“He’d rather have a dead one?” Finch asked. “That’s what it may very well come to.”
A moment of silence passed between us while the coal in the grate hissed softly, and the faint hum of the city pressed at the windowpanes.
“Let’s hope not,” Steele answered.
“Lady Honora has her father’s name. But the other girls do not,” I said. “How many nameless girls will have to be lost before anyone of importance notices?”
The muscle in Steele’s jaw shifted, then stilled. “We will find them,” he said at last. “All of them.”
A promise he could not possibly guarantee. One of the young women had already died. What was there to say there hadn’t been others?
I sat back in my chair and studied him. His anger had cooled, leaving only the sharp gleam of determination. It was the same look he wore when discussing his work with the committee in the House of Lords, though here it carried something a great deal more personal.
Finch drew a fresh sheet of paper toward him. “We must begin anew, with both. Your set of names, Lady Rosalynd, and Greystowe’s daughter. Between them, we may find a pattern.”
“I have more, Mr. Finch.” Reaching into my reticule, I withdrew the list Sister Margaret had sent me and handed itacross the desk to him. “After our earlier meeting, I visited St. Agnes. Sister Margaret informed me that these girls left for employment placements. She stays in regular contact with all who have been placed. The girls on that list have not responded to her recent enquiries. She fears they have met with harm.”
Finch’s expression sobered as he unfolded the paper. “How many?”
“Seven,” I said. “But there may be more.”
Finch released a slow, heavy breath. “Very well. I’ll look into them.”
“Focus first on Lady Honora,” Steele said. “Her trail will be the freshest. She’s only been missing a day.”
Although I wanted to object, he was right. A search begun at once for Lady Honora had far greater hope of success than inquiries into girls who had vanished over the course of months.
We turned to the large wall map, where Finch began pinning each name in its place. Together we traced the widening constellation of addresses and employers, searching for the hidden thread that bound them all.
Once he finished with the task, Finch stepped back, rubbing a hand across his brow. “This is no small undertaking,” he said quietly. “An enquiry into fourteen missing women—likely more—will require greater manpower than I possess alone.”
“Hire whoever you need,” Steele said. “But you will focus personally on Lady Honora. Greystowe requires absolute discretion. So, her case must be handled with the utmost care.” His gaze remained fixed on the map. “Send the bill to me for all expenses connected to all the lines of enquiry, including the other missing women.”
I hitched up my chin. “No, Mr. Finch, you will not. Whatever expenses you incur in searching for the young women on the lists I provided, you will send to me.”
“Rosalynd.”
“Steele.”
Finch’s gaze bounced between us. “Right. I will do as Lady Rosalynd asks. If different arrangements are to be made, I suggest you discuss them on your own time and place. As I have matters to attend to, I must bid you goodday.” His expression made it plain he had endured quite enough of our bickering. I couldn’t blame him.
Steele retrieved his hat and cloak, and then—without asking—took up my things as well. “I will escort you home. My carriage awaits outside.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but the memory of the hackney’s reeking interior—the onions, the stale sweat, and other less pleasant odors—rose swiftly to mind. “Very well.”
He said nothing more as he draped the cloak over me. But as we made our way to his carriage, I felt the storm gathering.
Chapter
Ten
Confrontation in Belgravia
Our carriage ride passed in brittle, suffocating silence. Rosalynd held herself with rigid elegance, her spine straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her chin tilted the barest fraction higher every time I glanced her way. I told myself the sight irritated me, not that it pulled at something deep and unruly inside my chest.
When she realized we were not bound for Grosvenor Square, she stiffened further. “Where are we going?” she asked, voice clipped. “This is not the way home.”
“Belgravia,” I said. “Where we supped only days ago.”
