He took a few steps along the hallway and spied Adelia. A grin spread over his pocked face, showing the few teeth he had.
“Well, now. What ’ave we ’ere? A nice bit o’ stuff, to be sure.”
Adelia could not speak or move, trying to flatten herself against the wall between the doors so he could pass.
“I thought I’d had me fill,” he said, looking back at the nearly bare woman who nodded encouragingly, then back at Adelia. “But my stick is up again at the looks of you, luv.”
At that moment, Mr. Beaumont reappeared. “There you are. Come in,” he urged.
Faced with the leering man and his doxy, or the relatively civilized Mr. Beaumont, she hurried past Mr. Beaumont and into the small room. The window shades were down, but one lamp was lit, showing her its furnishings, consisting of a bed and nothing else.
“Where are Mr. Brassel and Detective Sergeant Garrard?” she asked, turning to face the man who’d brought her there.
Mr. Beaumont had shut the door and was leaning against it. Slowly, he shook his head.
“I’m sorry to tell you, my lady, I have no idea.”
His simple words, his calm manner, his placid expression chilled her. Obviously, those men had never been at The Pig and Whistle and were not coming.
She had made her second grievous mistake.
*
Soon after Owenarrived at the Carlton Club, Whitely showed up. They took seats in front of the roaring fire and ordered brandy.
“The trial starts in two days,” Owen told his friend.
Whitely nodded. “I’ll go with you. Will you be at Westing’s tonight?”
“Yes.” His mood brightened. “And I am bringing Lady Adelia.”
“Truly?” George asked. “How did you pull off that miracle? Only you, old chap, could send a woman’s brother to Newgate and still successfully woo the lady.”
In a heartbeat, Owen’s disposition changed again. “If my pursuit of her is successful, this is going to hang like a pall over our marriage for the rest of our lives.”
“Marriage?” George repeated, looking shocked until he shook his head ruefully. “Something is going to hang, and not merely a pall. Nevertheless, think on it. If the lady marries youdespitewhat’s starting in two days—and worse at the trial’s end—then pall be damned! She must really love you.”
“Pall be damned,” Owen repeated softly.
“I guess that means we won’t be going to the Westings’ together,” George guessed, offering a wry smile, which Owen didn’t return, unable to regain his good humor.
In any case, he agreed, “That would be one too many in my carriage.” He ought to be over the moon at the notion of being alone with Adelia again, but knowing the only possible sentence for the earl—how they would both have lost their only sibling—he remained subdued.
Whitely sipped his brandy. “Promise me you two won’t argue about the trial over the Westings’ good roast, although if you can get Lady Adelia talking freely at dinner like a normal chatterbox, I’ll toast you by the time we have cigars.”
“She seems far less reticent of late.”Except when she wants to be. Owen recalled her secretive behavior upon getting the letter earlier.
Suddenly, Lockley’s words came back to him clearly.“A very young courier delivered it.”And the hair on Owen’s head seemed to stand at attention.
“The devil!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet so violently, he jarred the table, spilling both their drinks.
Whitely jumped up. “What on earth, Burnley?”
“I was at Adelia’s home not that long ago when she received a missive of some sort from a boy, I believe. She suddenly wanted me to leave and return later to collect her for dinner.”
“What did it say?” George asked, his tone equally serious. Clearly, he, too, remembered the sandy-haired child whom the shopgirl mentioned.
“She wouldn’t tell me, but now I fear it summoned her, just as Sophia’s note.”
