“Old Mungo is showing me a tattoo. Not on him ….” Alex squinted into the distance. “On another person, and it’s a Triquetra.”
“How do you know what a Triquetra is?” Mungo demanded.
“Remember, it’s in Uncle Bram’s red book, and the Baddon Boys Gang all have them tattooed on their arms,” Alex said.
“That’s right,” Bram said slowly.
Mungo felt the ice-cold fear slither down his body. He was now sure Fenella was in danger—serious danger—and they needed to find her.
“For now, we return home, as dark is falling, and tomorrow we renew our search, starting with the HoltonAgency. If we find nothing there, we slip in at night and look.”
“I can’t sleep if I know she’s out there,” Mungo said.
“And where is it you’ll look, then?” Leo demanded.
“You run around London with no plan or location in mind, you’ll end up in trouble. We have to find her, and to do that, we must have a plan,” Bram added.
Mungo nodded, looking at his brother. It had been years since they’d shared a look, but they did so now, and both knew exactly what they’d be doing after the household was bedded down for the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The clock someone had placed in Eliza’s room ticked loudly enough to echo relentlessly in her skull. When she finally rolled over to glare at it, the hands pointed to just after two o’clock in the morning.
Of course it was.
An ache had begun behind her eyes earlier in the evening, small at first, but now building in waves. She hadn’t had a headache in years.
Today everything she’d tried to forget had resurfaced. The fire and the suspicions she had regarding her family’s deaths. It was all once again clear in her mind, and she could not stop thinking about it or the two missing girls.
And then there was Mungo and the moment he’d touched his lips to hers. The warmth of it still lingered, an imprint that refused to fade. She pressed her fingers lightly to her mouth, as if doing so might erase it. It didn’t.
She didn’t want to need anyone ever again. Never wanted the closeness she’d had with her family because it hurt too much after they were gone.
Eliza pressed her fingers to that place in her forehead that throbbed.
Her headaches had started after her family died. The doctor had told her uncle it was simply tension, a girl too prone to reading and fits of sadness. Her uncle, practical to the point of cruelty, had then forbidden her from opening a book after the evening meal. Which had, of course, made her hungry for words. She’d hidden candles under her bedframe, shoved novels between her mattress and the floorboards, risked his displeasure a hundred times just to slip into another world and forget the deep wrenching sorrow of loss.
After their return home that evening, Mr. Calder Fraser had gone to stay with the Hellion household, as this one was already bursting with people. She doubted the man could rest knowing his daughter was out there somewhere, lost, frightened, or worse.
Bramstone Nightingale had cautioned the Fraser brothers not to walk around London blindly searching for Fenella, but Eliza wondered if they had ignored him. Desperate men could not be expected to listen to reason.
Eliza pushed back the covers, shivering as her feet touched the cool floorboards. She pulled on her dressing gown and knotted the sash. She slid her feet into slippers and then eased open the door quietly.
The hallway lay in darkness. The lamps were extinguished, and the embers in the hearths had long since died. Cold wrapped around her as she made her way toward the stairs, her eyes adjusting slowly.
A floorboard groaned beneath her foot, but no one stirred. Considering how many people slept inside these walls, such silence was remarkable.
Chester, she knew, would be curled at the foot of someone’s bed, and no one would push him off.
Her fingers tightened around the banister as shedescended the final steps. The air on the lower level was even colder. Eliza wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her hands along her sleeves in a futile attempt to chase away the chill.
She crossed quietly into the kitchen. The room smelled faintly of the bread Bud had baked before retiring for the night. She’d make tea. If that didn’t make her tired, she could sit at the small table and watch the mists roll in with the new day. The windows had no curtains, and the glass gleamed faintly with condensation.
Eliza moved to the stove, knelt, and opened the grate to stir the dull-red embers until they brightened. She added wood, then set the kettle on top to warm.
The soft click of the outside door closing had Eliza’s heart pounding. She watched as a tall, dark shape entered through the side door. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. The figure stepped forward, the faint orange glow from the stove revealing familiar features.
Mungo, and not as she had ever seen him.
