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“One more thing,” Aunt Millward called through the carriage’s open door. “Send a message to Bow Street and ask that they send a runner—Mr. Toole, preferably—to Lord Southbeck’s house immediately.”

“I’ll see to it right away, my lady,” Rutherford said, closing the carriage door with a thud and raising his hand to signal the driver.

The vehicle pitched forward, and Henry stifled a moan.

“Does it hurt terribly?” Emily asked.

“Like the dickens,” he muttered, tightening his grip on her hand. He had no desire to release it anytime soon. “My head’s the worst. There’s a decent-sized goose egg where it hit the tile.”

“About that,” Townsend said. “A full explanation—or, at least, as full as you can make it, given your current state—would be helpful before we reach Southbeck’s place.”

Townsend was right. Everyone in the carriage deserved to be alerted to the tempest Henry would be unleashing if he arrived in time to speak to the board of trustees.

“What time is it?” he asked again.

Townsend glanced at his pocket watch. “Half past one.”

Henry grimaced. He had never descended the museum stairs so slowly. It had taken them a quarter of an hour to reach the carriage from the accessions room, and it would take at least that to reach Southbeck’s house.

“Locating and apprehending Fernsby must be our first priority when we arrive,” he said. “There’s no accounting for what he may do if he sees that I am free and can testify against him.”

“It will be your word against his,” Townsend warned. “Fernsby is a social creature and is well versed in flattery and charm.”

“Henry’s obvious wounds will add to his credibility,” Aunt Millward said. “Quite apart from the fact that Emily and I witnessed him bound, gagged, and confined in that awful crate.”

“If they want further proof of Fernsby’s crimes, they need go no further than the paintings hanging on the walls in the museum,” Henry said.

Townsend’s face paled. “I sincerely hope you are not suggesting that they are forgeries.”

Henry rubbed his aching jaw. No matter his fatigue, it was time to start his account at its beginning.

Chapter 27

The carriage turned the corner, and Henry leaned forward to better see through the window. Southbeck’s house, a grand mansion built of redbrick, with multipaned, white-framed windows, appeared up ahead. A narrow lawn lined by a hedge and low wall separated the house from the row of black carriages parked along the length of the road.

Henry released a tense breath. The meeting must not yet have adjourned. “The members of the board are still here,” he said. “I recognize Lord Bradbury’s crest on the nearest barouche.”

“Good.” Aunt Millward’s carriage came to a stop behind one of the others, and she slid to the edge of her seat. “They shall not leave until they have heard what you have to say.” She turned to Townsend. “Are you ready, sir?”

“I am.” Townsend pressed his hat more firmly to his head, as though the action secured his courage as well as his wig. “Will you need assistance alighting the carriage, Buckland?”

Although the pain caused by his many injuries had yet to subside, Henry’s movement and speech had improved greatly since he was first helped out of the crate. He was not ready to run a footrace, but he could likely manage a few shallow stairs.

“I believe I can cope.”

“If that is the case, Mr. Townsend and I shall go ahead and apprise the butler of your need to gain entry into the meeting,” Aunt Millward said.

Townsend nodded his agreement. Always a man of few words, he had listened to Henry’s report of Fernsby’s activities in grim silence. Henry’s observations of Fernsby’s recent change in behavior had likely come as no surprise, but when he’d recounted his experience with the man last evening, Townsend’s expression had hardened. The older gentleman may not be an artist, but he was an authority on literary works. Stealing another man’s words was not so very different from stealing another artist’s painting, and Henry could tell that Fernsby’s criminality did not sit well with Townsend at all.

The driver opened the carriage door, and Townsend climbed out of the vehicle immediately. “Come, Lady Millward,” he said, extending his arm to her.

Aunt Millward exited and started up the steps leading to the house with Townsend at her side. Emily hurried out, too, but stood beside the open door, waiting for Henry. Henry reached for the carriage’s door frame, and using it as an anchor, he pulled himself off the seat. The bloodied lace at his wrists chafed the raw skin, but he kept his hold on the piece of wood, using it to steady himself as he clumsily disembarked. A wave of dizziness hit him. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose.

Emily’s small arm slipped through his. “Lean on me if you must,” she said.

He managed a wan smile. “That does not sound very gallant.”

“Rescuing me from an afternoon with Lord Culham amassed you an excess of gallantry. You may lose some on these steps and still be ahead.”