Still, he’d gotten involved.
And he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that his disclosures—that she’d ventured not just outside her home, but to theDomusEmporium, albeit on behalf of an innocent baby—might well be to blame somehow for her sudden absence…
Especially after Helton’s response.
The earl had said that even amongst close members of her family, she rarely spoke. He’d said she wasn’t capable of making normal conversation.
Which made Lady Melanie something of a puzzle. She had spoken easily to him, for the most part. But when he replayed their conversations in his mind, he couldn’t remember if she had, in fact, conserved her words. When he’d dismissed her from the nursery, she’d looked as though she was going to say something, but she hadn’t.
Malum remembered how her shoulders curled forward, making her look even smaller than she already was. Had she done the same at the end of their first meeting, after she’d carried Ernest’s basket into Preston Hall?
The door to his office creaked open, pulling Malum from his thoughts. “Mrs. Nell, to see you.” Mr. Huxley, his secretary, announced the scheduled appointment.
“Send her in,” Malum ordered, hoping for some good news.
The middle-aged woman with more than a hint of silver streaking her dark hair stepped into Malum’s office, exuding her own quiet authority. Nell was a former prostitute and no-nonsense matron who now managed the courtesans at theDomus.
“Tell me you’ve had luck in locating Miss De la Cour’s family,” Malum said.
Nell grimaced and, glancing down, opened the small journal she normally carried in her apron.
Her loyalty to the women she managed was a powerful thing. Knowing this, Malum had instructed her to head up the efforts to find Ernest’s mother.
The infant’s resemblance to Stella De la Cour was uncanny. Between that and the timing, Malum was left with no doubt she was the woman they were looking for.
“Not much, unfortunately.”
“You mean De la Cour isn’t her real name?” Malum sighed. He hadn’t truly held out much hope that it would lead them to her—no woman working at a brothel went by their original surname—but it certainly would have made things easier.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” Nell answered, rolling her eyes before turning serious again. “Delilah Rothschild, however, the woman who roomed with her, said Stella had planned to bring her condition to me eventually, but wanted to contact her family first.”
Malum frowned. No matter that these women worked at London’s most exclusive brothel, it was still a brothel. Families could be rather unforgiving when they learned the nature of their daughter or sister’s line of work.
“Did she mention where they’re from?” he asked.
Nell pursed her lips. “Unfortunately, no.”
Not unexpected either. His employees tended to keep their home and business lives entirely separate—for good reason, of course. Normally it would not pose any significant issue.
“Do we haveanyleads?”
Nell consulted her notebook again. “One of her clients, a Mr. Porter, said she mentioned that she came from a family of butchers.” At the flash of Malum’s eyes, Nell quickly continued, “In theliteralsense. He got the idea that the shop was something of a legacy.”
“Could be Yorkshire—Shambles Street.” A long shot, but Malum’s instincts usually proved right, and he’d learned to trust them.
“Her accent was thick.” Nell was nodding. “Even after her lessons, one would get the impression that she swallows half her words.”
Malum stood and paced behind his desk. “Send someone up there, then, to visit every last butcher—starting with those who’ve been in business the longest. Have them take Miss Rothschild along—a friendly face never hurts.” Stella De la Cour must have had good reason to abandon her child; she might flee again if she felt hunted.
Malum stopped at the window, looking out at the sun-brightened street. He couldn’t keep a baby indefinitely. A duke running a brothel was one thing; a duke raising an infant while running a brothel was quite another.
The new nursemaid was more than adequate, and yet a different sense of responsibility—likely brought on by Lady Melanie’s reprimands—had Little Ernest claiming more of his thoughts—of his time—than he’d like. The hour he spent in the nursery each morning could have been better spent in his study.
Impossible.
He turned, fixing Nell with a hard gaze. “I can’t keep the child.”
Nell raised an eyebrow but said nothing, though there was a flash of something in her eyes. Not sympathy—something closer to resignation.
