Holly and Ivy, my mischievous, fun-loving sisters, clung to each other, their faces twin tragedies. “We won’t be separated. We won’t.”
I fixed Cosmos with a look sharp enough to pin him to the floorboards. “Now, look what you’ve done.”
Gathering my skirts, I went after Petunia, a single thought steadying my steps. I would tell her the truth she needed most. Our family would never be split up. Not now, not ever.
Because I would never marry the duke.
Chapter
Twelve
A Study in Apathy at Scotland Yard
The morning after my visit to Rosehaven House, I rose before dawn, unsettled by thoughts that would not rest. On my desk lay the copy of the note I had sent to Commissioner Linwood the previous evening. I could not speak to him about Lady Honora’s disappearance, but nothing prevented me from raising the matter of the other missing women.
Request an audience regarding multiple disappearances of women placed in service through charitable institutions. Urgent. —Steele
The messenger had returned with a brief reply before midnight.
Commissioner Linwood will receive Your Grace at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.
By the time my carriage turned into Whitehall Place, the afternoon light lay warm across the street, softening the edges of the government buildings nearby. Whatever mist the morning had held had long since burned away. Clerks and constablesmoved in and out of the entrance on Great Scotland Yard, their pace brisk as the day’s business pressed forward.
I stepped from the carriage and entered through the narrow doorway. The echo of my boots carried down the corridor, mingling with the scratch of pens and the shuffle of paper. Scotland Yard was no modern marvel, but a cramped warren of offices and overworked men, bearing the weary soul of an institution stretched far beyond its intended purpose.
A reception desk stood just inside, little more than a high counter behind which a uniformed constable kept the visitor ledger.
“Your name, sir?” he asked.
“Steele,” I said. “I have an appointment with Commissioner Linwood.”
Recognition dawned at once. “Very good, Your Grace.” He signaled to a nearby sergeant. “Simmons, the Commissioner’s visitor—the Duke of Steele—has arrived.”
The sergeant approached with brisk respect. “This way, if you please.”
We climbed to the upper floor where a row of glass-paned doors opened onto private offices. The sergeant rapped once on one of them.
“Come,” a voice called from within.
“His Grace, the Duke of Steele, sir,” the sergeant announced and withdrew.
Commissioner Linwood rose at once. He was a tall, spare man with silver beginning to thread his dark hair. His uniform was immaculate, his expression guarded. A heavy desk separated us, its surface crowded with reports and the morning edition ofThe Times.
“Your Grace,” he said, extending a hand. “You’d like to discuss an urgent matter?”
“Urgent and neglected,” I replied. “I appreciate your seeing me on short notice.”
He gestured for me to sit. “Your message mentioned disappearances connected to charitable institutions?” he said, his tone cordial.
I took the chair opposite his desk, though I did not settle into it. The civility of his manner only sharpened my impatience. These were not abstractions to be smoothed over with procedure, and I had no interest in indulging the fiction that they were.
“Young women placed in service through establishments such as St. Agnes in Clerkenwell and the Marylebone Women’s Aid Society have gone missing,” I said. “Their disappearances were reported. No investigations followed.”
Still affable, Linwood inclined his head slightly. “We receive a number of such reports each month. Servants often leave their posts without notice. Homesickness, romance, petty theft. They usually reappear elsewhere.”
My jaw tightened. “These did not,” I said. “And I believe foul play was involved.”
He folded his hands upon the desk, the gesture composed. “What evidence do you have?”
