“Arthur? Philip?” she whispered. “The coast is clear!”
Silence.
She pulled back the curtain. Empty. She checked behind the sideboard again to be sure. Nothing.
“Boys?” she called, her voice rising in panic.
She looked toward the garden gate, but it was latched. They hadn’t gone back outside.
Where are you?
Imogen knew they were somewhere inside Presholm House, a place where children were not welcome, a place where secrets were never safe.
“Oh, no,” Imogen whispered, realization setting in, clutching her apron in tight fists. “Please, not there. Anywhere but there…”
Chapter Two
“Arthur? Philip?” she called out as loudly as she dared, her eyes darting to the shadows of the pedestals.
Imogen’s pulse continued to thrum in her ears, nearly blinding her vision as she hurried in her search. She rushed from the first gallery through to the secondary gallery, then to the parlor.
Presholm House was a labyrinth of cold stone and expensive tapestries where a child’s laughter was as out of place as a weed in a rose garden.
Suddenly, a piercing, high-pitched shriek shattered the silence.
“My shoes! My floor! Someone, catch these imps!” Lady Presholm shrieked. “Common thieves!”
Imogen’s heart plummeted. She sprinted toward her mistress’ private quarters, skidding to a halt at the threshold.
The scene that lay before her was pure chaos. Lady Presholm was staring down at her feet, her face a terrifying shade of puce. A small bucket, likely left by the housemaids as they went about their work, lay overturned. A pool of soapy water soaked into Julia’s silk slippers, as well as her priceless Persian rug.
Behind the heavy velvet drapes, two pairs of small, muddy boots peeked out. A muffled, high-pitched giggle escaped from the fabric as it shook.
“Imogen!” Lady Presholm screamed, spotting her and pointing a bony finger at her. “Whose brats are these? Did the cook let her gutter spawn into the main house? Get them out! Have the footmen throw them into the street this instant!”
Imogen knew the Countess was too blinded by fury to notice the boys’ expensive coats or refined features. To Lady Presholm, they weren’t children. They were merely stains on her carpet. She only truly saw what she could use.
“I will see them home safely, My Lady,” Imogen said, stepping forward with a calm she didn’t feel.
She reached behind the curtain and took Arthur and Philip’s hands in hers. Arthur was still red-faced with mirth, while Philip looked a bit pale at the Countess’s harsh words.
“You will pay for this negligence, Imogen,” Her Ladyship hissed, her eyes narrowing to tiny slits. “I shall deal with you once I am dry. Now, get them out of my sight!”
“Yes, My Lady,” she whispered in reply.
Imogen didn’t wait for a second dismissal. She practically whisked the boys out of the room, her grip protective but warm. She did not stop until they were through the garden gate and standing on the lawn of the estate next door.
Ambrose was on the verge of calling for the Bow Street Runners when he saw movement near the hedge.
He lunged toward the garden path, his heart hammering against his ribs. Relief flooded him, sweet and dizzying, followed immediately by a scorching wave of hot anger.
“Where in God’s name have you been?” Ambrose’s voice boomed across the lawn. “Do you have any idea what you have put this household through with your capers?”
The two boys flinched at his bark.
The butler, who had been trailing behind Ambrose, let out a sob. “Oh, thank heavens! And thankyou, Miss!”
Ambrose hadn’t looked at the woman yet. He was too angry to look anywhere but at the boys, who both resembled his brother but in separate ways. He shrugged away the thought as he stepped toward his nephews, his shadow looming over them.
