Chapter 22
As dawn approached, the mansion’s inhabitants were either fit to be tied with anxiety or exhausted.
Sophia was jittery enough to have consumed a dozen cups of coffee.
Anthony watched her pace the length of the library for what must have been the hundredth time and, in truth, had he not had years of experience pretending to be calm when he was far from it, he might have joined her.
Servants and guests had split into teams and combed every inch of the house, but to no avail.
The front hall, atrium, and library were teeming with people who speculated endlessly on the fate of the boy and tried to share opinions that were positive for the sake of Lady Pilkington, who sat next to Amala Ayah on a sofa at the hearth.
They spoke rarely, and when they did, it was to utter a word or two, or answer a question posed by Dylan.
For all that Sophia was a bundle of raw energy, Charlie’s mother and nanny were drained.
The two Denney sisters had joined in the search, and Charity had worn a track in the flooring behind Sophia as she paced.
They collided twice, and Anthony nearly laughed out loud at Sophia’s thunderous expression.
Beatrice stood near the window and looked out, wringing her hands, her face strained.
At one point in the evening, one of Mr. Darzi’s aids found her and handed her a letter, which she opened as soon as the young man left.
Whatever the contents of the letter said, her expression softened, and the ghost of a smile played around her mouth.
What business did Mr. Darzi’s aide have with Miss Denney? Anthony turned the puzzle over in his mind as he approached Sophia and attempted to distract her. He halted her midstride. “Did you note that exchange?” he asked.
“What exchange?”
He gestured toward the elder Miss Denney with his shoulder.
“Oh.” Sophia nodded. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I forgot to tell you. Mr. Darzi has a tendre for Beatrice. She is receptive, but uneasy.”
“Uneasy, why?”
“She is concerned about Charity’s feelings and worries, potential social situations, and her parents’ reactions, although her father seems to support the idea.”
He frowned. That did not align with Anthony’s understanding of the man’s behavior. Of course, the marriage of his daughter to a prince may coincide nicely with Denney’s apparent dreams of grandeur. He had dressed as a cardinal for the costume ball, after all.
“Does that not strike you as odd?”
Sophia nodded. “Perhaps he has abandoned all hope of the girls finding husbands in England.”
“Lord Wilshire!” Private Thomas, one of Corporal Mailor’s aides, ran to Anthony’s side and thrust a paper at him, his face all smiles.
Anthony scanned the contents and found his heart pounding, this time with joy. “Charlie has been found near Prince Ekinar’s palace. He is well, aside from hunger and fatigue,” he announced to the room, which erupted in a cheer.
Sophia put one hand to her abdomen and grasped the back of the nearest chair with her other. She closed her eyes.
Anthony felt a surge of relief, and he released it on a sigh. What the boy was doing near the palace—two miles away—and why he had run away were questions that remained unanswered, but he went to Lady Pilkington and the nanny and clasped their hands with murmured good wishes.
The women on the sofa shared tears and embraces. Lady Pilkington peppered him with questions for which he had no answers, but he promised to tell her as soon as the child and his rescuers returned.
Himmat left the library to spread the news, a relieved smile on his weathered face.
Anthony crossed the room to Sophia and placed a hand solicitously at her elbow when what he desired to do was haul her into his arms and kiss her soundly.
She smiled, but it was strained and he knew the reason.
As relieved as she was for Charlie’s safety, her speculation about the statues in the study had been in the back of his mind ever since, and was clearly still on hers.
Anthony wondered if Pilkington’s awareness of his missing statue as Miller’s likely murder weapon fed an irrational fear of his son being harmed.
“You are well?” he asked Sophia quietly.
She nodded, but swayed on her feet.
“Shall I carry you to your bedchamber?” His lips twitched, and she smiled.
“Yes, please, my lord. Perhaps if I should faint, you would be obliged.”
He leaned close to her ear, taking advantage of the distraction now spilling through the house. “And then I should be obliged to loosen your stays so you might regain your breath. Strictly for your well-being, of course.”
She choked on a horrified laugh and blushed, laying a light smack on his arm, though had it been anyone else, she would have aimed for his face.
He grinned in spite of the tension and worry and mysteries still unsolved and gave her elbow a gentle squeeze before releasing her arm and threading through the library to the front hall.
Guests and servants alike passed around smiles, and Mr. Griffen, the indigo plantation owner, produced a bottle of champagne which he shared liberally. Anthony smiled, but held up his hand when someone offered him a glass and instead made his way to the study.
The small room was empty and still unlocked—an anomaly since his arrival—and he entered.
Light from a lamp on the mantel illuminated the space in a soft glow, but it wasn’t nearly bright enough for what he hoped to see.
He picked up the lamp and brought it closer to the statues.
Sophia had assumed they were sandstone or limestone, and he couldn’t be certain, but it seemed likely.
Marble or granite would have been much heavier, and closer examination showed no telltale seam from a mold.
He glanced at the open door and closed it, then crossed the room to the edge of the large new area rug. Part of Pilkington’s desk anchored the rug in place, and opposite that, a chair, which Anthony slid out of the way. He lifted a corner of the rug and rolled it toward the center of the room.
Light from the lamp pooled ahead of him, and as he reached the desk, he noted a dark stain on the hardwood.
He shoved the desk back and rolled the carpet to the end of the stain.
He then rolled the rug back toward the hearth, glancing up at the statues and down again at the floor.
If they were made of something less substantial than granite or marble, they might break if used as a weapon.
Holding the lamp close to the floor, he looked carefully at the flooring slats between the hearth and desk.
As he made a second pass, he noticed a gold item approximately one inch in length that had fallen in a crack between the hearthstone and flooring.
He tried to pick it up but found it wedged in place.
He retrieved a quill from the desk drawer and used it to pry the thing from its spot on the floor, and then held the light close to where it lay in his palm.
Painted in gold, one end cleanly broken off .
. . he held it up to the other statues and rubbed his forefinger along each one, and then the shard.
A loud ruckus sounded from the front of the house.
Stuart must have returned with Charlie. He quickly pocketed the shard and shoved the furniture back into place on the rug.
Giving the room one last glance to assure everything had been properly returned, he set the lamp on the mantel and left the room as he’d found it, door open.
His cravat was too tight, and the starch on his shirt collars irritated his neck.
Surely there must be a contingency rule somewhere about being allowed to shed outer layers of clothing when one had been awake for twenty-four hours and dealing with a missing child.
He scratched at his neck and ran a hand over his face.
He was scruffy and wanted a shave, a quick bath, and then a long nap.
Major Stuart stood just inside the front door, looking down at Lady Pilkington crouched down and clutching her son.
Amala Ayah stood behind her, arms folded and teary eyed, and Anthony felt a stab of sympathy for her.
She was not the child’s blood mother, but a nanny in a British household usually spent more time with her charges than the mother ever did.
Amala clearly adored the boy but was forced to wait for her own tender reunion.
Lord Pilkington spoke briefly to Dylan and then crouched down by his wife.
He patted Charlie awkwardly on the shoulder and murmured a few words, and Anthony’s eyes narrowed.
The man had been distraught, certainly. But his lack of emotion and his unwillingness to bend the dictates of manliness even just a little reminded Anthony of his own father, and the distaste sat uncomfortable and unwelcome in his gut.
Sophia stood near Amala and whispered something to her. Anthony suspected it was a word of comfort. Amala smiled weakly at Sophia and nodded. He wanted to go to Sophia, but Dylan called his name and motioned, pulling him aside from the group.
“What did you learn?” Anthony asked him.
“He was with a young girl, twelve years of age, whose mother works in the kitchens. She was distraught, babbling. I couldn’t make out everything, but between my understanding of the language and her broken English, I pieced a few things together.
Wilshire, someone paid her to lose the boy in the jungle. ”
Sophia looked blearily at her reflection in her vanity mirror as Briggs wound a strand of pearls through a long clump of hair and then wove it all together in an elaborate configuration that Sophia would never have been able to manage during her days as a lady’s maid.
“That is amazing, Briggs, and most impressive.” Sophia turned her head from one side to the other and admired the young woman’s handiwork.
Briggs beamed. “Thank you, Miss Elliot.”