Chapter Thirteen
However, Roger’s night was neither finished, nor was it “good,” in any sense of the word.
Unable to shake his irritation, he turned toward the staircase to the main house.
He should tend his roses. His flowers always assisted him in focusing on what was important: his future coronation once he married Miss Teres, not Miss Adler and whatever she was doing in his kitchens.
Which was none of his concern. Nothing she did mattered to him, other than confirming she was safe, fed, cared for, and not able to disparage him or his hospitality with any credibility.
No, he did not care about Miss Adler and certainly wasn’t going to stick around and watch her unpack the trunk, as he had no desire for her company in any way whatsoever. Certainly not when she might be contorting her body in suggestive positions.
He was above that. He was—
“Sir?” came Lopez’s voice from above, halting him and his inappropriate thoughts.
“What?” Roger practically snapped. He swallowed, refusing to let his temper get the best of him. He didn’t have a temper. He was not Louis. He was too practiced, too well trained, too clever to be, whether anyone noticed or not.
The man cleared his throat as he stepped farther into the kitchen, Marguarite at his heels. “We have a touch of a situation,” he told them, his tone grim.
“What has happened?” Roger asked, dread already welling in his gut.
“It seems that well—” Marguarite bit her lip. “Miss Fannie is gone,” she whispered.
Roger stared at them, panic spreading over his senses.
It’s Mrs. Lucy, she’s gone.
The woman’s words from that terrible day nearly a year ago rang in his ears.
Fear flooded through him as he took a step toward the housekeeper. “Gone?” he repeated. “What do you mean ‘gone’?” His voice was unrecognizable. Fannie was his baby. His beautiful, perfect baby. His—
“She’s missing,” Lopez cut in, pressing a hand onto his shoulder and pulling him backward, despite the fact that he was a head shorter and ten years older. “Your daughter is not in her bed and not in the nursery and cannot be found.”
Roger nearly sank to his knees with relief as his mind parsed the words. Fannie was not—he swallowed—like Lucy. She was… missing.
Missing?
“How?” Roger glanced around at the assembled group, forcing himself into the present. He narrowed his eyes. “Where’s Miss—miss—the governess?” he asked, frowning. The woman’s name escaped his mind. Why could he not seem to think straight as of late?
“Miss Pardo was, um, not in her room when Miss Fannie slipped out,” Marguarite explained, no longer meeting his gaze.
“But she’s preparing herself to come assist,” Lopez added, exchanging an odd glance with the housekeeper. That normally would’ve made Roger suspicious, but now—where was his daughter?
“Have you… ?” He was already halfway up the staircase.
“We’ve already done a search of the house,” Marguarite assured him. “However, Miss Fannie is quite skilled at hiding.”
“Beg pardon?” Roger asked, an odd note in the woman’s tone giving him pause despite his panic.
“I assure you, sir, there’s no reason to believe she’s left the premises,” Lopez said quickly. “All the doors and windows are secure. We checked, twice. I also inspected the perimeter. No footprints.”
Roger stared at him, attempting to parse the man’s words through his panic.
Because yes, the idea that she was somewhere in the house was good news, though that was not guaranteed, as snow could cover small footprints rather quickly, but the man’s tone suggested there was something more afoot, so to speak.
Something else occurring regarding his daughter. It was almost as if—
“She’s done this before?” Miss Adler spoke up, interrupting his thoughts. She moved around her table and toward the group.
“Of course not,” Roger returned, pausing and gazing at his staff, who were conspicuously not meeting his eye. “Has she?”
There was a long silence.
Marguarite pressed her lips together. “Miss Pardo is usually able to find her without assistance.”
Lopez cleared his throat. “Without much assistance.”
Roger glanced at the man again. They needed to have a discussion. Later. First they needed to find his daughter. “Are there any usual places?”
“Do you really believe they haven’t looked there?” Miss Adler interjected.
Probably. Though he was not going to admit that out loud.
“Have you?” he asked the others.
Both Marguarite and Lopez nodded in the affirmative.
“I guess there’s only one thing for us to do now,” Miss Adler said, wiping her hands on the apron she was wearing crossing the room and rummaging in a cupboard.
“What is that?” Roger asked as she returned with four objects, handing one to each of them. He glanced down and found himself holding an unlit torch.
“Start searching.” She lit hers on the stove.
“You’re going to assist?” Unbidden gratitude rushed through him, despite the panic still gripping his senses.
“I enjoy being useful.” She shrugged. “Besides, I can do it with one hand,” she added, turning toward the staircase and walking into the main house. Helping, apparently. Without a word, Marguarite and Lopez followed behind, with him bringing up the rear.
Given the fact that she was the least familiar with the layout of the house and still forbidden from risking a fall on snow and ice, Rebecca decided to first search her own bedchamber, particularly the space beneath the bed, the spot the dratted cat seemed to favor.
Sure enough, the animal was there, slumbering, only to briefly open its eyes into slits and give Rebecca an ominous hiss. Replacing the coverlet, she rose and backed out of the room, away from the Berab she had the smallest desire to poke and prod.
Even if Fannie herself bit when provoked. Grimacing at the memory Rebecca moved down the hall, peeking into darkened rooms along the corridor as she went.
Glancing out the window at snowflakes swirling through the dark gray night sky, Rebecca shivered at the thought of the girl out there alone.
Though, while Fannie was quite young and thus most assuredly impulsive, in addition to being spoiled and unruly, she at least seemed to possess the keen sense of self-preservation that kept most of their ancestors alive. With any luck.
With the rest of the search party—based on the footfalls above—concentrating on the upper floors, Rebecca found herself wandering to the place she’d not been since the first night she arrived—the hothouse off the main floor.
Stepping into the room, she was once again struck by the pleasing, moist warmth coming from the ingenious piping system.
Impressive, really. Something she was not afraid to admit. Same with the fact that the roses themselves were indeed beautiful both in form and in scent. Really, the room was quite enchanting—
Rebecca’s mouth fell open as she scanned the northmost side.
The shelf where the pots should be now lay on the tiled ground, dirt and shards of pottery mixing with bent, newly grown sprouts and roots. Rebecca stared at the scene for a moment, unsure precisely what to make of matters as a small sound redirected her attention. One that resembled soft crying.
Bending a little, she scanned the area until she came upon a small form in a night shift, curled beneath the table, knees to her chest. Her head was down, her long, honey-gold hair tumbling around her shoulders in thick, messy waves.
Someone had been quite angry.
Almost certainly still was.
At whom or what was anyone’s guess and not something she had any desire to probe.
Often, she made such matters worse. She shuddered at the memory of one particular dispute with an expectant father.
A man whose emotions got in the way of what little sense he had.
Thankfully, his wife and child came through matters safely, and all had been quickly forgotten, including his threats to ruin her reputation.
No, it would be much better to fetch Marguarite or Lopez or Berab. Permit them to handle the matter. This was not her business, nor her aptitude.
Yet something made her pause and glance again, this time noting a distinct smear of red on her shift, just above her knee.
Blast. Apparently, she stood corrected, as this was her business and aptitude. At least the injury, if not the person behind it.
Inhaling, Rebecca forced her way along the row before crouching down so she could duck beneath the table. Adjusting herself so she was sitting at the girl’s side, back to the outer wall, mimicking her position, Rebecca turned to Fannie.
“The trouble with revenge,” she said out loud, purposefully staring ahead instead of directly at her companion, “is it often hurts you as much or more than its intended target. Let’s take a look.” She gently unwound the girl’s left hand from its position, turning it over.
“How do you know this was revenge?” Fannie asked, fluttering her soaked lashes over her red-rimmed eyes.
“You’re mature enough to know what will upset your father,” Rebecca explained, inspecting the rather nasty cut on the girl’s palm. “And too graceful for this to be an accident.” She turned Fannie’s wrist from side to side, checking for further damage. “At least sans feline,” she amended.
The child pursed her small lips.
“This is deep,” Rebecca declared to the girl’s rather bellicose expression. “It needs to be stitched.”
Fannie tugged her hand back, tucking it to her body.
“Fortunately, I’m quite skilled at such.
Even with one arm,” Rebecca assured her, using her calmest, most professional tone as she scanned the girl’s body to verify that her hand was the only injury.
“Unfortunately, that means you’ll need to accompany me to the kitchens, where I have my tools and supplies.
” She cocked her head at the child. “Will you do that?”
“Will you tell my father?” Fannie countered after a moment.