And continuously, under the surface concerns and the deeper stream of worries about his brothers was a vein of awareness that all was not as it seemed with their intruder. Something about Mr. Black was tapping against his consciousness, trying to get in.
But even the busiest of nights must end, and at last the brothers headed home, crossing the river in sleet and a bitter wind that cut through their warm coats as easily as a knife through butter.
It was a relief to reach the tunnel, and then the tower, where they could head for bed with a warming glass of brandy or port in one hand, and a few coals in a bed warmer in the other. Allan, in his own chamber, stripped off his wet clothes, vigorously toweled himself dry and warm, ran the bed warmer over the sheets, and plunged under the covers.
It was only then that he thought about checking on Black. No need, he convinced himself. The man was presumably sound asleep upstairs, and the drugs might be wearing off enough that Allan would disturb him. Besides, the floors were bitterly cold. Even bundled up with a banyan and slippers, all the good of the toweling would be dissipated, and he’d come back to bed chilled, and have trouble warming again.
He’d see Black in the morning, and perhaps then, he’d be able to work out what it was about the man that bothered him.
It was his last conscious thought, but he woke to the same sense of something just out of reach. He was, as usual, the first out of bed. One brother after another put in an appearance. No Mr. Black.
Still no Mr. Black an hour later. It was one in the afternoon. “Why is Black not up?” he asked Baldwin. “I asked you to lower the dose last night.”
“I did,” Baldwin said. “He should be awake by now. I’ll go and check.”
Moments later, brothers who were not in the central room came out to their chamber doors when Baldwin shouted from Black’s door, “The bastard is gone.”
*
By the timeMel got to her sister’s, the sleet had thickened, and the hackney driver refused to wait for her. “It’s too ’ard on me old ’orse, Mister,” he explained. “Ruby’s not so young as she used ta be, and neither am I, to tell the troof. Fact is, we’d ’ave been ’ome with a warm mash inside ’er and a tot o’ rum inside me this hour gone if ye ’adn’t ’ad me promise ta bring ye ’ere. We’re for ’ome now, even if we don’t get our five shillings’.”
“Of course,” Mel agreed, feeling contrite. Poor horse, and poor man, too. They must both be chilled to the bone. She ought to have him take her back on his way home, so she could return to the tower. But she had come all this way, and she was within yards of her beloved daughter. Who would, in any case, be sound asleep.
What would be the harm if she stayed? Yes, Lord Kemble was likely to be upset by her absence—or not so much her absence as what it said about her knowledge of the tower’s secrets.
But she had already decided to explain her true purpose and to offer an alliance. She could stay with her sister and daughterfor Christmas Day and return tomorrow night, ready to go with the brothers to the club on Boxing Day, as she had promised Winifred.
Surely, with what she had learned about the marquess and what the brothers must know, they could figure out a way to defeat the wicked man?
“Go home,” she said to the jarvey, giving him two silver crowns—the bonus being only fair for keeping his promise in the terrible weather. “Rest yourself and your horse. Happy Christmas to you.”
She had a key, and she let herself inside. Almost immediately, she realized that someone was up. Light showed under the door that led to the kitchen. Harmony was sitting at the table, sipping from a cup. She leapt up when Mel entered the room and rushed to give Mel an embrace. “Mel! Darling! What are you doing here so late? Or is it early? It must be after midnight. Merry Christmas, dearest. Have you finished your investigation? Or… oh no! Have you been dismissed? Come and sit down. Would you like a chocolate? I think there is still some in the jug. Sit down and I shall pour one for you. Harriet will be so pleased to see you! You shall stay, of course, and we shall have such a lovely Christmas. What did happen with the investigation? And how did you get here on this dreadful night?”
Harmony tended to chatter when she was excited.
Mel laughed. “Sit down and sip your chocolate, Harmony, and I shall try to remember your questions and answer them. No, I have not finished the investigation or been dismissed. Yes, I should like a chocolate and shall pour my own.”
She was suiting words to action even as she spoke, and she took the warm cup to the table and sat down. “I came in a hackney with a dear man who was anxious to get home to his family, and I’m here to spend Christmas with you, Harriet,and Benjie.” Benjamin was Harmony’s son, who was two years younger than Mel’s daughter Harriet.
“Tell me, darling, how are you? How are the children?”
She relaxed as she sipped her hot chocolate and listened as her sister talked about the children’s lessons—Benjamin was a great reader and Harriet was already reaching beyond Benjamin and even Harmony in mathematics.
“I am very grateful to the upstairs neighbor,” Harmony said. “He has allowed Harriet to join his ward for lessons. The two girls are the same age, and Mr. Eastwood is very clever.”
To house her sister and the children, Mel rented the downstairs of what had once been an elegant townhouse for a single family. This area on the western edges of Marylebone had been abandoned by the rich and fashionable, and was now home to families of the middle sort—office workers, comfortably placed tradesmen and shop owners, attorneys, and secretaries.
Like most of the other houses in the street, the house had been converted to two dwellings with a dividing wall through the front hall and two doors with locks, one opening to the ground floor and one to the stairs that led to the second dwelling.
Harmony rattled on about visits to the park, the price of eggs, the essay her son had written on the manners required of a gentleman, Harriet’s insistence that the vicar was not a good Christian, because he was only interested in the souls of the wealthy, and other topics.
“Of course, she is quite right, but it is not proper for children to express such opinions, but at least she only told me, and Mr. Eastwood said that, rather than discipline her for saying something that is, after all, the truth, I should praise her for her discretion in not making the statement in front of the vicar or other people.”
Mr. Eastwood seems to enter your conversation quite often, Harmony.
Her sister’s interest in the man was confirmed a moment later when she blushed as she said, “You will meet Mr. Eastwood tomorrow, when he joins us for Christmas dinner. He and his ward, of course. But Mel, why are you letting me prattle at you like this? It is the middle of the night! I shall just go and put sheets on your bed while you help yourself to some hot water from the kettle and have a wash.” Harmony yawned. “I need to go to bed myself after that. It will be a busy morning tomorrow, what with cooking Christmas dinner and going to church.”
She continued talking while Melody washed her face and hands. Then they made the bed together—trying to be as quiet as possible, since Melody shared Harriet’s bed chamber when she was in residence—hugged silently, and parted, each to their own bed.
