Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
A Collision of Secrets
Two mornings after my meeting with Finch, a footman entered the breakfast room carrying a single folded note. The moment I saw Finch’s hand, my pulse leaped.
I have news. Come at once.
The clink of china and the rustle of my sisters’ chatter faded to a blur. Only those six words mattered.
Claiming a sudden engagement, I excused myself and hurried upstairs to my bedchamber, where Tilly helped me from my pale morning gown into a dark green walking dress, a sturdy hat with a veil, and a dark cloak.
As I descended the stairs, Honeycutt glanced up, a question in his eyes. I’d given him no notice to bring our carriage around.
“I have a charitable call to make,” I explained. It was not untrue, though perhaps not the charity he would have approved. “Please have a footman hail a hackney for me.”
“Of course, my lady.” With the patience of one long resigned to my ways, he signaled to one of the footmen to carry out the task.
The ride to Hatton Garden seemed longer than before, though perhaps that was my own anxiety stretching each minute. London was half-awake, its streets caught between morning bustle and lingering fog. The air smelled of horse sweat and coal smoke. But at least it wasn’t raining.
By the time the cab turned into the narrow lane where Finch kept his office, the noise had grown fierce. Costermongers shouting their wares. Porters jostling one another. A man wheeling a barrow of oranges so close that one rolled against the cab’s wheel and burst.
I gathered my skirts and carefully stepped down to the ground, still slick from the night’s drizzle. As before, I asked the hackney cab driver to wait, promising him extra coin. He was no more pleased than his predecessor.
No sooner had I knocked on Finch’s office door than he opened it, surprise clear on his face. “Lady, er, ma’am,” he said with brisk civility. “You came sooner than expected.”
“Your note was hardly one to be ignored,” I replied, removing my gloves as I entered.
The small office was as I remembered—papers in precise stacks, the map on the wall, the smell of ink and pipe smoke lingering in the air. The small stove burned brightly in the corner, something for which I was grateful.
Once he took my cloak and umbrella, Finch gestured for me to sit and asked if I’d like tea.
“Yes, thank you.” Although it was May, the air was quite chilly.
Once he set the cup in front of me, I wasted no more time on preliminaries. “Tell me what you’ve found.”
“I made enquiries into the names you gave me,” he began, “and visited the addresses where the young women were placed. Three of those disappearances were reported to the police, who took notes and did nothing further. One mistress assumed her maid had returned to Lancashire. Apparently, she’d been rather homesick.
The other two simply replaced the girls and thought no more of it. ”
A chill crept along my spine. “Then it is true,” I said softly. “They have truly vanished.”
Finch nodded, his expression grave. “In each case, the maid was performing her ordinary duties. She stepped out on a routine errand or went to deliver or collect something for her employer. A matter of minutes. She never returned.” He paused briefly.
“We’ll need to follow up with the one presumed to have gone home to Lancashire.
But the others?” He patted the stack of papers on his desk.
“They are not where they should be. If they were indeed taken, someone is arranging these disappearances with great care. I fear they will continue since the police have shown no interest in investigating them.”
Each paper in his stack represented a missing girl. Would the girls feared lost become nothing more than a memory? Not if I had anything to do with it, they wouldn’t.
“So how shall we proceed?”
His eyes narrowed. “We? No, my lady. There is no we. I will do the digging. You must remain where you are safe.”
I lifted my chin. “Safety is a luxury these girls don’t have, Mr. Finch. If I am to be of use, it cannot be from behind drawing-room curtains.”
He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You have courage enough, Lady Rosalynd. That I will grant you. But courage draws the eye, and eyes bring danger. You cannot imagine the men we may be dealing with.”
“On the contrary. I can imagine them all too well,” I said quietly.
We might have gone on arguing, for I had no intention of retreating, when his office door suddenly opened.
Steele stood on the threshold. As he took in the sight of me, surprise crossed his face. “Rosalynd,” he said, his voice low and tight, “what are you doing here?”
My heart leaped painfully against my ribs. Clearly, he wasn’t pleased. “I came to see Mr. Finch. I asked him to take on an enquiry.”
Steele’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion. “About what?”
“Do come in, Your Grace,” Finch interjected, “and close the door behind you. We wouldn’t want Lady Rosalynd catching a chill.”
“No. We wouldn’t,” Steele said, closing the door behind him. As he stepped into Finch’s office, he tossed his hat and cloak over the rack near the stove. But rather than take the only available chair, he remained standing, arms crossed, frowning down at me. “I’m listening.”
Keeping my voice steady, I explained about the caller from the mission, what she had shared about the missing women, the lack of follow-through by the police, and my decision to hire Mr. Finch to investigate their disappearances. The longer I spoke, the darker his brow grew.
“Why did you not come to me?”
“You were occupied with your legislative work,” I answered.
“I can attend to more than one matter at a time, Rosalynd.”
Irritation pricked hard. “And what would you have done?” I couldn’t help the edge to my tone. “You would have asked Mr. Finch to look into it, which is precisely what I have done. What I have every right to do.” I had made a sound decision, and I would not apologize for it.
His jaw tightened. “Is that your hackney outside?”
“Yes.”
“Where is your footman?”
There was nothing I could say that would satisfy him.
“So you came alone.” When his gaze swept over me, I felt the weight of his disapproval more keenly than if he had shouted. “Hatton Garden is not Grosvenor Square. Have you no sense of danger?”
I rushed to my feet. “Do not speak to me as though I were a child, Steele. The police have turned their backs on these women. Someone must do what they will not. Mr. Finch understands that, even if you do not.”
We faced one another in silence. The sound of traffic from the street seemed distant, muffled by the tension between us. He was angry with me. That much was clear. But there was more to it than that. There was fear in his eyes. For me.
Finch cleared his throat. “Your Grace, may I inquire as to the purpose of your visit?”
Steele turned toward him, his expression hardening. “Lord Greystowe came to me this morning. His daughter has gone missing.”
My breath caught. “Lady Honora?”
“The same. She went out to meet her suitor disguised as her maid. She never returned.”
Finch leaned forward. “Disguised as her maid?”
“Yes.”
I turned toward Finch and, in that instant, an understanding passed between us. “The disappearances are connected,” I said.
Finch nodded slowly. “So it would appear.” He gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Your Grace, please take a seat, so we may speak plainly.”
Steele hesitated, then sat, the chair creaking under his weight. As I retook my own seat, his gaze returned to me. But his voice, when he spoke, had softened. “You should take more care, Rosalynd.”
I forced a steady breath. “Nothing has happened to me, and nothing will. But these girls are gone, Steele, and now a lady of birth has joined them. Whoever is behind this, they are moving boldly. Something needs to be done.”
Finch nodded. “Lady Honora’s disappearance may bring the matter into the open. The Yard will not ignore an earl’s daughter.”
Steele shook his head. “That won’t do.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Greystowe refuses to bring in the police. He fears what it will do to his daughter’s reputation.”
“He’d rather have a dead one?” Finch asked. “That’s what it may very well come to.”
A moment of silence passed between us while the coal in the grate hissed softly, and the faint hum of the city pressed at the windowpanes.
“Let’s hope not,” Steele answered.
“Lady Honora has her father’s name. But the other girls do not,” I said. “How many nameless girls will have to be lost before anyone of importance notices?”
The muscle in Steele’s jaw shifted, then stilled. “We will find them,” he said at last. “All of them.”
A promise he could not possibly guarantee. One of the young women had already died. What was there to say there hadn’t been others?
I sat back in my chair and studied him. His anger had cooled, leaving only the sharp gleam of determination. It was the same look he wore when discussing his work with the committee in the House of Lords, though here it carried something a great deal more personal.
Finch drew a fresh sheet of paper toward him. “We must begin anew, with both. Your set of names, Lady Rosalynd, and Greystowe’s daughter. Between them, we may find a pattern.”
“I have more, Mr. Finch.” Reaching into my reticule, I withdrew the list Sister Margaret had sent me and handed it across the desk to him.
“After our earlier meeting, I visited St. Agnes. Sister Margaret informed me that these girls left for employment placements. She stays in regular contact with all who have been placed. The girls on that list have not responded to her recent enquiries. She fears they have met with harm.”
Finch’s expression sobered as he unfolded the paper. “How many?”
“Seven,” I said. “But there may be more.”
Finch released a slow, heavy breath. “Very well. I’ll look into them.”
“Focus first on Lady Honora,” Steele said. “Her trail will be the freshest. She’s only been missing a day.”
Although I wanted to object, he was right. A search begun at once for Lady Honora had far greater hope of success than inquiries into girls who had vanished over the course of months.
We turned to the large wall map, where Finch began pinning each name in its place. Together we traced the widening constellation of addresses and employers, searching for the hidden thread that bound them all.
Once he finished with the task, Finch stepped back, rubbing a hand across his brow. “This is no small undertaking,” he said quietly. “An enquiry into fourteen missing women—likely more—will require greater manpower than I possess alone.”
“Hire whoever you need,” Steele said. “But you will focus personally on Lady Honora. Greystowe requires absolute discretion. So, her case must be handled with the utmost care.” His gaze remained fixed on the map.
“Send the bill to me for all expenses connected to all the lines of enquiry, including the other missing women.”
I hitched up my chin. “No, Mr. Finch, you will not. Whatever expenses you incur in searching for the young women on the lists I provided, you will send to me.”
“Rosalynd.”
“Steele.”
Finch’s gaze bounced between us. “Right. I will do as Lady Rosalynd asks. If different arrangements are to be made, I suggest you discuss them on your own time and place. As I have matters to attend to, I must bid you goodday.” His expression made it plain he had endured quite enough of our bickering. I couldn’t blame him.
Steele retrieved his hat and cloak, and then—without asking—took up my things as well. “I will escort you home. My carriage awaits outside.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but the memory of the hackney’s reeking interior—the onions, the stale sweat, and other less pleasant odors—rose swiftly to mind. “Very well.”
He said nothing more as he draped the cloak over me. But as we made our way to his carriage, I felt the storm gathering.