Abduction was the only reason Rafe could imagine. Ransoming Miss Marlowe? He shuddered.
At Henri’s startling announcement, Damien’s hand dropped to a hidden weapon in readiness. If even sensible Damien reacted aggressively, Rafe had little hope that Fletch hadn’t gone off half-cocked, without considering there might be a rational reason for the busy ladies to have left.
On the stage, expressions varied from disinterest to disdain to concern. They were actors, after all. Any one, or all, of them could have been faking their reaction.
Jacques’ friend, apparently the only non-actor among them, was the one to reply. “All we know of the Jamesons is that Miss Vivien is a creative seamstress who helped design our costumes. Her sister sewed them. One day, a man came to our door with a costume they had completed. He told us the Jamesons would be sewing for us privately and not through Mrs. Marie.” He shrugged expressively. “It happens.”
“You thought Mrs. Marie was refusing you as clients,” Jacques translated.
Arnaud and Henri glanced up from binding the now sullen children with their neckcloths. Hunt paced.
Fists clenched at his side, Rafe listened. Actors, as a whole, weren’t welcome everywhere. This unusual troupe. . . was technically breaking laws. But everyone knew playactors cross-dressed. Most people didn’t care what happened on a stage. It was outside the stage. . . they could be judgmental.
Reynard bowed his head in acknowledgment. “After that, we enjoyed the luxury of private fittings, until one day we realized small objects were disappearing. When an entire coin purse disappeared, we couldn’t pay our bill. The Jamesons refused to finish their work until we paid. They held the fabrics we’d already purchased through Mrs. Marie as hostage. We’d worked for a season for the funds to pay for those costumes.”
“So you are claiming all the Jamesons are thieves?” Rafe asked, wanting complete clarification. “That doesn’t make them kidnappers.” He added that last to see if he was translating Hunt’s rage correctly.
He desperately wanted someone to shout from the bar that they’d seen the ladies walking back to the manor, but the crowd had been in here, watching the performance. Surely Hunt had sent men up to verify the women hadn’t gone home. . .
That’s why Jack was missing. Rafe swallowed hard. If Lavender wasn’t at the manor. . .
“Thieves, yes, kidnappers, not to our knowledge,” Reynaud agreed. “We went to Mrs. Marie with our tale. She had already discovered their larcenous propensities and thrown them out, hence the reason for our private fittings. We should have questioned earlier.”
“Does Miss Marlowe check references before hiring?” Rafe asked of Hunt.
“Walker approves most new hires, but Lavender must have received some recommendation.” Hunt frowned. “Didn’t I hear the Jamesons are illiterate? If they’re kidnappers, wouldn’t they have to send around a ransom note?”
“Miss Vivien can write,” Rafe informed him. He’d overheard Kate and Lavender discussing clerks.
“Viv wouldn’t hurt no one,” the tallest urchin declared stoutly. “She might take a coin or two iffen we’s hungry, that’s all.”
“Who told you to steal from the players today?” Arnaud demanded, shaking Vivian’s defender.
“Our da,” the younger cried. “He said the freaks owed us and it’s all ’cause o’ them we ain’t got nowhere to stay no more. I wanta go home.”
Rafe took a bench so he could look the small one in the eye. Despite the breeches, he thought the younger was a girl. “What’s your da’s name?”
“Jameson, a’course,” the older spat out. “We ain’t bastards.”
The younger just pouted through the tear stains on her dirty cheeks.
“So, when you say your da told you these gentlemen robbed you, you were speaking of Mr. Jameson?” Henri asked.
Rafe thought that an odd question until the eldest scraped his tattered boot on the floor planks and didn’t look up. “Da’s dead. Bets don’t understand good.”
“He ain’t,” the younger—Bets?—protested. “Ma says Mr. Morgan is our da and we’re to live in a fancy house a‘cause his brother died and left it to him. But I wanna go home.”
Into the shocked silence that followed, a woman’s voice spoke clearly. “I will kill the scoundrel.”
Before Rafe could reach his feet, Kate slammed back into the kitchen.
“Rafe, you and Damien go after her!” Hunt shouted. “We’ll take this lot up to the manor.”
“They won’t find Morgan,” Reynard predicted. “We’ve been trying to catch the thieving rat for weeks.”
Thirty-six
Kate
