Song From the Sea (6 page)

Two long days and happily he hadn't come up with a single lead. He'd asked at every shipping office in Folkestone, and no one had heard of a Miss Calliope Magnus. He'd combed every passenger manifest for clipper ships coming from various ports in Northern France and as far away as Italy. The story had been the same in Dover. This was his last stop before heading back to Stanton, and with any luck he'd come up empty-handed here as well. He felt immensely pleased with himself: God was finally giving him a helping hand in the matter of Adam's recovery.

He pushed the door open and a bell tinkled, announcing his presence.

“Good afternoon, sir.” A gnomelike gentleman of middle years with a receding hairline and horn-rimmed glasses looked up from a pile of papers. “Another wet day, isn't it? I am Mr. Gilford. How may I be of service to you?”

“Good afternoon,” Nigel said. “I wonder if you could tell me if a Miss Calliope Magnus was a passenger on one of your clippers embarking from a port in France, most likely in the north. She would have been due in Dover on the evening of April twentieth.”

“I can certainly look, sir. Won't you take a seat?” Gilford reached for another pile of papers and began to flip pages over.

Gratefully sinking into an uncomfortable wooden chair, Nigel prepared to wait. He knew this business could take some time, so he removed his hat, located a handkerchief, mercifully dry, and wiped his face with it. He wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a tankard of ale to take the chill off his bones, and he'd spotted the perfect posting inn on his way across town.

“Let me see, let me see,” the little man murmured, running his finger down a list. “Miss Calliope Magnus …No, nothing here. The only clipper we had in that evening was the
Aurora
, coming from Calais. We were that relieved when she arrived safely, given the storm that had blown up.” He chuckled. “We had quite a few passengers who were green around the gills when they came down the plank, I can tell you. No, definitely no Miss Magnus here.”

“I see,” Nigel said, ridiculously pleased at this piece of good fortune. Still, he really ought to ask about unattended luggage. “Did you by any chance have any trunks or valises taken off the
Aurora
that went unclaimed?”

Mr. Gilford frowned. “Unclaimed baggage? No … that is to say that we did have three trunks and two cases which arrived without a passenger, but they were collected. Apparently the young lady in question had missed the sailing. Her fiancé was mightily put out, which I could understand.” He shook his head. “Imagine being so flighty as to miss a booked passage, not that it doesn't happen. We often get relatives in our office, wringing their hands and making a great to-do. Of course in this business one must be tactful. I remember one instance when—”

Nigel, not interested in hearing the man's reminiscences, abruptly cut him off. He leaned forward, his muscles tight with foreboding. “What was the name of the young lady?”

“Let me see, let me see.” Gilford stabbed his finger at the list. “Yes, here it is. Miss Callista Melbourne. Pretty young thing, too. Her fiancé had a sketch of her that he brandished around. He was in quite a temper, quite a temper. I almost felt sorry for the girl, not that it's any of my business.”

Nigel blew out a breath. Calliope, Callista. Close enough, unfortunately. “I see. Do you recall the name of her fiancé, by any chance?”

“Yes, indeed I do.” Gilford grimaced. “I'm not likely to forget that one. A Mr. Carlyle, Mr. Harold Carlyle of Fawn Hill, outside Smeeth.”

Nigel started.
Harold?
Not Adam's ghastly cousin? He could scarcely believe his ears or the way his luck had abruptly turned. “No,” he said quickly, although his head reeled with shock. “Those wouldn't be the people I was looking for.” He stood and put his hat back on. “Thank you so much for your trouble.”

“Not at all. I hope you find your Miss Magnus. Is she a relative?” Behind his spectacles Gilford's eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“No relative of mine,” Nigel said shortly. “Good day, Mr. Gilford.” He quickly left, the tinkling of the bell ringing as he shut the door behind him.

Twenty minutes later, sitting in front of a steaming steak-and-kidney pie and the tankard of ale he'd been pining for, Nigel pondered what to do. Why, if there had to be a blasted fiancé, did he of
all
people have to be the horrible Harold?

Harold, who had been a torment to Adam for as long as Nigel could remember, Harold, who was so full of his own imagined importance that it was a wonder he hadn't blown up like an overinflated balloon long before—How on earth had Harold managed to persuade anyone to marry him?

He probably hadn't. No doubt the girl had been coerced against her will. Little wonder she had chosen to jump off the ship into the heaving sea.

Taking a long drink from his tankard, Nigel considered his options, none of them particularly appealing. He could tell Adam everything he'd just discovered and put Adam in the unenviable position of sending Miss Magnus—or rather Miss Melbourne—straight to Fawn Hill where she would be forever tortured by Harold and his equally despicable mother, Lady Geoffrey. That would be the sane and sensible thing to do, but Nigel was feeling neither sane nor sensible.

If Harold's father were still alive, Nigel might have felt a little better about the situation, since Lord Geoffrey hadn't been a truly wicked man, just terribly browbeaten by his wife, utterly myopic about the shortcomings of his son, and completely hopeless with finances—his and others', as Adam had bitterly learned on reaching his majority. But Lord Geoffrey had died four months before, and he probably wouldn't have been any use to Miss Melbourne anyway. Poor Miss Melbourne would find no support at all.

Nigel played with a forkful of his pie, his appetite having deserted him. He wondered if she might try to take her life again if she knew that she'd been found out and was still going to be sent to marry a man she clearly didn't want to have anything to do with.

He supposed he could always go to Miss Melbourne directly and tell her that he knew the truth about her, but would leave it up to her to decide what to tell Adam.

Too complicated, he decided, and probably far too distressing for a woman in her fragile health and precarious emotional state. No, that was a very bad idea, but it would be equally as bad if Adam did decide to wash his hands of her.

Which he probably would, given his own precarious emotional state. He hadn't looked
that
concerned. Miss Melbourne would probably find something else to fling herself off of, leaving Adam with yet another death on his conscience, as if two weren't already enough.

Wonderful, Nigel thought, looking around at the smoke-filled room as if he might find an answer there. He had two potentially suicidal people on his hands and no idea what to do with either of them. The way he saw it, they might be able to help each other if they had a little time.

He slowly smiled as the perfect solution occurred to him. Time … at least he could give them that. Why not? It was what he'd been hoping for, after all. He would simply tell Adam that he'd been unable to discover anything about his Miss Magnus. That at least was true. He didn't like the idea of lying to Adam, but it wouldn't be a lie, exactly, more an error of omission.

Eventually the truth would come out, but with any luck by that time Adam might not be in the frame of mind to consign Callista Melbourne to Harold's care, regardless of their engagement.

Suddenly feeling much better, he wolfed down the rest of his steak-and-kidney pie, drained his tankard, and went back out into the pouring rain to fetch his carriage.

Adam paced up and down his study, wondering what could possibly be taking Nigel so long. He glanced up at the grandfather clock, its steady ticking annoyingly loud. Eight minutes past six, four minutes later than the last time he'd looked.

Striding over to the window, he peered out into the lashing rain that showed no sign of stopping. Maybe Nigel had become mired in the mud, he decided, but whatever the case, he wished the man would get on with it. Impatience burned at him. He was not accustomed to being so thoroughly in the dark, and silly Miss Magnus had been absolutely no help, sleeping the days and nights away as if she hadn't a care in the world. He had half a mind to toss the bottle of laudanum out the window and shake her to her senses, if she had any. He doubted it, given the habit she had of gazing at him blankly with those big brown eyes, like a fawn that had lost its mother.

A knock sounded at the door and he spun around. “Come in,” he called with relief, thinking Nigel must have driven around the back way, since he hadn't seen the carriage coming up the drive.

The door opened and he scowled when he saw it was only Mrs. Simpson.

“I brought you some claret and sandwiches, my lord,” she said, coming in with a tray and placing it on the low table in front of the sofa. “You haven't eaten a thing since luncheon and I thought you must be hungry. This should tide you over until dinner. Cook has made a nice saddle of lamb with spring vegetables and roast potatoes.”

“Thank you,” he said, forcing civility into his voice. “How is our patient this evening?”

“I am happy to report that Miss Magnus is somewhat improved,” she said, seemingly oblivious to his foul mood. “She sat up for a full hour and ate a decent meal for the first time. I believe the pain in her head is easing, although the poor dear is still weak as a babe. At least the fever is finally gone, thank heaven. I was that worried she'd develop congestion of the lungs.” She poured a glass of wine from the decanter on the tray and set it next to the plate.

“Is she still taking the laudanum?” he asked, thinking that would be the biggest improvement of all.

“She is, my lord, although in a reduced dosage now. Perhaps by tomorrow she won't need it at all, and wouldn't that be a blessing?”

The blessing would be if Miss Calliope Magnus would pull herself together, give a full accounting of herself, and then take herself off as quickly as possible, he thought sourly. “Very good, Mrs. Simpson. You may leave me now. Oh, and when Mr. Dryden returns have Gettis send him directly in.”

As soon as the door closed behind her, Adam sank down on the sofa and cleaned the plate of sandwiches. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a voracious appetite as he'd had the last few days. It was probably a result of all the strenuous exercise he'd taken rowing halfway to France and back. He still didn't understand how he'd managed to find the strength to haul the girl into the boat and get them both safely back to shore, any more than he understood why the rowboat hadn't foundered in the fury of the storm.

And then there was the matter of the gull, he thought, frowning. What bird in its right mind would fly that distance against a raging wind, and then, instead of resting once it had reached land, turn right back around and go straight out into the storm again? That alone defied reason.

He picked up his glass of wine and turned the stem around in his fingers, watching the deep red of the claret sparkle in the facets of the cut crystal like so many rubies. Well, never mind why, he decided. It had happened and that was that. He needed to focus on the consequence, which at that moment resided upstairs in the best guest bedroom.

He had so many questions and next to no answers. Thinking of that, he couldn't imagine what had become of Nigel. Darkness was drawing down and the roads could be treacherous in this weather. Worry began to replace his impatience.

Putting the glass down, he quickly rose, moving back to the window. There was still no sign of the carriage. If Nigel had met with an accident he'd never forgive himself. Images of Nigel lying injured on the side of the road played through his mind and he couldn't make them go away. He'd just decided to call for a carriage and go out to look for him when he heard the door open.

“Nigel!” he exclaimed, weak with relief to see his friend standing in the doorway, looking half drowned but all in one piece. “Where the devil have you been?”

“To London, to London to visit the queen,” Nigel replied with his usual grin.

“Don't start playing the fool with me,” Adam snapped. “I've been half out of my mind with worry.”

“No need, Adam. I'm a big boy. The roads were not at their best, and I had to take a detour around Sandgate where a section had been washed out. It was a nuisance, but nothing insurmountable.”

“Sit down, then. Have some wine to warm you and tell me what you discovered.” Adam fetched a glass from the sideboard and filled it, handing it to Nigel, who downed the contents in two swallows.

“Better,” Nigel said, sinking into an armchair as Adam brought the decanter over and refilled his glass. “Lord, but that was a beastly journey. I nearly stopped in Folkestone, but I reckoned you'd be on pins and needles so I decided to forge ahead.”

“And?”
Adam said, his impatience returning now that he knew Nigel was safe. “What did you discover?”

“I'm sorry, Adam. I discovered absolutely nothing about Miss Magnus. Her name wasn't on a single passenger manifest and no one recalled seeing anyone of her description. I checked every single shipping firm and broker in both Folkestone and Dover.”

“Nothing?” Adam said with disbelief. “How can that be? We know she was on the ship. She can't have spirited herself on board anonymously. Even if she did manage it somehow, what reason would she have?”

“You'd have to ask her that,” Nigel said mildly. “How is she, by the by?”

“Better, Mrs. Simpson says. She's been playing Sleeping Beauty for the most part since you left. See here, Nigel, there must be sense in this somewhere. God knows I haven't managed to get any from Miss Magnus.”

“There's plenty of time for that,” Nigel said. “She's not going anywhere, and neither are we. Best to let her recover in peace before peppering her with a lot of awkward questions, don't you think?”

“What I think is that this situation becomes more and more peculiar. Either she's lying through her teeth or she's a complete idiot.” Adam pushed one hand through his hair, frustrated with the girl for creating such difficulties and with himself for not being able to solve them. “Whichever the case, I have a nightmare on my hands. What am I supposed to do with her, Nigel?”