“Father?” I quickly stepped around Mr. Dorian and approached him.
My father’s listless gaze fell on me, and he immediately frowned. “Minnie? What are you doing here?” he asked sharply. “Why aren’t you in Corfu?”
Since it was nearly the same thing he had said to me during my first visit, I surmised he was having one of his bouts of confusion. “I came to see Delia,” I said gently as I took his arm. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
But my father shook off my hand. “I told Harper to keep you away,” he barked. “It isn’tsafefor you here.”
I frowned in concern, due to both his agitated state and his words. “What are you talking about?”
Instead of answering my question, my father took notice of Mr. Dorian then and barreled towards him. “Who the devil are you? Do you work for Mitchem too?”
“Father,” I pleaded as I took his arm again, “this is Mr. Dorian. He is a friend.”
“Tell that imbecile to get my daughter out of here,” my father continued. He was more worked up than I could ever remember. “That was our agreement.”
Mr. Dorian, for his part, only nodded. “Understood.”
I shot him an irritated look, though perhaps it was better if he played along, as this seemed to calm my father a little.
“Good. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Who is Mitchem?” I asked.
My father began to respond, but was distracted by the sound of hurrying footsteps.
“Good heavens. There you are!” cried a plump, middle-aged woman in a white nurse’s cap and apron. “I’m so sorry. Mr. Everly usually naps at this time, and I must have dozed off as well,” she admitted as she rushed over to us.
I arched a brow at her admission. “Just be glad my mother is out.”
“It won’t happen again,” the nurse said with a sheepish nod and took my father. “Come with me, Mr. Everly, and I’ll have them send up some pudding.”
My father’s eyes lit up at this and went with her dutifully, without complaint. He didn’t even look back at me. It was as if I had already been forgotten.
I shook my head, bewildered by the entire scene. “What on earth could he have been talking about?” I murmured, mostly to myself.
“I’m not sure,” Mr. Dorian replied, his gaze fixed on my father’s retreating figure. Then he turned to me. “But George Mitchem was once the head of the Foreign Office.”
“My father must have met nearly every man in government at some point,” I said with exasperation. “And obviously he is now a very confused old man.”
But Mr. Dorian responded with an uncertain hum. “He seemed lucid enough in that moment.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What are you suggesting?”
He turned to me, his gaze serious and unyielding. “Nothing. Yet.”
I pushed away the uneasy feeling rising in my chest and cleared my throat. “Then may we please remain focused on the current task at hand?” He arched a brow in question, and I rolled my eyes. “Mrs. Pearson. You said you knew where she was staying.”
“Ah. Right,” he said before his gaze flickered with concern. “Are you sure you want to do that now?”
“Of course,” I replied, already moving towards the staircase as, at that very moment, I was quite determined to get out of this house.
Chapter 18
We left through the back entrance, though this halfhearted attempt at discretion would likely have little effect. Mrs. Reynolds may run a tight ship in many ways, but she couldn’t entirely stop the servants from gossiping with each other or their neighborhood counterparts. Luckily, I didn’t care what people said about me, or so I reminded myself as I climbed into Mr. Dorian’s coach. He followed close behind and directed the driver to take us to the Carrington Hotel in Mayfair.
I raised my eyebrows at the exclusive, and expensive, establishment as I settled against the bench seat. “No paltry widow’s portion for her, then?”
Mr. Dorian shrugged, taking the seat across from me. “According to Mrs. Langham, she has done well for herself abroad. And that fellow of hers is rumored to be a minor Italian royal.”
