Chapter 4 #2
At that she laughed outright before becoming pensive again.
“Whatever your resources are for fact-finding, translators of written Gaelic aside, I would imagine they are far greater than mine. I suspect you are someone set to investigate Jeremiah Compton. I do not expect you to confirm that,” she continued with a staying hand.
“Perhaps if I share with you what I know and it is of help, you will assist me in turn. Help me determine if Lucy is somehow mixed up with him. If it does not conflict with your aims, and supposing yours are not at cross-purposes to my own.” She bit her lip and released it.
“Perhaps, if she is here, you might even help me to extract her from whatever situation she is currently in, should it not be of her own choosing.” Her voice wobbled on the last.
Collaboration was similar to what he’d contemplated the night before, although he wasn’t yet ready to agree verbally.
He leveled his gaze at her. “Assuming Compton was involved, have you considered that Lucy may no longer be living? That she might never have left England alive? Or that if she’s here, it may be voluntary?
” Blunt, painfully so, but he was gauging Isobel’s resolve and her grounding in reality.
Her face was bloodless. “I’ve considered each of those scenarios.
If Lucy is still alive. If she is, that she might be altered nearly beyond recognition should I find her.
Even that she may remain here by choice for reasons I do not or cannot understand.
” She met his eyes, gaze unfaltering. “But Lucy is my beloved sister regardless, forever, until the day I die. If I have one chance in a thousand of finding her, of helping her if I may—I must seize it. I will deal with injuries to my own sensibilities afterwards.”
“If I am to help you, I must know more about her and what you believe happened.”
“Of course.” Isobel’s eyes were suspiciously bright.
“Last winter a woman befriended her, part of a fast crowd that moved on the fringes of London Society. Through this woman, Lucy met the youngest son of a baronet from Gloucestershire. A ne’er-do-well, from what I’ve since learned.
Theodore Garnewood is his name. I blame myself for not recognizing what was happening.
I was only recently returned from the Continent, from nursing the wounded in Antwerp. I was . . . not entirely myself.”
“You remained in Antwerp after Waterloo?”
“Six months. Nearly seven. I returned to England this January when some of the Greys were released from peacetime occupation of Rouen. I stayed till then because it kept me occupied after Jamie’s death.” She lapsed again into silence, a complexity of emotions writ on her face.
He marked the silence with her as she collected herself; although he was eager for more information, he could offer that much.
“All that is to say, once I returned to my parents’ home in London, I did not watch out for Lucy in the ways I should have.
Perhaps if I’d been home sooner, or more myself .
. . These friends took advantage of Lucy’s na?veté and her natural sweetness.
Although perhaps Mr. Garnewood held her in genuine affection at the outset; I cannot know.
” Isobel’s hand upon the tabletop clenched into a fist.
“What happened with Mr. Garnewood as you understand it?”
“Lucy was last seen at a social function in his company in early April. When I began on my own to trace her whereabouts, one of her friends said enough to persuade me that Lucy left willingly with Mr. Garnewood, to Gloucestershire.” Isobel picked up the journal that was still between them, rubbed her thumb across the cover, and replaced it on the table.
“I believe she loved him or at least fancied herself in love. I’m certain of it.
And he betrayed that.” Her voice choked on the last. “I know Lucy,” she said when she was able to continue.
“She is romantic-minded and without guile herself. It is not so great a stretch to imagine that Lucy was easily seduced by someone who preyed on her trust. Her innocence. I blame myself all the more for having not been a more attentive sister, knowing Lucy’s temperament.
While I am by no means wise to all the evils in the world, I have at least seen more of the world than she has. ”
“How do you know she does not still remain with her lover?”
“Mr. Garnewood returned to London after several weeks. I confronted him in August, after I’d learned his name. He claimed—sneering as he did so—that they lost interest in one another and she took up with another man.”
“Jeremiah Compton?”
“Yes. Although I think it was a lie, at least in part. I had nothing I could share with the Runners to prove that, but—” She steadied herself.
“Mr. Garnewood had numerous gambling debts, owed to Mr. Compton. It seems unlikely to me that she would go willingly to Mr. Compton in those circumstances, and I cannot believe the debts mere coincidence.”
“She wouldn’t have gone with Compton herself? Perhaps believed herself in love with him?”
“No!” Isobel’s denial was immediate. “I know Lucy. She would not transfer affections so quickly from someone she loved to another. And the more I’ve learned of Mr. Compton, I am particularly convinced that she would not have chosen to throw her lot in with him.”
“How have you uncovered what you have?” he asked. “Coming to Paris couldn’t have been a wild shot in the dark.”
“A shot in the dark? No.” She laughed without humor.
“A rather desperate measure. As to your question, I had a variety of sources. Da hired a Runner initially. When it became clear he would not—wouldn’t recover .
. .” Her breath hitched, but she quickly rallied.
“He entrusted the reports to me. Although,” she added wryly, “however much he trusted in my good judgment, I doubt he expected I’d use the reports in this way. ” She coughed.
He passed her the wine jug.
“Thank you.” She tipped some into her glass, drinking enough to soothe her dry throat before continuing.
“The reports listed names of people the Runner had interviewed. I was able to reconstruct a partial timeline of Lucy’s social activities and her companions from that time.
It helped also that she keeps a book of her engagements.
” She smiled fondly. “I have never been so diligent about it myself and can only be thankful she is. Although my own at her age would have consisted mainly of attending tea with other officers’ wives and the dubious excitement of the occasional regimental dance.
Lucy is the social butterfly I’ve never been. ”
Present tense, describing her sister. “Had the Runner connected Lucy’s disappearance to Jeremiah Compton?”
“One of the final reports tied Mr. Garnewood’s gaming debts to Mr. Compton.”
“Did this Runner interview Compton?”
She shook her head. “I do not think so. I think he thought the connection tenuous. It was one of several possibilities outlined in the report. Perhaps with more time and more money he’d have pursued it further, but Da’s illness was—” She compressed her lips.
“The report stated only that he had encountered some indications that Mr. Compton might be involved. He had no evidence as of yet to support it. Rumors only. I did try to speak with the Runner, but he was temporarily assigned outside London. And no one else would speak with me of it.”
Impressive. Following nebulous clues, with few resources—grieving the loss of her entire family all the while—she’d uncovered enough to land her in Paris and directly on the fringes of Compton’s operation.
It spoke volumes about both her cleverness and her tenacity.
That she had little idea or little care for just how dangerous a man Compton was, was rather beside the point just for the moment.
“So you followed up on the information yourself,” he stated.
“I did.” She traced the edge of the table with a careful fingertip.
“How did you make the connection to Paris?”
“I found a source of information of my own besides the Runners.”
He cocked a brow at her, waiting.
“A former officer in the Greys, Frederick Berry. The Earl of Buxton’s second son.
I met him as a homesick fifteen-year-old cornet new to Jamie’s regiment.
He has since sold out from the Greys and is very much the quintessential young man about town.
And I knew from the Runner’s notes that Mr. Compton is part owner of a club in London.
No doubt you know of its existence as well. ”
“Aye, Hewards.” More properly a gaming hell than a gentlemen’s club. He’d been there himself in the course of fact-finding.
“The Runner’s notes listed it alongside Theodore Garnewood’s gambling debts. I asked Mr. Berry if he could gain entry to make some inquiries for me.”
“And off trotted Mr. Berry immediately?”
“I may have twisted his arm a bit. Entirely figuratively, of course.” She smiled, a dimple surfacing at the right corner of her mouth.
He stared at it a moment longer than he should have.
“He played cards there a few times, not too deep to get himself in trouble. He’s not foolish, only young, or else I’d not have asked it of him.
” She fiddled with her glass, placing it just so and then rotating it first a quarter turn one direction, then a quarter turn back.
She stopped abruptly and looked across at him.
“I did not mention my sister to Freddy at all, let alone my suspicions. For one, I’m not sure he’d have helped me had he realized why I wanted information.
I also did not wish to put him in the position of having to keep that secret.
I asked only that he keep his ears open for any mention of Mr. Compton’s business interests outside Hewards. ”
“And this proved fruitful?” It was a good strategy, one he utilized himself regularly. Some men were indiscreet while in their cups, especially with someone else who seemed to share their interests.