“He has run away,” he said as though correcting himself. “A maid went into his room to tidy it and found him standing at an open window, a mantel clock in his hands. According to her, he flinched, looking guilty, and that was all the evidence she required to set up a cry of thief. She ran for help, fearing, one can only suppose, that the scrawny nine-year-old boy meant her some harm, and Tom has not been seen since.”
“Oh my goodness,” breathed her aunt, “that poor mite!”
“When was this?”
“Fifteen or twenty minutes ago.” Lord Cotereigh looked at her—he looked to her for help, as though she might have the answer.
“Has he left the house?”
“We don’t know. But no one saw him leave. There were people in the kitchen who ought to have seen if he went out the back, and Joshua, my porter, was near the hallway, though if the boy crept silently past…” His gaze slid away, bitter and blacker thancoffee. “We both know heisa thief; he may be an expert at sneaking past people or climbing out of windows.”
Her aunt began to protest. Madelaine set her hand on her arm, hushing her gently.
“Right now, we know nothing at all, except that he needs to be found,” she said. “You sent some men to search the streets?”
He nodded but didn’t need to say what they both already knew. If the boy meant to run, there’d be no finding him. He probably knew the streets of London far better than most—knew all the alleyways and secret places. And who could spot one skinny urchin in a class of thousands?
“If you permit it, my aunt and I will help search your house. There are dozens and dozens of rooms in a place this size, and if he’s hiding somewhere…perhaps he might be more likely to reveal himself to one of us than to a servant.”
Unlikely, given how suspicious he’d always been, but it was the only hope she could find. Lord Cotereigh gave a nod, seeing her doubts. Agreeing with them.
They split up, her aunt going the way she was familiar with: towards the sitting room where she’d sat the night of the bath. Madelaine went down the hall towards the Willow Room—would he have returned to somewhere he knew? Lord Cotereigh took the stairs to the floor above.
It was strange to walk alone through Lord Cotereigh’s house. She felt like an intruder, but it was her own curiosity that did that. Impossible not to look around her and take in every detail, softly open each door, wondering what the room would reveal about the man.
Despite her sense of urgency, she went slowly, carefully. Hectic, rushing adults were always unsettling to children, even when all was well. She knew that from her younger brothers, nieces, and nephews. She also knew small boys were capable of hiding in the oddest, most impossible places.
The first door revealed a coat room, with hooks for coats, cloaks, and hats. It smelt of wool and starch and leather. But it smelt of Lord Cotereigh too.
There were several of his greatcoats here, black and dark charcoal and very fine. Near them hung a caped driving coat, gloves still in the pocket. Had he been out this morning…to the park perhaps…come back to this…
She shifted the heavy fabric aside—a small boy could hide under that voluminous cloth. It must sweep all the way from Lord Cotereigh’s tall shoulder almost to the very floor. But there was no boy, just the scent, masculine, already familiar, and the lingering sensation of heavy fabric on her fingertips. She withdrew and closed the door.
The next door opened onto a servants’ preparation area, a place to rest tea trays and make tweaks and find cloths and spare glasses… No boy.
Then there was a study, dark and wood panelled, many neat books along the walls—not fiction, but ledgers, accounts, inventories. A very businesslike room. A pot of pens, stacks of paper, the smell of sealing wax and ink. The walls above the wainscotting were the deep blue of summer midnight. Two antique muskets hung crossed on the wall, an even older sword beneath them.
No boy beneath the desk, and nowhere else to hide in here.
The next room was the Willow Room. She paused, holding the handle before she turned it, her memory full for a moment of Lord Cotereigh standing so very close to her on the other side of the door. He’d looked at her mouth, angry, heated—no, she was the one who’d been angry, and he’d been the one with all the heat.
What a lie.
She’d hummed with it, air stuck stupid in her lungs, hating herself as much as him.
She shook the thought from her head, irritated, and twisted the handle sharply, stepping into the room.
She stopped dead.
There was a man in there. Older, middle aged. His hair had probably once been the tawny colour of damp wheat but was now greying.
It was also uncombed, greasy, and stuck up from too long on a pillow. Indeed, the man was in his nightshirt, his calves and ankles skinny and pale. He had a decanter of amber liquor in his hand and sipped straight from it as though it was tea while he contemplated the wallpaper.
The sound of her entry belatedly caught his attention and he turned—first his head, then his body, his step shuffling and swaying.
Drunk. Very, very drunk.
An odd smile stretched his face: surprised, then amused, then quizzical, then sad.
