Ashlyn Macnamara (21 page)

There. She’d voiced her failure aloud, and the world hadn’t come to an end. No, it kept on turning, the better to torture her with the knowledge.

“Do you think she might have set off on her own investigation?” Revelstoke asked. “Any idea where she might have gone?”

Isabelle sifted through her mind. “She has a friend she visits on occasion, in Sandgate, but why she’d go there to look for Jack …”

“We’ll go then.” George placed a hand on her shoulder. “You and I.”

Isabelle met his gaze. She wanted to search for her son. Biggles, at least, could look after herself. But the riders were already gone.

“I think you should,” Revelstoke said. “It will give you something to do while we wait on news.”

G
EORGE
would have taken a carriage to Sandgate. Despite a sky full of scudding gray clouds, Isabelle insisted they walk.

“Biggles always goes on foot and makes a day of it,” she pointed out. “Besides, with the condition of the roads, walking will get us there just as quickly. The footpaths are more direct.”

Horseback might have been faster, but he swallowed that argument. He was no horseman, even if Revelstoke might spare them two nags. Walking meant they’d spend less time sitting and waiting for news. If he understood anything, it was a need to act, to feel as if he was contributing to the effort of finding Jack.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the town, his feet were protesting the prolonged constitutional. The journey on Buttercup would have been more pleasant—and they still had to make their way back.

The weather had turned against them. A sharp wind
whipped the waters of the Channel to whitecaps, while overhead, the sky had taken on a uniform shade of lead. In the distance, gray sheets of rain pelted the sullen waves.

“I’d wager my last shilling we won’t make it home dry,” he muttered.

Isabelle hunched her shoulders beneath her shawl. “If anyone’s traveling back toward Shoreford, perhaps they’ll take pity on us and give us a ride.”

George eyed the road that snaked its way along the steep face of the bluff down to the pebble-strewn beach. Her hope held little foundation if they must rely on current traffic. But for the groups of houses, separated by green terraces clinging to the hillside above the Channel, the place looked utterly deserted. A sad sight for the month of August when people ought to be on holiday. If ever a parade of the fashionable graced this town’s promenade, no colorfully clad gentlemen or ladies strolled along the shoreline today.

“Seems as if most people had enough sense to stay home.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “And the riders out looking for news of Jack? They won’t get far, either, and if there were any clues to be found …”

She didn’t need to finish that statement. A solid drenching would wash any sign away. Not to mention she must be thinking of her son, praying that, wherever he was, he’d found shelter.

Still, George had to say something to brace her spirits. He hated how dull her complexion had become in the last two days. Her skin was porcelain pale to begin with, but the upheavals of late had wilted the roses in her cheeks. In contrast, violet circles darkened the delicate flesh beneath her eyes. The inner fire she’d shown him that first day—her pluck—had faded along with everything else.

He drew his palm along the line of her upper arm.
Such an insubstantial gesture, when what she really needed was to regain hope. If only he could restore it for her. “While we’re here, why don’t we ask if anyone’s had word of Jack?”

Her brow furrowed. “Why would he be here?”

She gestured to the sleepy collection of dwellings and shops huddled about a church and a public house. The town was every bit as peaceful as the village below Shoreford, nearly nondescript in its pastoral and provincial nature. Hardly a den of kidnappers. No, the only possible crime Sandgate’s citizens might possibly undertake was smuggling, and the war with France had been over for five years.

“Why would anyone steal a boy from his bed?” he countered. “They can’t think to ask for ransom.”

“I don’t know. There’s no reason behind it, and I’ve no money to pay ransom.”

“But your father has.” He said it casually, as if he were pointing out a feature of the landscape. Yes, on a clear day, you can see all the way to France, and Richard Marshall, the Earl of Redditch has more blunt than he knows what to do with. And it’s not enough for him.

“My father.” She seemed to seize up on the words, but she didn’t question how he knew the man’s identity. She’d doubtless surmised he’d learned it from her cousin. “I no longer exist as far as he’s concerned. It makes no sense to hold Jack hostage in hopes of gaining anything from my father.”

“And what of Jack’s father?” Another stab in the dark, but in the absence of solid clues, they had to begin somewhere.

“That makes no sense, either.” She lengthened her stride, tromping up the road as if she might escape the subject. “I haven’t seen him since … since that night. Why should he turn up after all this time?”

“Did he know he has a son?”

“He didn’t learn of it from me. Someone else could have told him about Jack. Gossip, mind you.” She honed her words to a sharp edge, each syllable like a little blade that cut just as deep as a society dragon’s vicious tongue.

And the scoundrel had abandoned her to that. He’d left her to bear the entire burden of shame, when he could have saved her.

“Perhaps you ought to tell me more about him,” George ventured. A perverse sense of protection drove him to ask. What if he knew the man in question? Hell, he might even like him. Jack’s father could be one of his cronies, an old school chum, someone who had grown up to haunt gaming hells, clubs and card rooms.

Someone just like him.

An image of his former mistress rose in his mind. Lucy threw back her strawberry-blond mane and laughed, deep and full throated, while running a hand over a belly swollen with his get. Goddamn it.

Goddamn him.

“I can tell you very little. You see”—she paused to swallow—“by the time I was able to discover his direction, he was gone.”

Naturally, the scoundrel wanted to make himself difficult to find. All the better to avoid his responsibilities. Responsibilities such as George now had toward Lucy. Although he’d had very little to eat today, his stomach grew heavy. That damned lead weight reappeared every time he thought of his impending fatherhood. And, like a child snug within its mother’s womb, that weight grew over time. Guilt added layers the way an oyster produced a pearl from a grain of sand.

“If you don’t mind,” Isabelle said, “I’d really rather not discuss Jack’s father.”

If she preferred to drop the subject, George couldn’t very well object. His probing of her past shame was no doubt proving painful. And perhaps it was for the best
if he didn’t learn the father of her child was one of his cohorts. George would be tempted to throttle the bastard next time they ran into each other.

As they wound their way up the hill, the wind took on a finer edge that robbed their breath. A stinging raindrop or two landed across his cheeks. “How much farther?”

Isabelle nodded toward a row of houses. “The one in the middle.”

He seized her hand. “Let’s step lively, then. I don’t fancy a drenching.”

All the walking had parched his throat, enough that he’d make do with water at a pinch. If Biggles’s friend didn’t offer refreshment, he’d convince Isabelle to stop at the public house.

They approached a front garden overgrown with leggy, neglected bushes. The door may once have been red, but the paint had long since faded to a muddy orange. Hardly auspicious or welcoming. A glance at Isabelle showed her squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, as if she were mentally girding herself for battle.

“Do you know this friend of Biggles’s?”

“I’ve never met Mrs. Cox, no, but I’m sure Biggles has said a thing or two about me. She’ll work out who I am.”

George knocked, and they waited beneath the eaves while a few more raindrops hit the ground with ominous plops. A minute or more passed before the door creaked open.

“Yes?” Mrs. Cox might have been Biggles’s relative, as the two women were built along the same lines—broad-bosomed, round, and jowly. Strands of graying hair straggled from beneath Mrs. Cox’s mobcap.

George gave the woman his most winning smile. It had charmed ladies in ballrooms and card rooms all
across London, but apparently its power did not extend to the Dover coastline.

Mrs. Cox swung a glare from George to Isabelle and back. “If ye’ve come for a love potion, I’m fresh out.”

The devil? George cast an alarmed glance at Isabelle, who kept her gaze firmly fixed on the threshold. Right. No help from that quarter. “Love potion? No, we—”

“Don’t try to deny it.” She jerked her head into a nod that set the ruffles on her cap shaking. “That’s the only reason nobs like ye come round. Come all the way out from Town, they do, all smiles. Think no one will catch on they’re having troubles if ye know what I mean.”

“Now see here.” He would have advanced on her, but she stood guard over her doorstep like Cerberus at the gates of the underworld. “I am not having troubles of a personal nature.”

She crossed her arms beneath her considerable bosom. “That’s what they all say.”

“And if I were, I would not discuss it on your doorstep.”

“I haven’t got reason to let ye in. As I said, I’m out.” The door lurched ominously toward the jamb.

“We’re looking for Lizzie Biggles,” Isabelle put in before the mud-colored plank of wood could clip George’s nose. “Have you seen her?”

Mrs. Cox turned her gimlet gaze on Isabelle. “I don’t know no Lizzie Biggles.”

Damn. Had Isabelle led them to the wrong house?

“But that’s impossible.” Isabelle stretched out a hand, but the older woman remained unmoved. “She comes once a month to visit you. She was here not more than a few days ago.”

“Who’s been telling ye such nonsense about me? I make all my own concoctions. Highly secret recipes. I certainly don’t need any help. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.”

“Who said anything about help?” Isabelle let out a huff. “I’m looking for Biggles because she’s gone missing. I thought she might have come here.”

“Missing?” Mrs. Cox seemed to deflate. “But if she’s gone missing, how am I to—” She shook herself. “Never mind that now. I haven’t seen her.”

“Have you seen Jack?” George asked. Might as well try to salvage something out of all this bother.

“Young man, most of my customers tell me their name is Jack, when it’s not John Smith. Which would ye be?”

“Neither. I’m George.”

“Well, there are plenty of them, too. They think they can hide behind the king’s name.”

“Jack’s more important here. He’s a little blighter. Blond and lively, about so high.” George held his hand at waist level. “Takes after his mother.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Cox nodded. “You’d be Isabelle, then.”

He sensed Isabelle’s stiffness. She drew herself up as if donning armor. Six years of society’s judgment had no doubt taught her the reaction. “I am.”

Only two words, but she’d said so much more.
Is there some sort of problem?
echoed in their passing.

“Yes, Lizzie’s told me about ye.” No judgment lay behind the reply, but no sympathy bolstered it, either. “And yer boy. Ye say he’s missing?”

“He is.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, dear, but I can’t help ye find him.” At long last Mrs. Cox’s tone softened. “Not even Lizzie knows how to mix a potion for that.”

George shifted his weight until he was leaning against the jamb. “I don’t suppose you’d have an idea where Biggles might go if she hasn’t come here.”

“I’m certain I don’t, and more’s the pity.”

Once again, Isabelle stretched out a hand, and this
time laid it on the older woman’s forearm. “If you see her, will you tell her we were asking after her?”

“I’ll do ye one better.” Mrs. Cox drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “I’ll tell her to be sensible and go home. I haven’t got any place to put her up and from what she tells me, she’s comfortable enough.”

“Yes, tell her that. Tell her she’s needed at home.”

Mrs. Cox nodded. “I’ll do that.”

George turned and cast a glance at the sky. The pall of clouds had not yet opened up. Rather, it spit out a drop or three now and then as a simple reminder. Or a warning. “We won’t keep you then.”

“Wait.” Isabelle laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “You’ve said you’re out of love potions, but would you have anything for an upset stomach?”

Mrs. Cox’s expression hardened into the glare she’d worn to answer the door. “Whatever for? The pair of ye look quite healthy.”

“Not for me. It’s for a neighbor boy. His mother allows him to indulge in all manner of sweets, and it affects his digestion.”

“Now there’s something I can manage.” She disappeared into her dwelling while the clouds fired off a few more warning shots.

“I hope she hurries,” George muttered.

Isabelle hunched closer, her body slight and warm against his flank. “We’ll never make it home. Not if we want to arrive dry.”

“Here we are.” Mrs. Cox appeared and handed Isabelle a square of linen knotted into a pouch. “Infuse this into a tea, and the boy will be all set. But I suppose ye already know that.”

George reached into his top coat for a few coins. “How much do we owe you?”

She stepped back, eyes narrowed, and looked him up and down. He’d seen similar expressions on society
mamas, assessing his worth, deciding if his income made him worthy of courting their daughters. “Half a crown.”

“Half a crown?” Isabelle protested. “That’s fully three times its worth.”

“Never mind.” George counted out the amount. “Let the lady make some profit. She won’t be selling any more love potions for a while. Not with Biggles gone.”

Mrs. Cox bit down on a shilling before tossing it into the air and catching it again. “Thank ye kindly, sir.”

Isabelle glared at the door after it slammed shut. “I’ll be having a word with Biggles about her. Half a crown. You must realize I cannot repay you.”

“No matter.” George eyed the sky. The deluge held off for now, but before long, the clouds would let loose. “In fact, I’m about to spend a bit more. I could stand with something bracing. Let’s see if we can’t get a meal and a drink while the storm passes.”