Page 5

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M olly winced as the carriage bounced over more uneven ground. It felt like they’d travelled all day and maybe they had. It was daylight when they’d set off, but the sun had since set, enveloping them in the purplish colors of dusk.

Three other children were squeezed in beside her on the uncomfortable bench. Four more sat opposite. None uttered a word, but their grim expressions did not offer the comfort she longed for.

Only Charlie was able to do so, but he was in the other carriage. It was hard for her to be brave without him promising her that all would be well. Even though she knew deep down it wouldn’t. The men who’d snatched her away from safety had made that clear.

Eyes stinging as she fought to keep back tears, she clasped her hands tightly and prayed. There had been no puppy for her to see, as one of the men had promised. No sweetmeat waiting in the carriage they’d lured her into.

It had happened so fast, the gag shoved into her mouth before she could think to scream. And there was no point in doing so now with no one around to hear her.

Her heart thumped in protest and fear. The plan was now clear. She would be sold along with the others. An unhappy thought that broke her once more as she thought of her parents, their loving words and warm embraces. Her brothers’ and sisters’ laughter.

Despite her best attempt to stay quiet, she sniffled loudly and gulped down a breath. Her lower lip wobbled, but she held the sob that threatened at bay as another jolt shook the carriage. They came to a halt immediately after, allowing a moment of stillness before the door was yanked open.

The hideous man who’d stroked her face earlier ordered everyone out. His gaze landed on her, a treacly smile followed, and his eyes gleamed with something unpleasant as she climbed down from the carriage.

A salty breeze pulled at her hair, whipping loose strands across her brow, her frantic gaze seeking Charlie. Spotting him in the encroaching darkness, Molly started forward, only to feel the weight of a large hand on her shoulder, holding her back. Her stomach turned over, and she glanced up into the face she feared most.

“What’s yer hurry, little one?” A nightmarish grin followed, one long finger sliding up over her neck. “I promise not to harm ye. Can’t afford to, ye see.”

“Blade,” one of the other men said as he came to join them. “Leave ’er be, will ye and help get the rest o’ that lot inside.”

Blade hesitated, his gaze meeting the other man’s for a long-drawn-out moment. When the other man didn’t back down, Blade chuckled, his thin lips twitching with amusement. He finally let his hand fall before wandering off.

Molly shook, her body quivering like a leaf trapped in the wind. The man who’d ordered Blade away gave her a frank look before grabbing her by the hand and leading her into the wooden house that stood a short distance away.

A structure consisting of two floors, it squatted between what looked like unkept vegetation.

The man who led the way forward carried a lantern, the light from it falling upon the tall grass that covered the mounds behind the house as it swung side to side. Another lantern was lit, illuminating the front of the house where the paint, if any had ever existed, was now worn away. A fence surrounded the building, but the gate that had once completed it had since been discarded upon the ground.

Molly stumbled past it, her feet disturbing the gravelly ground and kicking up several loose stones. There was a persistent whooshing sound and the distant odd squawk of a bird.

Another breeze swept her face, the brusqueness of it quite different from the stale air she was used to in London. It made her wonder once more where they were, and if there was any chance of Mama and Papa coming to find her.

Right before she was ushered through the front door.

* * *

Adrian hadn’t expected Edward to show up so soon after his last visit, if at all. Yet here he was. In his cell, no less, which was downright awful. It would have been nice to maintain some dignity through this ordeal. For Edward’s last memories of him not to be tarnished by the bars preventing him from escape, the hard bench upon which he slept, and the unavoidable smell from the chamber pot. Which had yet to be emptied this morning.

“I would have preferred we meet at Mivart’s,” Adrian told him, a light jab directed at Kendrick, who hovered outside the barred door. “Unfortunately, this will have to suffice.”

“At least it appears to be clean,” Edward said with a frown, his gaze sliding across every surface, making Adrian cringe. His friend extended the basket he’d brought. “Some food and drink, courtesy of my cook. I picked out the brandy myself.”

Adrian took it, appreciation flooding him and squeezing his heart so tight it nearly moved him to tears. His throat worked as he brought himself under control. Slow and steady breaths. He’d never been the emotional sort but this… The consideration shown by his friend overwhelmed him.

“Thank you.” He hardened his features, glanced toward Kendrick, and raised the basket. “I’m surprised you allowed this.”

“He searched every corner,” Edward informed him. “Confiscated a fork.”

“I’ll be keeping watch while you savor the bottle,” Kendrick added. “Don’t want you breaking the thing and cutting yourself. Or someone else.”

Adrian snorted and set the basket on the middle of the bench, then asked Edward, “Would you care to share a drink with me while you’re here?”

“I’d be honored,” Edward replied.

They sat with the basket between them. Adrian found the bottle and offered the first sip to Edward before allowing himself a swig. The brandy slid down his throat, leaving delicious heat in its wake. So damn good.

He sighed with contentment while leaning back against the brick wall. “I really needed that.”

“If there’s anything else I can bring, please let me know,” Edward said. “An extra blanket perhaps, or a change of clothes?”

Adrian chuckled. “How about a bath and a valet?”

“I’m serious, Adrian. There’s no sense in being cold or uncomfortable if you don’t have to be.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just…” Although he’d come to terms with his lot, had accepted it even, he hated the way in which it had happened. Hated that the truth about Benjamin Lawrence might end up buried. That the man who had cut out Lady Eleanor’s eyes might be remembered as the poor helpless sod who’d been murdered by Adrian Croft.

The possibility left a bitter taste in his mouth. To say nothing about the annoyance he felt for himself for trusting his wife even though he’d reminded himself again and again to be wary of her. Because he’d known, had he not, that this very thing might happen.

And yet, he’d allowed himself to be trapped.

A fool. That’s what he was. And knowing this infuriated him more than anything else.

“Don’t lose hope,” Edward told him, his voice soft. “Shaw is cunning. He’ll do what he can to get you out of this mess. And he’s not the only one on your side.”

The way he said that last part put Adrian on alert. He angled his head, allowed his gaze to catch Edward’s. “Anyone in particular?”

There was a slight hesitation. Edward glanced toward Kendrick, who took on a sudden look of interest, even though he couldn’t possibly have heard what Edward just said.

“You have friends,” Edward finally muttered. “Not many, but some. Including one who shares your fondness for Greek plays.”

Cryptic as it was, the statement could only refer to one person. Adrian searched Edward’s gaze and saw the entreating look there, the bright intensity asking him to have faith – to not give up just yet.

“Really?” Despite the note Shaw had shown him adding proof, Adrian didn’t dare believe in the possibility that his wife might not be to blame for what had occurred. At least not in the way he’d believed.

Rather than respond, Edward stood. “I should go, but I’ll be back with a proper blanket, and a clean shirt at the very least.”

Adrian got up as well. He clasped Edward’s hand and held on tight. “Promise me you will look after yourself.”

“Of course.”

Edward strode to the barred door and waited for Kendrick to let him out. He was gone shortly after, his departure making the small cell feel much lonelier than before.

* * *

Peter Kendrick returned to his office after seeing the Earl of Marsdale off. The courtesy he’d shown him had only been granted because of his title. And possibly also because Croft had yet to be sentenced. After all, he was technically an innocent man awaiting his trial. A point the earl had been happy to use to argue in favor of checking to make sure his friend was properly cared for.

Peter withdrew his cheroot case while settling in behind his desk, flipped the lid, and pulled out a perfectly rolled length of tobacco. The swift use of his flint along with a deep inhalation pulled fragrant smoke into his lungs. He relaxed into his chair and expelled a slow breath, watched the misty tendrils rise toward the ceiling.

Notwithstanding the relentlessness with which he’d hunted Croft for the last few months, Croft’s arrest continued to nag him. As an officer of the law, Peter could not accept Carver’s plan to do away with Croft in a way that would either look accidental or seem like the tragic result of a mugging. Resorting to such means was wrong. It meant they were no better than the man they’d been trying to catch.

Besides which there was Croft’s testimony to consider – a testimony he would not have had the chance to deliver, had Carver’s plan to take him out succeeded. Which made Peter increasingly wary of the rot that was clearly at play. For if what Croft said was true, then maybe Benjamin Lawrence had met the end he deserved.

But where was the proof?

Nobody else had seen Lawrence stand except Miss Fontaine, who was also dead.

However, there was the question of how Lawrence might have arrived at her lodgings, had he indeed lacked the use of his legs. Someone would have needed to help him, but when Peter had gone to interview his servants, not one had admitted to doing so. According to Lawrence’s butler, they’d been dismissed early that evening. None had seen Lawrence leave the house.

Which meant he must have snuck out, a fact that added credence to Croft’s version of the story. And given the location of Lawrence’s home in relation to Miss Fontaine’s address, it seemed unlikely to Peter that he would have walked.

It was far more likely he’d taken a horse or perhaps a hackney.

If it were the latter, then that would mean one other person had seen him that night. Peter took another drag from his cheroot, the tip of it glowing brightly with the inhalation. He tapped one finger on his armrest, creating a lazy beat that helped him gather his thoughts. Finding the coachman who’d driven Lawrence that night, if indeed he existed, could make a world of difference to this case.

Deciding to explore this idea, he put out his half-smoked cheroot in the ashtray and took a sip from the coffee he’d poured earlier. Tasted bloody awful now that it had gone cold. He winced in response and prepared to head out when Anderson knocked on his half-open door.

“Mind if I pick your brain?” the Runner asked.

Kendrick waved him inside and Anderson entered. Roughly the same age as Peter and of slightly broader build, his gruff features made him look more like a thug than an officer of the law. But Peter knew him to be a good-natured man – a reminder that looks could be deceiving.

“What can I do for you,” Peter asked.

“It’s about that case the chief magistrate asked me to look into - the first one I’ll be in charge of. I’d like to make a success of it so your expertise would be much appreciated.”

“Of course.” Peter was more than happy to help, although… He frowned. Three days had already passed since Mr. Atkins reported his daughter’s disappearance. Peter could only hope Andrews was close to resolving the matter. “Is that the file?”

Anderson nodded and handed it over to Peter who placed it on the table before flipping it open. His heart dropped. There were only two pieces of paper inside; the statement Billings had taken, and a few notes made by Anderson.

“I know it’s not much,” said the Runner, his voice a touch defensive.

Peter dismissed his words and read what was written, his stomach tightening due to the lack of progress.

Too much time had elapsed already.

Three days. Three whole bloody days.

“This statement was taken the day before yesterday.” Peter met Anderson’s gaze, slow and steady, each breath straining his lungs as he gripped the paper. Anderson nodded and all Peter could hear was the roar of blood rushing through his veins. “Mr. Atkins reported his daughter missing the day after it happened.”

“Yes. I…I am aware.”

Peter stared at him. “Have you been to the area? Questioned the neighbors or anyone else who might have witnessed something?”

Anderson gave him an apologetic look that said more than Peter wanted to know. “I’ve never dealt with this sort of case before. That’s why I wanted to speak with you first, but you’ve been occupied by the Croft case and… I’m sorry.”

Peter didn’t know whether to curse Anderson for his stupidity or Sir Nigel for letting him handle something he clearly wasn’t prepared to deal with yet. A slew of profanities fell from his lips as he stood, terrified on behalf of Molly Atkins. “She could be halfway to China by now. If she’s not been killed and left to rot somewhere.”

A child. An innocent girl. He shuddered at the thought. For he knew, did he not, the sort of monsters that lurched around every corner, lying in wait, ready to claim their next victim. He could only pray she’d not been captured by such a person, but that she’d merely wandered off, gotten lost, and would soon be found without a scratch on her.

“I’m sorry,” Anderson repeated, concern creasing his brow. He shook his head. “I didn’t know.”

Again, Sir Nigel’s miscalculation stood out like blood against white snow. He should have made sure Anderson had the situation under control. How the hell could the chief magistrate have been so careless with this?

Kendrick hadn’t a clue, but he knew he had to get Anderson on the right trail, had to do something to make up for all the time he’d wasted. Doing nothing. Hell and damnation. Finding that coachman – a needle in a proverbial haystack – would have to wait. No, he’d put Lewis on it.

In the meantime…

Peter closed the file and shoved it at Anderson, who quickly grabbed it. “Let’s go.”

Anderson blinked. “Whereto?”

Already heading for the door, Peter told him, “To find some clues.” As cruel as it was, he could not help but add, “If I were you, I’d pray we’re not too late, or you’ll have to live with the guilt of knowing you could have done more to save her.”

* * *

An orange glow from the sinking sun filled the sky by the time Peter got back to Bow Street. He’d scoured every street near the Atkins’s home and beyond, had spoken with every person he’d seen there including Molly’s parents, to whom he’d offered hope even though his own had withered a little bit more with each passing minute.

Anderson had taken notes. He’d done well with that at least, even though Peter doubted the information he’d jotted down would be useful. The girl had been gone too long. Whatever trace there may have been of a wagon or carriage, a person she’d walked away with, or maybe a group of children who’d tempted her with play, it had since been erased.

Defeat was not a feeling he welcomed. He hated knowing Molly was out there somewhere, either dead or alive, but that they were unlikely to find her. It was simply too late. Anderson had waited too long to move forward with the case – a case that should have been given to Peter.

The fact that it hadn’t led to a fresh burst of anger, which was far more welcome than guilt and regret. It filled him with purpose, infusing him with the energy that had been stolen from him when he’d finally realized he’d make no headway and brought him straight to Sir Nigel’s office door.

For the first time in all his years working at Bow Street, he walked right in without bothering to knock. It wasn’t even until he stood there, staring down his superior, that he realized he’d not expected him to still be here at this late hour. The man often worked from home and when he did choose to stop by the courthouse, he was usually gone by three in the afternoon at the latest. It was now nearing nine in the evening.

“Kendrick.” Sir Nigel glanced past him, a pointed look on his face. “Forget how to ask for permission to enter, did you?”

Peter bristled, his fisted hands squeezing so hard his fingers hurt. But it was the only way to stop the shaking, the anger that gripped him so fierce it had taken control of his body completely.

“Molly Atkins,” he managed, the words a harsh accusation. “Why would you give her case to Anderson when he has no idea how to handle such matters?”

Sir Nigel shifted his bulk as he leaned forward to better stare at Peter from behind the spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. “Are you questioning my decision, Kendrick?”

Yes .

“I am merely wondering” – what you were thinking, what possessed you – “why it wasn’t offered to someone with more experience.”

Sir Nigel raised his chin. He settled back into his seat. “Like yourself, I presume?”

“Or Jackson.” At least he’d managed more cases than Anderson.

“If you’ll recall, you recommended that Anderson be promoted. The letter you wrote on his behalf offered nothing but praise. Are you telling me now, after I’ve put him in charge of a missing child case, that this assessment of yours may have been wrong?”

“No. But—”

“Excellent. Then there’s nothing more to discuss besides this invitation. It’s for you, delivered while you were out.” Sir Nigel held an envelope toward him, and Peter took it, turned it over, and froze when he saw that it bore the royal seal. “From what I gather, the Prince Regent would like to offer his thanks to you personally for apprehending Croft. When you make your appearance at Carlton House, I hope you’ll do so with more decorum than what you’ve just offered me.”

The reprimand smarted, but Peter managed to keep his expression neutral. He took a step back, eager to make his escape as swiftly as possible. “My apologies for the disturbance.”

The door beckoned and Peter was almost through it when Sir Nigel added something more. “She’s six years old, Kendrick. I dare say she probably followed a mouse or something like that. You’ll see. She’ll be back before the end of the week.”

Fearing he’d do something rash like smash Sir Nigel’s paperweight over his head, Peter took a steadying breath and slipped through the door.