Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
“Blue shutters,” Beatrice murmured, scanning the weathered facades until she located a small dwelling at the street’s end. “There.”
The street appeared even less promising than she had anticipated—a curving row of narrow houses whose better days were clearly long past. Laundry hung from upper windows, and children played in the gathering dusk despite the hour, their thin faces and worn clothes speaking eloquently of the economic circumstances that prevailed in this quarter of London.
The house was modest even by the street’s humble standards, with two stories of aged brick and shutters whose blue paint had faded to a ghostly gray in places. A single lamp burned in an upper window.
Leo rapped sharply on the door, his powerful frame seeming incongruously imposing against the dwelling’s modest proportions. When no immediate response came, he knocked again with greater force, prompting a muffled shuffle from within.
The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of a woman’s weary face, her expression guarded as she assessed the unlikely trio on her doorstep.
“Mrs. Fairfax?” Leo inquired, his tone deliberately modulated to avoid intimidation.
“Who’s asking?” the woman countered, making no move to open the door further.
Before Leo could respond with what would likely have been an authoritative demand for compliance, Beatrice stepped forward, allowing her hood to fall back completely.
“Mrs. Fairfax, we’re friends of Anna Finley,” she said gently. “We’ve been searching for her out of concern for her safety. We mean her no harm, I promise you.”
The woman’s eyes darted between the three of them, lingering longest on Beatrice’s face as though searching for deception. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, for after a moment’s consideration, she opened the door wider.
“Come in, quickly,” she urged, her voice barely above a whisper. “And mind you close the door properly behind you.”
The interior was clean but spartan, illuminated by a single candle that cast elongated shadows over the worn floorboards. Mrs. Fairfax led them up a narrow staircase to the second floor, where she paused before a closed door.
“She’s been in a state since she arrived,” she confided, her voice still hushed. “Jumping at shadows, afraid to go near the windows. I’ll not have trouble brought to my door, mind, but she’s blood, and I couldn’t turn her away.”
“We understand,” Beatrice assured her. “And we’re grateful for your kindness toward her.”
Mrs. Fairfax nodded once, then tapped lightly on the door. “Anna? There are people here to see you. Friends, they say.”
Silence followed, then a soft rustle from within.
The door opened slowly to reveal a young woman whose appearance bore witness to recent hardship. Her face, though undeniably pretty, was pale with anxiety, her eyes shadowed from lack of sleep or excess of worry. She started at the sight of the three strangers.
“Who—” she began, taking an instinctive step backward.
“Anna,” Beatrice said gently, stepping forward while gesturing for the gentlemen to remain where they were. “My name is Beatrice. This is Leo, Philip’s cousin, and this is the Marquess of Tillfield. We’ve been looking for you because we’re concerned about Philip.”
At the mention of his name, Anna’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope quickly replaced by renewed fear.
“Philip?” she whispered. “Is he… Do you know where he is?”
“We have hoped you might,” Leo replied, his deep voice filling the small space. “He disappeared on the day he was to marry Beatrice.”
Anna’s gaze snapped to Beatrice’s face, comprehension dawning in her expression.
“You’re her,” she said softly. “The lady he was supposed to marry. He told me about you. Said you were kind, that you understood.”
Beatrice nodded, taking the frightened woman’s cold hands in her own. “I did understand. Philip is my friend, and his happiness matters to me. We’re worried about his safety. Can you tell us what happened?”
The simple kindness of the gesture seemed to breach whatever final reserve of caution Anna had maintained. Her eyes filled with tears, and she swayed slightly where she stood.
“I don’t know where he is,” she confessed, the words emerging as a half-sob. “I’ve been so afraid—for him, for myself. When I received the note, I thought… I thought he might be dead already.”
“Dead?” Beatrice gasped.
“Note?” Leo stepped forward, his expression sharpening with interest. “What note?”
Lord Tillfield placed a restraining hand on his arm, a silent warning against intimidating the distraught young woman.
Beatrice guided Anna to sit on the edge of the narrow bed that occupied much of the small chamber.
“Perhaps you could start at the beginning,” she suggested, her voice gentle but firm. “Tell us everything that you can remember clearly.”
Anna drew a shaky breath, her fingers twisting anxiously in the fabric of her skirt.
“It was the night before your wedding,” she began, her gaze fixed on Beatrice.
“Philip came to see me at the Gilded Lion, as he sometimes did. He would wait until my shift ended, and we’d talk in a small alcove near the kitchens where we wouldn’t be seen. ”
Leo and the Marquess exchanged looks at the confirmation of their suspicions regarding Philip’s involvement with the establishment.
“That night, we stayed later than usual,” Anna continued. “Philip was upset about the wedding, even though he said you understood. He kept saying he wished things could be different, that we could just leave London together.”
Beatrice nodded encouragingly, though she felt Leo’s gaze settle on her with renewed intensity at this revelation.
“We were about to leave when we heard voices in the manager’s office—Mr. Reynolds and another man.
The door was ajar, so we heard everything.
” Anna’s voice dropped further, as though the very walls might be listening.
“The other man… Philip recognized him immediately. Lord Westbury, he said. An earl, very powerful.”
“What were they discussing?” Leo pressed.
“Business,” she replied. “But not an ordinary gaming business. They spoke of shipments, payments to customs officials, and profits beyond anything legitimate could yield. Philip whispered to me that the Gilded Lion must be a front for smuggling—perhaps worse.”
“And they saw you?” the Marquess inquired.
Anna shook her head. “We thought we’d escaped unnoticed. Philip walked me home and promised he’d find a way for us to be together properly once the wedding was over.” A fresh wave of tears spilled onto her cheeks. “But the next morning, I received this.”
From her bodice, she withdrew a folded paper, its edges worn from repeated handling. Beatrice accepted it gingerly, opening it to reveal a brief message written in an elegant hand:
Your services at the Gilded Lion are no longer required. Leave London immediately. Do not attempt to contact the Marquess of Mallingham again. Failure to comply will result in consequences far graver than mere dismissal.
It was unsigned, but the implicit threat was unmistakable.
“I was terrified,” Anna continued, her voice breaking. “I fled my lodgings that night and came here. I sent a friend to warn Philip, to tell him that I left, but when my friend returned…” She broke into another sob.
“What did he tell you?” Beatrice prompted gently.
“That it was too late,” Anna whispered. “Philip had vanished. No one knew where he’d gone. My friend said people were talking about him abandoning his bride at the altar, that there was a terrible scandal.”
Leo moved to the small window, his powerful frame silhouetted against the deepening twilight.
“So, Philip overheard something he shouldn’t have,” he summarized, his voice tight with controlled anger. “Westbury discovered this, threatened Anna, and Philip fled. Presumably to protect her as much as to protect himself.”
“But why not come to you?” the Marquess asked him. “Surely he knows you’d offer protection?”
“If Westbury is as deeply involved in criminal enterprise as Miss Finley’s account suggests,” Leo replied grimly, “Philip may have feared implicating anyone connected to him. Including you, Duchess.”
The use of her title rather than her name struck Beatrice as oddly formal, given the circumstances. Still, she recognized it as his instinctive retreat when confronted with emotional complexity.
Anna’s tears continued to flow, her slender frame shaking with barely suppressed sobs. Without hesitation, Beatrice moved to sit beside her on the bed, placing a comforting arm around her shoulders.
“We’ll find him,” she promised, though she had no certainty to offer beyond her own determination. “And we’ll ensure your safety as well.”
“How?” Anna asked, her tear-stained face contorting with desperation. “Lord Westbury is powerful and well-connected. If he discovers I’ve spoken to you—”
“He won’t,” Leo interjected, turning away from the window. “Because you won’t remain here. The connection to your cousin is too easily traced.”
“Where would I go?” Anna asked, fresh panic edging her voice.
“To one of my properties,” Leo replied with calm authority. “I own several houses in London that are unknown to Society at large. You’ll be safe there, with servants I trust and men to guard you.”
Beatrice’s eyebrows shot up.
“You would do that?” Anna asked, her expression wavering between hope and disbelief. “For me?”
“For Philip,” Leo corrected, though his gaze settled briefly on Beatrice as he spoke. “And because it’s the right thing to do.”
Beatrice felt an unexpected warmth spread through her chest at his words.
For all his rakish reputation and carefully maintained facade of perfect detachment, Leo possessed a core of genuine honor that manifested in moments like these.
“Pack whatever you need,” he instructed. “We’ll depart immediately.”
As Anna hastily gathered her meager belongings, Beatrice found herself studying her husband with newfound curiosity.