G
inny slipped into the chair next to Lorelei in the dining room and ordered tea from the nearest servant. “What’s with all the commotion?”
Lorelei leaned in, speaking softly. “Well, you and Brock for one. Disappearing like that. Someone said he tossed you over his shoulder like a Neanderthal.”
“That’s ridiculous—” she started.
Lorelei’s knowing look sent a rush of heat up Ginny’s neck to her cheeks. “Not to worry. Talk of you was usurped when word came of a body found outside Colchester. A woman,” she finished grimly.
Ginny’s tea arrived. “I hate to break it to you, my dear. Women die just like men.”
“Yes, but they aren’t usually strangled and tossed in a ditch like so much refuse.”
“Strangled! Do they know who she is?”
Brockway and Kimpton entered and took the seats across from the ladies. A shared look passed between them. “Someone was strangled?” This came from Kimpton.
Maeve sat two chairs over. “A nurse. Apparently, she was employed at the Tranquil Waters Asylum.” A shudder wracked her willowy frame. “One never hears much regarding asylums, does one?” Her question didn’t seem to address anyone in the uncomfortable silence that filled the dining hall.
Ginny cut her glance to Lorelei. She was frowning down at her plate of eggs. Ginny surveyed the others. Tension flowed off Brock like the onslaught of driving rain, complete with a charge of lightning and rigorous thunder. He was so still he could have been carved stone. “Any notion who she was?” he asked.
“No one mentioned a name,” Maeve whispered.
Ginny couldn’t swallow a thing. Both Kimpton and Brock filled their plates and ate without another word. Others drifted in and out, but when Kimpton and Brock stood, Lorelei and Ginny did as well. Ginny had every intention of learning what brilliant plan Brock and Kimpton had silently agreed upon. She knew one thing. It would be interesting.
She trailed Brock up the stairs and down the long hallway to his assigned chamber. How convenient to be out from under so many watchful eyes. She pushed on the door as he entered his room and followed him in. He turned, shoving the door with an abrupt slam, and drew her into his arms, kissing her with a passion that mirrored their early morning. “You fell asleep on me last night.”
She blushed to her roots, wondering if he meant literally.
“You’re adorable, you know.”
His attempts at distraction almost worked. She pushed at his shoulders. An ineffectual effort. “What’s going on?”
His hands fell away, and he pushed one through his hair. “Kimpton and I have been searching for Lady Kimpton’s brother, Harlowe.”
Her apprehension turned palpable. It turned her stomach. She gasped. “You found him?”
“Nothing quite so simple. We learned a man fitting his description was hurt. He’d lost his memory, and the doctor caring for him has since died.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Said patient has vanished with no trace. The only reason we know, or feel, it’s Harlowe is that we saw two paintings in Goldhanger that strongly suggest his style. The doctor’s daughter, Evelyn Holks, has disappeared as well. She was the one who’d nursed him to health. We found the doctor’s sister. She told us that Evelyn—that’s her niece—was in love with him. We didn’t find Evelyn either.” He paced to the window and stared out. “It’s too coincidental that a woman was found dead. A nurse.” He turned, piercing her with his fierce gaze. “Kimpton and I will need to track down the identity of the dead woman. It’s entirely feasible that Harlowe was stashed in that very asylum. It’s the perfect place, in fact.”
“And you suspect that this… de-de… the woman is Evelyn?”
“Sadly, it would simplify our search.”
Ginny moved away and fell into one of the winged chairs flanking the hearth. “Has Thorne shared any of this with Lorelei?”
“You would know that better than I. As I understand it, she doesn’t tend to pepper him questions.”
Her gaze shot to him. “Unlike me, you mean?”
He sauntered over, crouched before her. “You are quite unique, my love.” She lifted her brows. “Not in a bad way. You bear scars”—his fingers brushed her tingling scalp—“like no other. And I, more than anyone, respect your need for answers.” He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. “I want you home with your girls. I wish to assist you in your scandalous plans in teaching them to defend themselves.” A long pause ensued. “I must go for a bit. I’ll be back later tonight.”
Heartened by his warmth, and his trust at disclosing his and Kimpton’s intentions, she could only nod.
Rising to his feet, he pulled her up with him and into his chest, his hands on her arms a source of comfort she both craved and begrudged. “Stay away from Griston, darling. I have it on good authority that he is untrustworthy. Stay away from Maudsley too,” he added on a scowl. Of course he’d had to go and ruin it with his typical arrogance.
Ginny flat-palmed his chest and shoved, opening her mouth prepared to peal a ring over his head. “Why, you—”
His mouth covered hers in a swift rebuttal. “For me,” he whispered. “I’ll be back. If Kimpton and I don’t return before the party ends tomorrow night, you and Lady Kimpton will take up Lady Alymer’s invitation and accompany her back to London. Kimpton and I are taking his carriage.”
“Griston should be thrilled with our absence today,” Kimpton said as the grand house behind them lessened in the distance.
Brock didn’t respond. He was attempting to digest the fact that a nurse had been strangled. That added up to an unlikely link in Brock’s view. The prickling at his nape since the night Griston had strolled up and interrupted him and Ginny at the Peachornsbys’ musicale increased his unease. “This entire scenario does not sit well. I don’t like it, Thorne.” He ran his hand across the back of his neck. “And where did Griston disappear to last night? At the height of his own gathering.”
Traveling in Kimpton’s carriage was considerably slower than horseback, and less satisfying. But they’d realized the director of the asylum might be more willing to answer questions from gentlemen appropriately dressed than if they arrived haggard and dusty. And if by chance they stumbled upon Harlowe? All the better to transport him. Brock prayed they would not be transporting a corpse.
Kimpton smirked. “He showed up not long after you manhandled Lady Maudsley from the room. I believe someone said you flung her over your shoulder once you were clear of the parlor doors. I take it you and she came to a mutually satisfying resolution?”
That comment was not worthy of an answer. He let out a low grunt. “What do we know about the dead woman?” he asked instead.
“I was able to learn her body was found near Mersea Island. It’s within a stone’s throw of Tolleshunt, which incidentally is where Tranquil Waters Sanctuary is located. Less than an hour’s ride away. Sorry to pull you away, we’ll be missed today.”
“One would hope,” Brock muttered under his breath.
In all, it took less than fifty-three minutes to find Tranquil Waters. It wasn’t that difficult to spot. The building was of Jacobean architecture with three levels of windows in height. The roofline was simple. There were no elaborate balconies or decorative trimming. Just a structure of dull red brick and dark mullioned windows, uniformly aligned. Brock counted thirteen across the top two floors and twelve on the lower level.
Kimpton instructed Andrews to follow the long tree-lined graveled path to a series of wide steps leading up to a less than stellar entrance. The small portico wouldn’t protect much in a downpour. At the door, a butler greeted them. Kimpton handed over his card. “The Marquis of Brockway and the Earl of Kimpton to see the director.”
“Very good, sirs.” He ushered them to a large drawing room where a blazing inferno roared in the hearth. It did nothing to lessen the deep chill within. Brock doubted if anything could warm the room, short of the entire hospital being engulfed.
The door opened, admitting a portly fellow with a balding plate and a harrowing scream from within the bowels of the asylum.
“Another little fact I won’t share with Lorelei,” Kimpton murmured.
Brock didn’t blame him. If indeed Harlowe was housed at Tranquil Waters Sanctuary, just imagining the atrocities he’d suffered as a resident sent a shudder snaking up his spine. A year in such a place could harm the stoutest of constitutions.
“Gentlemen.” The man inclined his head, which reflected the hearth’s flickering flames. What little hair he sported sprouted in a variety of directions. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What with all the pandemonium in the last few days… I’m short a nurse, you see.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, my lords. My name is Carson. I’m the director here at Tranquil Waters Sanctuary. Might I offer you a drink?” Without awaiting an answer, he hurried over to a bar in the corner and poured out three tumblers of brandies and brought them over, indicating the chairs in front of the fire. “Please have a seat and tell me how I can be of service?”
They accepted their drinks, and Kimpton said, “We are interested in learning about a young woman found on Mersea. It’s said she was found in a ditch, strangled.”
The director’s Adam’s apple bobbed with his hard swallow. He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his shiny plate, jowls shaking. “Sad state of affairs. Sad. Sad. Yes indeed.”
Brock settled back in his chair and stretched his legs out before him, ankles crossed. “You knew her, then?”
Carson stopped, his gaze darting from Kimpton to Brock like a frightened rabbit. “Yes. Evelyn. Evelyn Hill.”
“I see.” Kimpton took a leisurely swallow of his brandy. “Approximately how long did Miss Hill work at the, um, sanctuary?”
“Oh, three or four months, I believe. I shall have to check our records. ’Twas the oddest thing.”
Brock tossed back the rest of his brandy, watching the man closely. There was nothing threatening about him. He was one of those blustering underlings anxious to please anyone above his station. He’d seen it a million times over. “What was that, sir?”
“She willingly stepped in for our regular nurse, Mrs. Jackson. Mrs. Jackson was one of our longtime, more experienced nurses in charge of the, er… most dangerous residents. I worried, as Miss Hill was rather young. Too young for that particular wing. But when Mrs. Jackson was suddenly struck ill and no one else willing to step in, well, you can see as I had no choice but to allow the young woman… well, ’tis regrettable. Yes indeed. Regrettable.” He brought his glass up, his hand trembling so violently that the contents spilled over the edge. He tossed back the whole of his drink. “Such a lovely girl.” He trained his gaze on the fire, his words seeming undirected to anyone in particular. He blinked and glanced back up at Kimpton and Brock, his cheeks flushing a harsh red. “Forgive me, my lords. I-I forget myself.”
“Were you enamored with Miss, er, Hill?” Kimpton said.
The man’s face turned a deep violet shade. “I beg your pardon,” he sputtered out. “I’ve never met a more compassionate young woman. She did her utmost by our most dangerous resident.”
It wasn’t a denial.
Brock glanced at Kimpton, whose shoulders drew up tense, matching Brock’s insides. “What made this resident so… dangerous?” Brock kept his tone low and conversational, non-threatening but pointed.
The director’s startled demeanor registered guilt. “For one thing, he kept insisting, ludicrously of course, he was of noble descent—” He cleared his throat. “A member of upper society,” he finished weakly.
Brock smirked.
Visibly shaking, the director continued, “He kept insisting he’d been kidnapped. Well, imagine my shock. The man was rail thin. There were scars on his face. He turned violent, and I was forced in having him restrained.”
“Let us start from the beginning, Mr. Carson.” Brock’s tone was sharp, and the man flinched. He took a breath meant to calm his rising trepidation.
Kimpton stepped in. “Did the man give a name?”
“Viscount Harlowe. He insisted his sister would be concerned.”
Brock’s heart thumped hard. Was it possible they’d found the missing viscount? Brock’s memory caught up to a specific painting—Harlowe’s painting—of a young woman wearing a large hat. “Did he mention a wife?” Brock and Kimpton had run across it in their search for the man just before Ginny had been found almost dead at Maudsley’s hand. Also in the picture, featured on the girl’s hand, was a large, distinctive ruby. They’d later discovered the girl was Corinne, Maudsley’s long-lost daughter.
“No. No wife. In all fairness,” Carson continued, “I didn’t doubt the man’s sincerity. No, sirs. It was his ramblings of working undercover for the government that I found most disturbing. He spouted dribble of cover-ups, of the—” He glanced to the closed door, then to the windows before speaking in low tones Brock had to lean in to hear. “He all but accused the magistrate of being a traitor. Working with the Slavs and the French! You can imagine my horror at such an accusation.”
Brock met Kimpton’s gaze. This was dire indeed.
“Don’t you see? I had no option but to contact the magistrate.” Carson was wringing his hands.
“What was it about the Slavs he could have said?” Brock asked. “The French and the Russians had already fallen out of favor with one another by 1810.”
Every word the man uttered, his voice grew more confident. “He insisted I contact the magistrate about the matter.”
Brock drew his legs in, then leaned forward, stilling. “And did you?”
“I did indeed. He said he would handle the matter personally.”
Kimpton spoke softly, his voice menacing. “Who did this patient portend he was, Mr. Carson?”
“W-who?” His forehead shined with perspiration. “I told you, sir. Viscount Harlowe, Brandon Radcliff.”
“Perhaps you would allow us to meet this viscount.”
“Oh, no. No, sirs. I fear that is quite impossible.”
Brock came to his feet. “Nothing is impossible, sir.”
“I’m afraid in this case it is. You see, Miss Hill was assisting the man to freedom when he turned on her. He’s the one who killed her, you see. He’s gone. Escaped. Why, my staff lives in fear of their very lives.”
Kimpton stood and paced to the hearth and back. “And you notified the magistrate of this latest development?”
Carson’s eyes moved between Brock and Kimpton. “There was no need, my lords. The magistrate himself visited. Just last night. So, you see? Everything is back under control.”
A sharp and icy foreboding pierced Brock. “The magistrate visited. Last night, you say? But he is—”
“Yes, my lord. He assured me he would search down the culprit personally and see to justice for Miss Hill’s unfortunate death.” He blotted his forehead again with the scrap he held.
Brock had trouble conceiving what the man was obviously saying. If the magistrate had visited last night, that meant—
“Are you telling us that Lord Griston visited you? Last night?” Kimpton asked, speaking Brock’s thoughts aloud.
Nervous laughter resounded through the parlor. “Well, not exactly,” he hedged. “’Twas Lord Griston’s agent, sir.”
Dear God. Ginny was in danger. Brock felt it to his bones. The urgency to whisk her away from Colchester gripped him by the throat, turning his palms damp with fear. He consoled himself with knowing—hoping—Griston wouldn’t dare anything with other party members around. He was not reassured.
Mr. Carson went on. “’Tis exactly why we were forced to keep the man under lock and key. All that rubble about forced marriages for girls as young as four and five?” He snorted. “Who in their right mind would believe such a thing, I ask you?”
A horrific yet clear picture began taking shape.
Kimpton froze, his pace halting mid-step.
Brock met his friend’s stunned gaze. He bolted to his feet, both of them rushing for the door.