“No,” said Rossiter. “Snow Hill.”
Twenty minutes later Wilson opened the front door in his stately fashion, then sprang aside as seven gentlemen rushed past him.
Running to the stairs, Gideon shouted, “Is Sir Mark at home, Wilson?”
“He is gone, sir. To the—er, Horse Guards, I believe.”
“Has Tummet returned?”
“No, sir.”
Gideon raced on, Morris close behind him.
Falcon threw a disgusted glance around the hall and demanded, “Where is the dining room?”
Wilson gestured. “There, sir. Would you wish to—”
“Bring a luncheon. For all of us.”
“But—sir,” Wilson’s chin sagged. “I doubt the chef can cook—”
“I don’t mean a hot luncheon, you fool! Anything you can get here within five minutes. And wine.”
“B-But, sir! I must—”
“At—once!” said Falcon in a tone that brooked no argument.
Wilson fled.
Flinging open the door to his bedchamber, Gideon strode to the desk.
Morris said, “Then you mean to hand them over? You ain’t going to search for her first?”
Gideon wrenched at the drawer and took out the box in which he’d placed the two jewelled men. “If ’twas Katrina Falcon, what would you do?”
Morris shuddered. “Lord! It don’t bear think—”
A choking exclamation cut off his words.
His face ashen, Rossiter was staring down at the large pebble he had unwrapped. “Dear God!” he whispered, and tore open the second small wrapping. Another pebble fell into his hand.
Bewildered, Morris gasped, “But—Isawyou wrap ’em up! You must have the wrong box, dear boy.”
Not answering, Gideon continued to gaze blindly at the pebbles in his hand. Then, “That mercenary littlehound!” he whispered between his teeth, and sprinted for the door, his expression so savage that Morris stared after him, aghast.
Comprehension came then, and with it, dismay. “Lord help us,” muttered the lieutenant, and ran into the hall.
Newby’s room was a shambles, with clothes strewn about, drawers left open, the presses half empty. Gideon tugged at the bell pull, then rummaged through the piled articles atop the chest of drawers while Morris watched in silence.
A maid ran in. Her eyes reflecting astonishment at the condition of the room, she dropped a curtsy and asked shyly, “Your wish, sir?”
Gideon turned, breathing hard, his eyes narrowed slits of rage. “Mr. Newby. Did he leave with my father?”
“No, sir.” Retreating a step, she stammered, “Mr. er, Newby woke up feeling unwell, and—and Sir Mark drove out alone.”
“I see. But my brother’s health improved later, correct?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Delatouche said Mr. Newby thought the waters at Bath might help him. And so Mr. Newby went there. And he took Mr. Delatouche along of him.”
