Chapter
Nine
A Collision of Secrets
Two mornings after my meeting with Finch, a footman entered the breakfast room carrying a single folded note. The moment I saw Finch’s hand, my pulse leaped.
I have news. Come at once.
The clink of china and the rustle of my sisters’ chatter faded to a blur. Only those six words mattered.
Claiming a sudden engagement, I excused myself and hurried upstairs to my bedchamber, where Tilly helped me from my pale morning gown into a dark green walking dress, a sturdy hat with a veil, and a dark cloak.
As I descended the stairs, Honeycutt glanced up, a question in his eyes. I’d given him no notice to bring our carriage around.
“I have a charitable call to make,” I explained. It was not untrue, though perhaps not the charity he would have approved. “Please have a footman hail a hackney for me.”
“Of course, my lady.” With the patience of one long resigned to my ways, he signaled to one of the footmen to carry out the task.
The ride to Hatton Garden seemed longer than before, though perhaps that was my own anxiety stretching each minute. London was half-awake, its streets caught between morning bustle and lingering fog. The air smelled of horse sweat and coal smoke. But at least it wasn’t raining.
By the time the cab turned into the narrow lane where Finch kept his office, the noise had grown fierce. Costermongers shouting their wares. Porters jostling one another. A man wheeling a barrow of oranges so close that one rolled against the cab’s wheel and burst.
I gathered my skirts and carefully stepped down to the ground, still slick from the night’s drizzle. As before, I asked the hackney cab driver to wait, promising him extra coin. He was no more pleased than his predecessor.
No sooner had I knocked on Finch’s office door than he opened it, surprise clear on his face. “Lady, er, ma’am,” he said with brisk civility. “You came sooner than expected.”
“Your note was hardly one to be ignored,” I replied, removing my gloves as I entered.
The small office was as I remembered—papers in precise stacks, the map on the wall, the smell of ink and pipe smoke lingering in the air. The small stove burned brightly in the corner, something for which I was grateful.
Once he took my cloak and umbrella, Finch gestured for me to sit and asked if I’d like tea.
“Yes, thank you.” Although it was May, the air was quite chilly.
Once he set the cup in front of me, I wasted no more time on preliminaries. “Tell me what you’ve found.”
“I made enquiries into the names you gave me,” he began, “and visited the addresses where the young women were placed. Three of those disappearances were reported to the police, who took notes and did nothing further. One mistress assumed hermaid had returned to Lancashire. Apparently, she’d been rather homesick. The other two simply replaced the girls and thought no more of it.”
A chill crept along my spine. “Then it is true,” I said softly. “They have truly vanished.”
Finch nodded, his expression grave. “In each case, the maid was performing her ordinary duties. She stepped out on a routine errand or went to deliver or collect something for her employer. A matter of minutes. She never returned.” He paused briefly. “We’ll need to follow up with the one presumed to have gone home to Lancashire. But the others?” He patted the stack of papers on his desk. “They are not where they should be. If they were indeed taken, someone is arranging these disappearances with great care. I fear they will continue since the police have shown no interest in investigating them.”
Each paper in his stack represented a missing girl. Would the girls feared lost become nothing more than a memory? Not if I had anything to do with it, they wouldn’t.
“So how shall we proceed?”
His eyes narrowed. “We? No, my lady. There is nowe.Iwill do the digging. You must remain where you are safe.”
I lifted my chin. “Safety is a luxury these girls don’t have, Mr. Finch. If I am to be of use, it cannot be from behind drawing-room curtains.”
He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You have courage enough, Lady Rosalynd. That I will grant you. But courage draws the eye, and eyes bring danger. You cannot imagine the men we may be dealing with.”
“On the contrary. I can imagine them all too well,” I said quietly.
We might have gone on arguing, for I had no intention of retreating, when his office door suddenly opened.
Steele stood on the threshold. As he took in the sight of me, surprise crossed his face. “Rosalynd,” he said, his voice low and tight, “what are you doing here?”
