Redmayne watched me closely. “That is not parliamentary business, I gather.”
“No,” I said. “It is not.”
“I shall leave you to it then. I’ll be in touch.” And then he was gone.
She had learned something at Madame Delacroix’s. Of that, I had no doubt. And she would not wait. She never did.
I needed to find out where she’d gone. And there was only one way to obtain that information. Honeycutt would not welcome my inquiry. But that was of no consequence. I cared only for one thing.
Reaching Rosalynd before whatever lay in wait reached her first.
Chapter
Seventeen
The House by the River
Chelsea lay quieter than Mayfair, its streets washed in soft midday light and touched with the faint scent of the river. Our carriage turned onto a narrow lane where the houses grew older and more dignified—stucco façades, iron railings, tidy steps freshly swept. Each was respectable, restrained, and impeccably kept.
Which, of course, made the task more difficult.
The footman sat on the narrow seat opposite me, his attention fixed on the passing houses. I would need his help to find the correct building.
“Weston, we are looking for a house called Riversgate. All of these are dignified, so it must distinguish itself in some way. Look for a nameplate—or a property that stands just a shade above the rest. It should be near the river.”
He nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
The carriage slowed as we passed each row of houses. Some boasted fresh paint and polished knockers; others appeared drowsy from disuse, their shutters closed against the sun. Ichecked the numbers, watching for anything that matched the image forming in my mind—a respectable house masking a terrible lie.
At last, Weston shifted on his seat, his gaze fixed beyond the glass. “My lady,” he said quietly, “this one seems promising.”
I followed his line of sight. Ahead stood a graceful three-story house with pale stone steps and a blue-painted door. A brass knocker caught the sunlight, and the curtained windows regarded the street with serene indifference.
“Weston—have the carriage stop,” I said.
He gave a brief nod and tapped once against the roof. The carriage slowed and came to a halt.
I leaned closer to the glass, searching the stone beside the door. A small nameplate was fixed neatly in place.
Riversgate.
We’d found it.
With Weston’s assistance, I stepped down. My pulse pounded at my temples as I mounted the steps of the house. Nothing about it looked sinister. Somehow, that made it worse.
I lifted the knocker and let it fall. A moment passed. Then the door opened.
A housemaid—young, fair, and plainly startled—blinked at me. “Good day, my lady. May I help you?”
“Good day,” I said with practiced calm. “I am seeking a Mrs. Kincaid. I was told she is in residence here.”
The maid blinked again, confusion knitting her brow. “Mrs. Kincaid? I’m afraid no one by that name lives here.”
I held my breath. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, my lady. Quite certain.” She shifted uneasily. “The family only returned to London last week. They’ve not had visitors save the doctor and the post.”
Ice seeped into my veins. “And before they returned? During the winter months?”
