Thorne dropped into a deep leather chair across from him. “Eventful.”
“How so?”
“Rowena Hollerfield is dead.”
That garnered his friend’s full attention. He dropped the paper and bolted upright. “The devil you say!”
Thorne leaned forward. “Where is Lady Maudsley?”
Brock’s mouth tightened. “Safely tucked away.” He glanced around. “She is in a bad way, Kimpton.”
“How so?"
“She’s spent the better part of a week unconscious. She finally came round the last two days. But I dared not drop from society. It would rouse suspicions. She’s been asking after her girls.”
“You can assure her of their well-being.”
“Thank you, I will.” Brock paused. “I suppose Lady Kimpton learned of Rowena’s child?”
“Oh, yes. About that…” Kimpton filled him in. The discovery of Corinne, her life-threatening bout. How Rowena had managed to keep Corinne hidden all these years. Rowena’s murder.
Brock’s face molded to hewn stone with those words. “Have you any idea who murdered her?”
“I do,” Thorne said grimly. “I believe Maudsley is our culprit, yet his reasons escape me.”
“Jesus.” Brock paled and pushed a hand through his hair. “Have you seen him since?”
“No. The bastard beat Irene and Cecilia’s maid, Miss Elvins, to within an inch of her life.”
Brockway’s harsh breath drew the attention of nearby members. “Good God.”
Thorne quelled the unwanted attention with a black look until the nosy bastards fumbled and shifted their gazes elsewhere. “We’re safer in town. But there’s something else.”
“I hesitate to ask.”
“I think he has involved himself in an affair with Miss Elvins.”
“Lecherous beast.” Brock shuddered. “I realize it’s not so unusual, but the chit can’t be more than sixteen. And with a wife like Gin—”
“A disgusting practice indeed.” He contemplated Brock. “Any word regarding Harlowe? His whereabouts? His activities?”
“None. His old friend Welton was about a day or so ago. Sounded as if some poor gel is about to meet her doom. He’s marrying. Nothing regarding Harlowe, however.”
“The longer he’s missing, the less I’m apt to believe him alive.” Not that he could say as much to Lorelei. He dreaded the day. And now there were Miss Hollerfield’s emotions to contend with.
Tension marked Brock’s features. “Have you discovered anything in the paintings?” Brock asked.
“Nothing. However, there was another at the hunter’s cottage. It’s of the Tower gate. The gate is latched with another scythe.”
Brock grunted.
“And eyes are staring out from within.”
“Is that so?” Brock said slowly. “Do you suppose Harlowe is”—he leaned in—“working for the Crown? It’s odd, is it not, that he was seen at the Beefsteak?”
“That same thought crossed my mind. The drawing from his quarters, the one with Fawkes—” He broke off. His mind worked and reworked the pieces. Nothing fit. “There was something about that particular drawing.” The others… who were the others? The conspirators were hanged, drawn, and quartered. England did not take kindly to treason. “One man did not belong. He didn’t sport the pointed beard nor bushy hair. Perhaps that picture warrants closer scrutiny. It’s still in your possession?”
“Of course. Under lock and key.” Brock folded the newspaper, set it aside, and stood.
