Maeve made a silent vow to change that. “Tell me, darling, when did you last see Melinda?”
“Why, the day I went home with ye.”
Maeve stilled. “Are you telling me you and Melinda were together that day? Mr. Jervis hadn’t taken Melinda yet?”
“He was after her. She tol’ me t’ run. She saw ye git out from yer pretty rig.”
“Did Melinda say where she would hide?”
“She said we needed t’ run in op’sit drections. That way’d Jervis could’t grab us both. Mellie’s smart like that, ma’am.”
“Yes. She is very smart, Penny.”
A spark of hope went through Maeve. But she was only one woman. How was she to make good on a promise of finding Melinda in a city as large as London with the likes of Mr. Jervis after her? She didn’t know what the girl looked like or know how old she was. All she knew was Melinda’s hair was lighter than Penny’s darker locks.
Penny’s breathing grew steady as she eased into a deep slumber. If Maeve told Harlowe she needed to find Melinda, he would do his best to discourage her. Dorset would be even more impossible. Oxford? He had the most clout. No one would dare question a duke. Even those in the slums would not dare kill one of the king’s men. To do so would mean instant death. Plus Oxford would take reinforcements to ensure his safety. Only, a duke would draw too much unwanted attention.
Round and round her thoughts went, circling back to the fact that she had no idea what Melinda looked like. She couldn’t possibly take Penny with her. It was much too dangerous.
Maeve lay awake long into the night thinking, and nothing coming to mind.
Twenty-Seven
T
he next morning dawned with brilliant sunshine. It was February and cold. If the sunshine held, the park would be unbearably crowded.
Agnes marched in laden down with a tray comprised of a steaming pot of chocolate, cup, and plate of scones fresh from the oven. “I’ve a treat for you, milady.”
“Smells delicious,” she said.
“I ’spect the foyer smells even better.” Agnes set the tray on the bed and scooted it toward her then poured out a cup of chocolate.
How decadent. “Why would the foyer smell better?”
“All the flowers, milady. Bunches of them.”
Something unfamiliar fluttered in Maeve’s breast. She’d never been showered with bunches of flowers before, not even in her first, second, or third season. She drained her cup and hopped out of bed, curious—well, excited—to see what “bunches of flowers” looked like.
Under Agnes’s ministrations, Maeve was turned out for a day of morning calls, a ride in the park, or a visit to Lady Dankworth’s for tea with her pugs, Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles. She tripped down the stairs and, one third of the way down, was inundated with the fragrance of roses, lilies, pansies, rhododendrons, and daffodils. It was a little overpowering and... infinitely satisfying.
“Goodness.” She went the rest of the way down. At the first “bunch,” daffodils, she located the card.Baron Welton.She flipped it over. Nothing. She flipped it back. Just his name. She reached into her memory for what the meaning of a bouquet of daffodils signified:Regard.Then let out a relieved breath. Welton was not a complication she desired or needed.
The pansies were from Oxford, and she drew out his card.
Thank you for your presence last evening, my dear. I look forward to calling on you. There is still the little matter of Alymer’s scripts. I trust you haven’t forgotten.
Yrs. Oxford
Smiling she moved to the lilies—avoiding the roses—They were stargazers. The edges were a delicate white, their pink centers so rich, they deepened to red. Their strong sweet fragrance was cloying due to the sheer number. She found the note buried deep within the greenery.
Peering in your eyes is like a night beneath the stars. Until four. I shan’t be late.
Dorset, then. No signature. He was due at four. Lilies meant purity. She was not pure. Not any longer.
Another held a basket of lovely purple, pink, and white rhododendrons interspersed with more lilies of a different variety. These were also surrounded with rich greenery. Maeve was flabbergasted by its simplicity. And touched.
I shan’t sleep at’all until we dance again. S.
