forsythe’s wager was beyond the pale. ’Tis a shame he lost. What shall we bet upon now?” The man who uttered this took a big gulp from his brandy glass and belched.
“A bet, a bet! I have one. Here it is. Let us bet that there ain’t but twenty curricles a minute that drive down St. James’s—”
“Boring!” the other men interrupted in unison.
