“Let us start from the beginning, Mr. Carson.” Brock’s tone was sharp, and the man flinched. He took a breath meant to calm his rising trepidation.
Kimpton stepped in. “Did the man give a name?”
“Viscount Harlowe. He insisted his sister would be concerned.”
Brock’s heart thumped hard. Was it possible they’d found the missing viscount? Brock’s memory caught up to a specific painting—Harlowe’s painting—of a young woman wearing a large hat. “Did he mention a wife?” Brock and Kimpton had run across it in their search for the man just before Ginny had been found almost dead at Maudsley’s hand. Also in the picture, featured on the girl’s hand, was a large, distinctive ruby. They’d later discovered the girl was Corinne, Maudsley’s long-lost daughter.
“No. No wife. In all fairness,” Carson continued, “I didn’t doubt the man’s sincerity. No, sirs. It was his ramblings of working undercover for the government that I found most disturbing. He spouted dribble of cover-ups, of the—” He glanced to the closed door, then to the windows before speaking in low tones Brock had to lean in to hear. “He all but accused the magistrate of being a traitor. Working with the Slavs and the French! You can imagine my horror at such an accusation.”
Brock met Kimpton’s gaze. This was dire indeed.
“Don’t you see? I had no option but to contact the magistrate.” Carson was wringing his hands.
“What was it about the Slavs he could have said?” Brock asked. “The French and the Russians had already fallen out of favor with one another by 1810.”
Every word the man uttered, his voice grew more confident. “He insisted I contact the magistrate about the matter.”
Brock drew his legs in, then leaned forward, stilling. “And did you?”
“I did indeed. He said he would handle the matter personally.”
Kimpton spoke softly, his voice menacing. “Who did this patient portend he was, Mr. Carson?”
“W-who?” His forehead shined with perspiration. “I told you, sir. Viscount Harlowe, Brandon Radcliff.”
“Perhaps you would allow us to meet this viscount.”
“Oh, no. No, sirs. I fear that is quite impossible.”
Brock came to his feet. “Nothing is impossible, sir.”
“I’m afraid in this case it is. You see, Miss Hill was assisting the man to freedom when he turned on her. He’s the one who killed her, you see. He’s gone. Escaped. Why, my staff lives in fear of their very lives.”
Kimpton stood and paced to the hearth and back. “And you notified the magistrate of this latest development?”
Carson’s eyes moved between Brock and Kimpton. “There was no need, my lords. The magistrate himself visited. Just last night. So, you see? Everything is back under control.”
A sharp and icy foreboding pierced Brock. “The magistrate visited. Last night, you say? But he is—”
“Yes, my lord. He assured me he would search down the culprit personally and see to justice for Miss Hill’s unfortunate death.” He blotted his forehead again with the scrap he held.
Brock had trouble conceiving what the man was obviously saying. If the magistrate had visited last night, that meant—
“Are you telling us that Lord Griston visited you? Last night?” Kimpton asked, speaking Brock’s thoughts aloud.
Nervous laughter resounded through the parlor. “Well, not exactly,” he hedged. “’Twas Lord Griston’s agent, sir.”
Dear God. Ginny was in danger. Brock felt it to his bones. The urgency to whisk her away from Colchester gripped him by the throat, turning his palms damp with fear. He consoled himself with knowing—hoping—Griston wouldn’t dare anything with other party members around. He was not reassured.
Mr. Carson went on. “’Tis exactly why we were forced to keep the man under lock and key. All that rubble about forced marriages for girls as young as four and five?” He snorted. “Who in their right mind would believe such a thing, I ask you?”
A horrific yet clear picture began taking shape.
Kimpton froze, his pace halting mid-step.
Brock met his friend’s stunned gaze. He bolted to his feet, both of them rushing for the door.
Twelve
