Regardless, he would do his duty as a brother. He should have been there to protect Sophia, and he might never get over his failing her. Now, he had a long list of people who used J. Dickinson paper, too long to be useful even if he enlisted Adelia’s assistance in asking each and every household on the list whether he could see their handkerchiefs. He rolled his eyes. It was madness.
Tomorrow, he would think of a different strategy.
Meanwhile, his valet had begun asking every tailor and also the many dressmakers of London about anyone who might have ordered handkerchiefs with an anvil sewn upon them. So far, nothing.
Owen departed the comfort of his carriage, where the faintest aroma of Adelia’s light floral perfume lingered. Within an hour, he had punched a man in one pub on the corner of Church Lane and turned over a table in another, shattering glassware and a few chairs.
Another hour and three taverns later, he was no closer to finding the murderer but had worked his way through three more glasses of whiskey. Lastly, he entered a nicer establishment on the corner of Osborn Street, where gentrification was battling desperately to take hold. The pub was surprisingly well lit and didn’t smell of piss and ale.
From the doorway, Owen scanned the room. There, seated at the far end, was Lord Smythe and a dark-haired miss.
Although the room seemed overly warm and his vision felt a little blurry—undoubtedly from fatigue and whiskey—he considered how nice it would be to sit with friendly people, even Adelia’s brother, and have another drink. Perhaps he would explain his mission.
When he raised a hand in greeting, however, instead of receiving one in return, Smythe stood, grabbed the woman by the hand, and strode for the back door. Knowing they could end up in an alley possibly full of cutthroats, Owen called after them.
Was he slurring his speech?
The young earl, dressed oddly in decidedly middle-class clothing, seemed to move more swiftly, and in the space of a few seconds, the pair had disappeared.
Owen sat down heavily at a table, wondering if he’d truly seen Adelia’s brother at all or simply someone who looked like him. After all, why would an earl and his lady friend be in a place such as this, dressed in that manner?
For that matter, Owen wondered why in the hell he was there when he could be home in his townhouse. He had accomplished nothing.
After a few moments, another man rose from a nearby table and left the same way, out the back door.What in blazes?
Owen would bet the man was following them, perhaps a constable on a case. Tomorrow, he would ask the detective if he knew anything about it despite Garrard being practically ready to bar Owen from his office.
Stumbling outside, he hoped to hell his driver would find him.
Chapter Fourteen
Owen left DetectiveSergeant Garrard’s office no wiser and having received a word of warning that he’d best stop haunting the East End. Tavern owners were starting to complain.
“To hell with them,” Owen said and slammed out of the police station.
Today, he was going to Westing’s for some of his good counsel. He also wanted to pen an invitation to Adelia if he could think of where to take her next. Perhaps the Westings would have a suitable idea. He would probably see Whitely later at the Carlton Club. And that night, he would be back searching amongst the lowliest of London’s low. Neither the tavern owners nor the police could stop him.
He yawned broadly as his carriage drew up outside the Westings’ home on Arlington Street. Wearily, he climbed down and rang the bell. After waiting a few minutes in the drawing room, Owen was greeted by Lady Jane.
She entered the room, held out her hands to him, and smiled as he grasped them. They’d had a bit of a rocky start when Owen questioned her motives for attaching herself to a blind marquess, but she had proven herself to be the best thing to ever happen to his friend.
“I’m so sorry, Owen, but Chris isn’t here. He went to Parliament today. Something about a new bill regarding the poor of England and Wales, as well as coal duties. I thought he said he was meeting you there.”
“Blazes!” Owen exclaimed, quickly apologizing for the oath a second later. “I am a dunce. You’re right. I told him I’d see him at Westminster. I jumped in the carriage and—” he covered his mouth as he yawned again, “—forgot all about that.”
She shrugged. “Would you like a cup of tea? I have a little time prior to going out. Perhaps it will refresh you.”
He hated to be rude, but coal duties were being discussed that would directly impact his family’s business.
“No, thank you, I had best head to Parliament. I’m taking over my father’s seat soon.”
Lady Jane nodded. “I’ll walk you out. I am inspecting an orphanage today. Once you raise money for one and get it up and running, you have to make sure nefarious people don’t undo all your good work.”
“Of course,” Owen said. Lady Jane was known as a good Samaritan, who had raised a great deal for the orphans of London. “Where is the orphanage?”
“Spitalfields,” she responded, already tugging on the gloves her butler gave her.
Owen felt a surge of alarm.
