"Are you in trouble, Freddie?"
Freddie looked at her. If only she knew. Trouble was too mild a word for it.
"Devil a bit," he mumbled. "Nothing to worry about. Fellow I owe some money to."
"Gambling debts?" Pen asked. She sounded resigned.
"Something of the sort." Freddie gave her a peck on the cheek and dashed past before she could ask him anything more difficult.
"When will you be back?" Pen called after him. Freddie turned his head slightly but did not reply, picking up his pace toward town. He did not call a hack. He could not afford it.
The fresh morning air cleared his mind but brought with it a sick dread in the pit of his stomach. Edward Warwick. How had he ever come to this? The whole matter had begun so long ago now that it was difficult to remember. He had been very distressed after his cousin India Southern had refused his marriage proposal. He had been young and unaccustomed to failure, and he had turned to the family vice of drink and debt. From there the downward slide had been imperceptible but inevitable, until that dreadful moment when he had been obliged to tell his father that he was so deep in hock that he was likely to end up in the Fleet. He could still see the late Lord Stand-
ish's
face twisted with disgust and disapproval as he berated his only son for the weaknesses that he had instilled in him.
There had been nothing that his father could do to help him, of course, since by then he was losing all the money that Prince Ernest of Cassilis had so casually bestowed on him. The Fleet incident had been hushed up and then Warwick had appeared like the answer to all their prayers, offering money to father and son in return for a few words here, a favor there. There was no difficulty. It was influence that Warwick wanted—a piece in the papers, a word in the ear of an MP, a decision going his way in court. . . The Standish father and son obliged where they could. It would have been different had Warwick wanted social acceptance, of course. That would have been quite out of the question.
Freddie crossed Piccadilly, narrowly missing being run down by a dray cart. Lord Standish had not had huge influence himself and had therefore been of limited use to Edward Warwick. Freddie had sensed almost from the start that Warwick was disappointed in them. He kept them short of cash and on tenterhooks. Then Lord Standish had died and Warwick had helped Freddie to find the right sort of work at Asher's Bank, where he was useful to both his employer and to Warwick himself. He was a dunce with money, of course, but neither of them wanted him for his financial acumen. Asher wanted someone with the right social connections and Warwick wanted what he always wanted. Information. Who had what sum of money, who owed whom, who had inherited, the rich, the poor, the desperate—into which category Freddie fit very firmly himself.
He reached
Wigmore
Street in the end, having lost himself briefly in the maze of roads around James Street. He was out of breath as he entered the high-class gown shop and went up the stairs. He was unsurprised to be kept waiting for almost an hour. Eventually he was ushered up a back stair and into Warwick's office.
Edward Warwick extended a hand to him in an approximation of courtesy.
"Standish. How good of you to come so promptly."
There was a hint of mockery behind his words. He knew how long Freddie had been waiting. Freddie felt a hot wave of humiliation and despair sweep over him. He was in too deep now. He could not cut free of this man when he was so deeply in his power. And he sensed that at last Warwick wanted something more dangerous than the provision of a few pieces of information. It was almost as though he had been waiting for this moment for a very long time, dreading it but knowing that it would come.
"So your sister is now Countess of Stockhaven." Warwick spoke slowly, but there was a tone in his voice that Freddie recognized like an animal scenting danger. He did not reply. The office felt stifling. He could feel the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades and the tension across his back. Warwick's lips thinned.
"Stockhaven always seems to have the things that I desire," he said. "The house by the sea. . .the fortune. . . the wife. . ."
Freddie was so startled that he spoke without thinking. "You want Isabella?"
Warwick flashed him an inimical look from his slate-gray eyes. "Not that wife, Lord Standish, charming though your sister undoubtedly is. Stockhaven was married before, although it seems to please everyone to forget it."
Freddie's stomach gave a lurch. "You mean India," he said. He wrinkled his brow against the heat and the buzzing in his head. "You knew her?"
"Intimately," Warwick said with a ghost of a smile. "It was a very long time ago. Twelve years, in fact."
Freddie rubbed his eyes. His vision seemed to have blurred and the buzzing in his head was growing louder, like a bee trapped in a bottle. It seemed inconceivable to him that India, so mild, so sweet, could have been in any way acquainted with this man from whose pores evil seemed to seep like sweat.
"I do not understand," he said.
"You never do," Warwick said, the smile still lingering on his lips. "How do you think that I first heard of you and your father and your dangerously extravagant ways?" He shrugged. "No matter. There is something that I require from you, Standish."
Freddie straightened automatically at the authoritative tone. "Yes?"
"I require to know immediately if either the Earl or the Countess of Stockhaven decide to travel to Salterton. And by immediately I mean within the hour, not two days later. Do you understand?"
Freddie nodded, bewildered. The feeling of sinking dread that had dogged his steps receded slightly. This seemed very innocuous. Information. He could provide that.
"Is that all?" he asked, a little too eagerly.
Warwick nodded, a thread of amusement in his voice. "That is all for now, certainly. You may go."
Freddie needed no second bidding. Downstairs he could smell the perfumed air of the gown shop and hear the voices of the customers. The sun was shining. The air was fresh. Freddie was tolerably certain that he could manage to eat something now. There was nothing to worry about.
He indulged in a hearty meal and rolled home feeling positively jolly. Pen was out and he was dozing in his armchair when he heard her return.
Pen's face lit up when she saw him.
"Freddie! I did not expect you back until tonight! How was your business?"
"Fine," Freddie mumbled. Seizing the opportunity to pursue his investigations he asked casually, "How is Bella?"
Pen unpinned her hat and threw it down on the table beside the door. She frowned slightly.
"Bella has gone to Salterton," she said. "You may remember that she has been speaking of it over the last few weeks."
Had she? Freddie racked his brains. He vaguely remembered Isabella mentioning that she would like to live quietly at the seaside and his reply that retirement in Dorset was far too dull a fate. He had had no notion her departure was imminent. Pen was still speaking.
"She left this morning, apparently. She must have gone in the most monstrous hurry." Pen frowned. "We had an engagement to go to an exhibition together today but she appears to have forgotten completely."
Cold fear clutched at Freddie's heart. He set off down the stairs so fast that he almost stumbled and fell. He could hear Pen's startled exclamation:
"Freddie? Freddie!"
He paid no attention. The day, which had seemed so promising only a few hours previously, suddenly took on a much bleaker aspect. What was it that Warwick had said?
I require to know within the hour. . .
It was already several hours since Isabella had left Town.
This time Freddie took a hackney carriage to
Wigmore
Street, regardless of the expense.
"I
do apologize for sending
for you, Mr. Cantrell," Penelope Standish said, "but I fear I did not know who else to call on for assistance." She pressed a hand to her temples. "This is so very unorthodox! I hope you will forgive me—"
"Miss Standish," Alistair said, drawing her down to sit beside him on the sofa, "I assure you that nothing could alter the high esteem in which I hold you. In what manner may
I
be of assistance?"
Pen's expression lightened. She had sent for Alistair precisely because she knew he would deal efficiently with any matter placed before him. She could rely on him. She looked down at their clasped hands and felt an uncharacteristic desire to be cared for, protected and, preferably, swept off her feet in the process. Instead, Alistair patted her hand encouragingly before releasing her. Pen sighed.
"The most extraordinary things appear to be happening to my relatives!" she said. "I was supposed to be attending an exhibition at the Royal Academy with Bella this morning."
She waited a moment for him to comment but when he did not, she continued, "When I arrived in Brunswick Gardens,
I
found that Bella had left me a note telling me that she had left for Salterton yesterday. I know she has been speaking of removing to the seaside recently, but to go so abruptly!
I
cannot help but worry what has prompted her. . . ." She looked at Alistair and felt her cheeks warm. "Do you know whether Lord Stockhaven has accompanied her? She implied that she was alone but I wondered. . ." She broke off, a small frown furrowing her brow.
"I know that Marcus intended to follow your sister to Salterton with all
despatch
," Alistair said tactfully. "Perhaps he may even have caught up with her on the road. You should not worry, Miss Standish. She will be perfectly fine."
Pen frowned harder. "So she went without Marcus? How strange! I do not understand those two at all, Mr. Cantrell."
She saw Alistair's lips twitch. "They certainly appear to have a most. . .ah. . .complicated relationship."
Pen looked at him, half exasperated, half resigned at this diplomatic reply. Mr. Alistair Cantrell was the perfect model of the proper gentleman and where she had conceived this idea from that she wished him to be improper, she had no notion. It was best to put it out of her head and concentrate on the problem in hand. She knitted her fingers together.
"If that was my only concern, however, I might rest easy," she continued, "but when I returned from Brunswick Gardens and acquainted my brother with the facts of Isabella's journey, he immediately disappeared and now I have received the most cock-and-bull message from him telling me that he is also gone to Salterton!" She ran a hand through her hair, scattering several pins on the carpet. "He never returned to collect any belongings and believe me, Mr. Cantrell, Freddie is not the man to travel without his valet, let alone a change of clothes. Why, I do not think he could remove his own boots unaided!"
Alistair could well believe that Lord Standish would have difficulty reaching the end of the road, let alone Dorset. He looked at the exquisite creature before him, all troubled blue eyes and tumbled fair hair, and wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. He felt it was richly unfair that Freddie Standish, who ought to take responsibility for protecting his sister, should in fact be the one in need of constant supervision. He crossed his arms in order to prevent himself from touching Pen.
"I simply must go to Salterton myself," Pen finished.
She jumped up. "I cannot sit here waiting to find out what is happening!"
"And all impatient of dry land, agree with one consent, to rush into the sea," Alistair murmured.
Pen stared at him. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Cantrell?"
Alistair blushed. "Poetry, Miss Standish. I was quoting Cowper."
Pen's brows rose. "This is not the time to be quoting poetry, Mr. Cantrell. What am I to do?"
Alistair abandoned his flight of fancy. "It seems clear to me, Miss Standish, that you must go to Salterton and that I must escort you."
Despite this being the outcome that Pen had been angling for, she felt unaccountably disappointed. All had been accomplished without the slightest hint of romance, if one left aside Mr. Cantrell's dubious quotation, which could scarce have been considered romantic anyway.
"Thank you," she said. "I should be most grateful for your escort."
Alistair smiled. "Splendid. I shall return in one hour having arranged transport and packed a bag." He got to his feet. "Will that give you sufficient time to prepare, Miss Standish?"