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“Are you ready to leave, my dear?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jane said, “but I have no desire to rush everyone else away.”

“Nonsense,” Aunt Millward said. “Someone has to be the first to go; it may just as well be us.” She glanced at Lord Bloxley. “Besides, I get the feeling the earl would be more than happy to have his house emptied of extra people.” She offered her arm to Jane. “We shall consider it a rescue mission for Lord Bloxley.”

Jane smiled. “That sounds far more noble than simply being tired.”

“Doesn’t it though.” Aunt Millward waited until Jane was on her feet again, and then she signaled her brother. Ten minutes later, their entire party was leaving Claremont House.

Chapter 4

The row of terraced houses wore an air of tired neglect. Soot darkened the bricks, and more than one broken window was patched with rags. Up ahead, a charwoman emptied a bucket of dirty water into the street before hurrying back inside—although whether her haste stemmed from her desire to complete her work or her distrust of the nobleman currently walking through the insalubrious street, Alexander could not tell.

He glanced at the scrap of paper in his hand and then at the door before him. 15 Mead Street. Two days of hunting for anyone who could give him more information about Mary Brown’s son had come to this. He could only hope that someone behind the black door with the peeling paint and the broken knocker had the answers he sought.

After visiting all the bakeries within a quarter mile radius of White’s, he’d finally tracked down the baker who had provided Miss Brown’s name at the time of the accident. Unfortunately, she’d been unable to give him anything more helpful than a suggestion to inquire at the flower market in Lambeth. Alexander had risen early the next day to catch the flower merchants before they dispersed around the city. Anxious to be about their business, one after another had denied any knowledge of the young woman who had sold posies on the corner of St. James Street until, at last, an older man pushing a barrow of tulips had offered an observation.

“Seems like I remember ’er. Quiet thing. Came an’ went without sayin’ much ta anyone.” He’d rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. “I’m thinkin’ she walked past St. Mary’s. Maybe if’n you went down that way, someun would know ’er.”

It hadn’t been much of a clue but was all he had, so Alexander had walked down St. Mary’s street until he’d reached the church, and there his luck had finally changed. The priest was in the vestry, and he knew the woman in question. Upon learning of Alexander’s quest, he had expressed sorrow over Mary Brown’s passing and surprise over the existence of a son. He’d then given Alexander the address of a house where he believed Miss Brown had been living for almost two years.

Barefoot children gathered nearby to watch Alexander with undisguised curiosity as he mounted the steps and rapped on the door with his walking stick. The peeling door shuddered in protest, but from somewhere inside, a woman’s voice—shrill and coarse—sounded, followed by heavy footsteps. A thin tabby cat sped out of sight beneath the stairs, and the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman with a mobcap pinned to her graying hair, a stained apron covering a brown skirt, and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. When she caught sight of Alexander, her eyes narrowed and she stepped into the doorway, effectively blocking his entry.

“What can I do fer you, sir?”

“My name is Lord Bloxley,” Alexander said. “Is this Mary Brown’s place of residence?”

Without adjusting her stance in the doorway, the woman folded her arms across her ample bosom. “There ain’t no one of that name livin’ ’ere.”

“So I would suppose, seeing as Miss Brown died on Thursday evening,” Alexander said, catching the shock that flickered through the taciturn woman’s eyes before it disappeared behind an angry glare.

“I mighta known it’d ’appen when she owed me rent.”

Schooling his features to hide his growing dislike of the woman, Alexander inclined his head slightly. “Am I to understand that she did live here, then?”

Instantly realizing her mistake, the woman grasped the doorknob. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say. If she’s gone, she’s gone.”

Alexander pulled some coins out of the pocket in his vest. “It seems that you require payment for Miss Brown’s board, and I require information about her son, Mrs.—?”

“Dodson,” the woman said, greed lighting her eyes. “Mrs. Dodson. And she ain’t got a son. She came to me ’bout two years ago. She were alone then, an’ ’as been ever since. Works all day sellin’ flowers. Keeps ’er barrow round back. That’s all I knows.”

Mrs. Dodson was telling the truth. His surety sat like a lead ball in his stomach. At this point in the conversation, the woman had nothing to lose. She would not want the responsibility of an orphaned child, and if she saw a means of ridding herself of him, she’d do so—and likely try to make money at it.

More footsteps sounded, and Alexander glimpsed a roughly dressed young woman descending the stairs in the hall behind Mrs. Dodson. When she reached the bottom step, she hesitated.

“There’s nothin’ to see ’ere, Lucy,” Mrs. Dodson barked.

“Yes, Mrs. Dodson.” The young woman lowered her head, and without sparing another glance at either of them, she slipped past them both and hurried down the street.

“Is there anyone else living here who could tell me about Miss Brown’s son?” Alexander asked.

“There’s no son,” Mrs. Dodson snapped. “Never was. I don’ have youngsters ’ere. They can’t pay their way, and most times, their parents can’t either.” She extended her hand for the coins. “Miss Brown were late payin’ fer ’er bed more often than not. She couldn’t ’ve managed another as well.”

There was nothing else he could extract from Mrs. Dodson. Rightly or wrongly, she was adamant about Miss Brown’s lack of offspring. He dropped two coins into her outstretched hand.

“Good day, Mrs. Dodson.” He turned and started down the street before the woman closed the door.

His frustration mounted as he walked. Miss Brown’s final words had been about her son. Surely no woman would expend what little energy remained to her on falsehoods. Unless she was not right in her mind. His footsteps faltered, and he came to a halt opposite St. Mary’s. Was that the case? He did not know the woman. He’d never even purchased a posy from her. How could he be sure that she was lucid?