The Spinster Bride (27 page)

“Perhaps not,” Marjorie said begrudgingly. “But we've known the family for years and her father is a squire. That's not so far down.”

“It is for an earl. We'll go visit the family in the morning. You sir,” she said, turning a cold look toward Charles, “will leave immediately.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Charles gave her a cheeky grin and Dorothea's frown only grew more severe.

“And if you touch my daughter again before I make my decision, I shall kill you.” She glared at Charles. “Is that understood, sir?”

“Yes, ma'am.” The words were said solemnly, like a vow.

“Not even for a dance?” Marjorie asked.

“Not
even
for a dance.” Dorothea gave a nod. “Now leave. And Marjorie, go back to bed. We need a good night's rest for tomorrow's business.”

Dorothea watched him like an eagle as he left, making sure he didn't so much as touch Marjorie's hand.

T
he next morning, as early as was decent, Marjorie and her mother went to visit the Cavendishes. It was nine o'clock, and Dorothea made a comment that the family was just indecent enough to be up at such an hour. Marjorie suppressed a sigh and the temptation to point out to her mother that she'd been up for two hours already.

Their knock was met by the butler, who didn't bother hiding his surprise at finding the pair of them standing on the stoop so early.

“I'd like an audience with Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish. And their
daughter
,” Dorothea announced regally. It was clear to Marjorie that her mother didn't expect to see Lilianne at all.

The butler nodded and backed into the house before leading them to a small parlor. “They are having their breakfast, my lady. I'll inform them you are here.”

Dorothea sniffed and looked around the room, her distaste clear.

“Try to be polite, Mother,” Marjorie said.

“I am always polite.”

“Then try to be nice.”

Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish, with Lilianne trailing behind them, entered the room, their expressions curious, but tinged with worry.

“This is unexpected,” Mr. Cavendish said.

“What's happened? Where is George?” This from Lilianne who did nothing to mask the worry she clearly felt.

“We were hoping you would know,” Marjorie said, feeling more desperate by the moment. She'd almost hoped Lilianne had eloped with George. At least then she'd know where he was.

“We were to attend the Westin ball two nights ago. He was to pick me up and when he didn't arrive, I wasn't certain what to think. He sent no word, no note. And I haven't heard from him since. It's so unlike him.”

Dorothea sat heavily on a settee and the others followed suit, finding a place to sit. “When did you see him last, Miss Cavendish?” Dorothea asked.

“We went to the Christy Collection together. He—”

“—goes every Thursday afternoon. I know,” Dorothea said. “Did he say anything to you? Did you meet anyone there? Think, girl.”

Lilianne's eyes filled with tears and her mother, sitting next to her, grabbed her hand to give the girl comfort. “No. Nothing. We met no one. He was excited about the ball. So when he didn't come to escort me, I was a bit surprised. I thought I'd done something to anger him. Which is silly, really, because George so rarely gets angry.”

“Are we not overreacting? He is a young man, after all, and young men do inconsiderate things now and again,” Mr. Cavendish said.

“Not George.” This was said by Marjorie and Lilianne in unison.

“He's a man of strict routine. It's upsetting for George to have his plans altered,” Marjorie said. “It's as out of character for him to not go to the ball with Lilianne as it would be for a cat to start barking. He simply would not do it. Which is why we are so worried, sir.”

“Oh, God, something horrible has happened to him,” Lilianne cried. Then her face cleared. “We must ask his cousin Jeffrey.”

“Why do you say that?” Dorothea asked.

“Because Jeffrey is the only person, other than Marjorie and myself, who could persuade him to alter his plans.”

“She's right, Mother. Let's visit Jeffrey.”

 

The Penwhistle house in Mayfair had seen better days, showing visible signs of neglect. The flower boxes were empty, the whitewash beginning to chip, and one copper gutter hung precariously from the roof. It was a house in clear need of funds, funds that Charles had a feeling the master of this house was trying to obtain through nefarious measures.

It was but nine o'clock in the morning and Charles hadn't slept since leaving Marjorie and her mother. He was in a foul mood and ripe for a fight. Though he hadn't known George for long, he'd learned enough to realize George's cousin was the only man whom George considered a true friend. Jeffrey was the one who'd convinced George to gamble that night at the club, likely because his own pockets were empty. Only a desperate man would use another's money to gamble with, and Jeffrey Penwhistle was clearly desperate. Perhaps even a man desperate enough to do another harm if it meant gaining a few pounds.

He knocked on the door and waited only a few moments before a butler answered the door.

“I'd like an audience with Mr. Penwhistle.”

“Mr. Penwhistle is not in.”

“Sir, I appreciate your loyalty, but Mr. Penwhistle is in. I have no argument with you and I realize you are only doing your job. But if you do not let me in to see Mr. Penwhistle, I'm afraid I will have to force myself in.”

A small bit of fear crept into the butler's eyes, for he was a smallish man and looked to be in his sixties. “I'm afraid I cannot, sir.”

Charles let out a beleaguered sigh. “Really, sir, I've no wish to harm you, but this is a matter of great concern. A man's life might be at stake and I'm afraid you are giving me little choice but to exert force.”

The butler's brows snapped together as he considered Charles's words, then said politely but with a band of steel around them, “Very well, sir. If you will wait in the foyer.”

Charles stepped in, smiling at the butler, and said, “No need. Just tell me where Mr. Penwhistle is and I'll save you the trip.”

“But sir . . . very well. Third door down the hall on the right.” Charles was surprised at the butler's easy acquiescence but didn't show it. Prajit might have very well done the same thing if confronted with a similar situation. It had more, he thought, to do with the man's character than loyalty. Charles had come to realize that blind loyalty was nearly as dangerous as disloyalty.

After refusing the butler's offer to take his coat and hat, Charles immediately started down the hall. “And sir,” the butler called after him, “he truly is in no condition to have a visitor, if you catch my meaning.”

Charles paused, then gave the older man a salute. So, Mr. Penwhistle was in his cups, was he? Why would a young man be intoxicated at nine o'clock in the morning? A feeling of dread filled him as he thought about all the reasons Jeffrey Penwhistle might have to be drunk and how that could be tied to George's disappearance.

When he reached the door, he didn't bother to knock, but entered without warning. The room stank of brandy and a half-eaten dinner, its contents congealed on a plate placed on the floor by the fireplace. The room was dark, thick velvet curtains effectively blocking the morning sun. Mr. Penwhistle was sitting in an overlarge chair, a flask in his hand. He was so drunk, he didn't even start when Charles entered the room, and blearily looked at him with little interest as he flung open the curtains, allowing sunlight into the room.

“Bloody hell,” Jeffrey said, shielding his eyes. “Close the fucking curtains, you cur.”

Charles turned slowly, realizing with a small amount of delight, that Mr. Penwhistle didn't know who he was, that he might very well believe he was talking to a footman. With the window behind him, he surmised he was only a silhouette. Charles took grim satisfaction watching Penwhistle's expression change as Charles slowly walked toward the outraged young man. Once recognition set in, Penwhistle sat up quickly, if not a bit sloppily.

“I say, Mr. Norris, what are you—”

Charles cut off his words, grabbing his lapel, heaving him out of the chair, and slamming him against the nearest wall.

His alcohol-reddened eyes wide, Penwhistle sputtered, “I say, what's going on?”

“Where is he? Where is your cousin? I know you know.” He didn't know, of course, but did have a great suspicion.

“How should I know where he is?” Jeffrey said. But he hadn't been able to stop his brief look of panic before he mustered his look of outrage. Charles knew he was lying, and he felt sick with it.

“What did you do, you little fool?” he said softly. “What did you do?”

“I . . . I . . .” Jeffrey's face crumpled briefly before he managed to get hold of himself, fueling Charles's suspicions even more. “He's disappeared.”

Charles took a calming breath. “We know he disappeared. That's why I'm here.”

“No, no. We went to a pub together two nights ago. The Lamb & Flag.” Charles gave him a look of disgust, and Jeffrey hastened to add, “Yes, yes, I know we shouldn't have gone there but I'm bored with the clubs and thought going somewhere a bit more exciting was in order. Heard there was a good fight that night. George didn't want to go, of course. He had a ball with his new fiancée. A fight broke out—not the one we expected, of course—and we got separated. Couldn't find him and figured he went home.”

“You brought George to the Bucket of Blood. Good God, man,” Charles said, referring to the pub's nickname.

“Weren't planning to fight ourselves, just watch,” Jeffrey said. “No harm in that.”

“Obviously there was some ‘harm in that'.” He pulled out his watch. “Why are you drunk at half past nine in the morning?”

“Like to drink,” Jeffrey said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. “Besides, what else is there to do?”

“You're lying.” Charles wasn't certain, of course, but he felt in his bones that Jeffrey was hiding something. What that could be, he had no idea.

Jeffrey gave an exaggerated shrug. “Why should I? One minute he was beside me, the next he was gone. Looked all over. Even went to his house and then to the ball, but he wasn't there.”

“Why didn't you say anything to Lady Summerfield?”

“I didn't want to worry my aunt. After all, he could have gone anywhere. Could have met up with some lightskirt and been having a grand old time, for all I know. George is a grown man, even if he is an idiot. You say he's still missing? That is curious.”

Perhaps he was wrong, but it seemed to Charles that Jeffrey was lying and actually enjoying himself. He was acting like a man who had just won a contest he'd known was impossible for his opponent to win.

“I was at the ball. I didn't see you there.”

“That's not surprising. I was only there briefly looking for George. When I didn't find him, I went home.”

“Did anyone else see you there?”

Jeffrey laughed. “What? You're a constable now?”

Charles curled his fist at the other man's derisive tone. “As a matter of fact,” Charles said, keeping his eyes trained on Jeffrey's face, “calling the constable is a very good idea. If George is missing, he'll want to talk to you. You are the last person we know of who saw George.”

Jeffrey smiled again. “Of course. Call one now. You know, Mr. Norris, I don't really care for your implications.”

It was Charles's turn to look innocent. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Really. You barged in here, manhandled me, and demanded to know what I had done to my cousin.”

“Yes, I see your point,” Charles said, pretending chagrin.

“Why would I harm my cousin? He is very dear to me.”

“I'm certain he is. And I'm just as certain you care far more for George than his title.”

Jeffrey's expression became stony, but his bloodshot eyes shifted away. Charles had never been so disgusted with another human being in his life.

Charles walked calmly to the door where the butler stood, white-faced and solemn. “Please have someone fetch the constable, Mr.—”

“Stavers,” the butler supplied.

“Thank you, Mr. Stavers. I'll stay here with Mr. Penwhistle.”

“Yes, sir.”

Perhaps the last thing Charles wanted to do was stay with Jeffrey. The man reeked of weakness and alcohol. As he was a betting man, he wished he could place a wager that Jeffrey knew precisely where George was. When he returned to the room, he sat down heavily across from the chair where Jeffrey had dragged himself. He took another swig of brandy, suppressing a gag.

“Curious,” Charles said, and Jeffrey sneered and made a point of taking another long draught.

 

The constable had come and gone, leaving Charles frustrated and angry. Jeffrey, slightly more sober now, was beginning to have his wits about him.

“I'm certain he knows more than he's telling us,” Charles had told the constable after pulling him aside.

“I don't,” Jeffrey called to them jovially. Apparently Charles hadn't spoken as softly as he thought. “And I'm insulted you would say such a thing. Defamation of character, and all that. Isn't that a crime, sir? Arrest that man.” He started laughing, and it was all Charles could do not to stride over to the man and slam his fist into Jeffrey's laughing face.

The constable had seemed more amused than concerned. He didn't understand that George would never have deviated from his set plans to spend the night with some bit of tail. He gave Charles a look of pure disbelief when he told the constable it was a near impossibility.

The constable shoved his pad and pencil into his jacket pocket. “Listen, if we went out to search for every toff who drinks too much and spends the night where he oughtn't, we'd never have time to do anything else.” He lifted a hand to stop Charles's angry retort. “Right now all we have is a young man who didn't return home. We don't have a crime. We don't even have a disappearance. It's not as if he's a lad. He's twenty-one. If he wants to go off without telling Mum where he is, that's his business.”

“I'm afraid you don't fully understand the circumstances,” Charles had said through gritted teeth.

The constable doffed his hat and left the room, completely unconvinced that anything was wrong. Charles watched him go, then turned toward Jeffrey, who leaned against the mantel, looking as if he hadn't a care in the world.