“That is indeed admirable,” Victoria echoed, reaching for a slice of orange cake.
“…It is,” Ellie agreed, but her tone was the opposite of happy, and it drew Victoria’s attention.
Her friend waited for almost five minutes—the ticks of the ormolu clock on the mantle sounded as loud as roman candles as the moments went by.
“Good heavens, what is plaguing you?” Victoria’s voice snapped Ellie back. “Clearly, something is amiss, and I know you know that you can confide in me, so why are you not? What are you not telling me?”
CHAPTER 17
Rising from behind his desk, Dorian pinned the curtains of his office so the afternoon light could stream in, then leaned on the sill to look out. St James Street was sluggish this time of day; carriages slowly trailed up the road while pedestrians meandered up and down the sidewalks.
Such ordinary lives…
“Sir,” Weston knocked on the door. “Investigator Teller is here to see you.”
As unexpected as the man’s presence was, Dorian did not turn him away. “Send in some coffee for us.”
“Yes, Sir,” Weston bowed as the investigator stepped in.
“Please,” Dorian gestured to a chair as he rounded his desk. “What can I do for you, inspector?”
Teller pulled a satchel to his side and drew out a folio. “Thank you for receiving me on such short notice. I’ve been looking into thisAshof yours—”
“Mywife’s, actually,” he intoned.
“Yes, my apologies,” Teller said while flicking the folio open. “I have combed through St John's Wood, asking the older population about this young lad. A Mr. Marcus Herring told me that the boy used to garden for him, and an older woman, Tabitha Clark, mentioned he patched her roof from time to time.
“Both were convinced the boy was mute as he never said a word, but was dutiful and careful in his work. But then, he vanished, and no one knew where he’d gone.”
Leaning in his chair, Dorian hummed. “The case is closed, then?”
“Not quite…” Teller hastily put in. “It is quite common for young lads to fall prey to the underworld, becoming pickpockets and mudlarks, and one gang in particular remembered the boy—”
Dorian tensed.
“Does the nameJacobsonsound familiar to you?” Teller asked.
“No,” he replied as Weston entered with a tray filled with a coffee carafe, cup, and the condiments that went with the drink. Aftersetting them on the table, he bowed out of the room. Dorian waved to the tray, “Feel free.”
“In a moment, but thank you,” Teller said impatiently. “Anyway, Jacobson now owns a workhouse in Covent Garden, but was once a leader of some pocket thieves. He described this Ash as you told me, but they all knew him as Jeremy.”
Dorian made a cup and dropped a square of sugar and a splash of cream in. “Did you get a surname or an address for thisJeremy?”
“Neither,” Teller replied. “But I will.”
Dorian set his cup down and rubbed his eyes. “Do you think this is worthwhile… to track this man down? By my math, he should be about my age by now,ifhe survived that is.”
Teller made his cup. “In my experience, Your Grace, the wily ones do—” He straightened and gave Dorian a look he did not appreciate. It was too knowing. “—And from Jacobson’s description, this lad was wily.”
Not willing to play this game, Dorian grumbled, “Out with it, Teller. What do you know about me?”
“Respectfully, sir, I know that you, a lifetime ago, used to be in the streets, in the rookeries, just as much as this Ash or Jeremy was,” Teller answered. “It is quite possible you might have already run into the lad.”
“I have never crossed paths with the boy,” Dorian said firmly.
“It’s not an accusation, Your Grace,” Teller replied calmly. “Only a supposition.”
Pinning the investigator with a look Dorian reserved for men he trusted—a very rare occasion—he said, “If your intuition tells you to keep searching for him, do so, but with the things I have seen, the things I have lived through, even the wily ones die off.”
