“John. John, Alec needs you. You must go to him.”
John sat straight up in bed. He blinked sleepily, then rubbed his eyes. He turned to the pillow beside him with a smile, prepared to say, I had the oddest dream. There was a lady with the most magnificent long red curls, and she told me you were in danger.
The place beside him was empty.
He didn’t think much of it. He’d slept in. Alec was probably in John’s little parlor helping himself to a cup of tea. Or perhaps he’d gone downstairs. He smiled at the idea of Alec in the dining room being regaled by Mrs. Simpson, who was always an early riser. Breakfast would be laid out. A cup of tea and a warm roll sounded marvelous. He was starved.
John hopped out of bed and pulled on his linen shirt. He peered into his parlor, but Alec wasn’t there, so he finished dressing quickly. He washed his face, hands, and teeth, and combed his hair. He picked up his shaving soap, but hesitated.
He had a niggling sense that something wasn’t right. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and a heavy feeling stirred in his belly. What was it? It was Christmas Day. Judge Fielding had given the Bow Street Runners leave. And as far as he knew, his parents were well. Everyone in Mrs. Simpson’s household was well. What could possibly be wrong? Surely, he wasn’t going to turn into the sort of lover who had to have their beloved in their sights constantly. He’d rather be strung and quartered.
And yet. John had learned to trust his instinct for trouble. It had saved him from a knifing at least once when he’d turned to find someone sneaking up on him in an alley. And then there was that dream.
Alec needs you. You must go to him.
It was just a dream, nothing to fret over.
He put down his shaving soap. He’d make sure Alec was getting along all right downstairs before he spent too much time on ablutions. That was reasonable enough. He put on his shoes and went down.
Mrs. Simpson was in the dining room engaged in a newspaper, the remains of her breakfast spread out in front of her. “Ah, Mr. Trent! A very Merry Christmas to you.”
“Merry Christmas,” John said. On impulse he went over and bussed her cheek, which made her giggle happily.
“Do sit with me and have breakfast. I’m painfully alone. So much dashing about this morning! The Misses departed for Oxford, and Mr. Allston, and no one else has risen yet. I was just longing for one of those enormous gongs.”
“What?”
“So I could strike it and raise the household,” Mrs. Simpson explained with a twinkle in her eye, the one she got when she thought she was being terribly clever. “Though I suppose one must wear a turban to do it properly.”
“No, I mean, what about Mr. Allston? Is he not here?”
“Why, no, dearest. He said he was going to walk back to his shop. I think he wanted to freshen up.” She gave John a knowing look. “But he said to tell you he’d return later this morning.” She picked up her teacup and took a sip. “What a lovely man he is. A real gentleman. And such striking eyes! I do hope you intend to keep him.”
“He said he was walking? Back to his shop?”
“It’s not that far to the Pall Mall, Mr. Trent. Isn’t that where you said his shop was? Now do have some tea and rolls. Mrs. Babbage made the seeded ones and there’s fresh butter. Divine. Or, since you’re up, I can ask her to put on the bacon.”
“Not just yet, Mrs. Simpson,” John said faintly, his appetite entirely vanished. “Excuse me.”
John left an unhappy-looking Mrs. Simpson in the dining room. He stood in the foyer for a moment, thinking.
It was about two miles to the Pall Mall. Alec could walk it in well under an hour if he set a good pace. The areas he would pass through weren’t too alarming. He should be fine.
Should be.
Perhaps he had Christmas greetings to dispatch this morning or a few parcels still to get out. He hadn’t mentioned that to John, though, or written him a note. But he’d left word with Mrs. Simpson, which was very nearly the same thing.
So why did John feel uneasy?
He turned on his heel and went into the drawing room. The angel stared at him from the top of the tree. Funny trick with those eyes. They seemed to follow you around the room, like the eyes in some portraits.
She was based on a real lady, a lady I met at the darkest hour of my life.
The woman in his dream, she’d had long, golden-red curls. Was the spitting image, in fact.
“Stuff and nonsense,” John muttered. “Get ahold of yourself, man. Has love turned you into a complete ninny?”
The angel merely stared.