CHAPTER 22
Trumbull
Algernon Trumbull was not, in fact, as old as Stonehenge, it turned out, but, according to his records, a mere eighty-two, and surprisingly spry, as they found the next day. He lived north of London in a quaint little cottage with a garden, a thatched roof, and blue shutters. He was baldheaded and slight of build, but the old man had a spine of steel, and Lord, thought Connor, Trumbull was a butler down to his fingertips.
Within the confines of the cozy residence Mr. Trumbull had procured for his forced retirement, nary a speck of dust could be found.
Admiral Nelson himself could not have run a tighter ship.
Connor, feeling too large and rough-mannered in the low-ceilinged space, was, admittedly, a little afraid of the tiny old man’s polite glare.
Maggie was not.
Upon answering his own door for a change, the former butler gave Connor an icy stare, though he bowed, seemingly in spite of himself. Ah, but when His Grace introduced his future duchess, Trumbull drew in his breath and gazed at her in wonder.
His thoughts were all but written on his wrinkled old face: Now here is a proper lady! Then it was “Oh, do come in, come in, please… Tea, Lady Margaret? Cucumber sandwiches? Scones, Lady Margaret?”
“Please,” she had said with a grateful smile, though Connor would’ve thought this was imposing.
He was wrong.
Trumbull drew himself up at this request, becoming a good inch taller, and marched off on his lofty mission to fetch tea for the future Duchess of Amberley.
When he’d gone, Maggie sent Connor a quick, knowing wink; he hid his grin in answer. Penelope stood at attention nearby until Trumbull returned, then Her Ladyship dismissed her. The elegant maid curtsied and withdrew, and this, too, seemed to please the old man.
This was the world he knew, a blessed return to the world that made sense to him, Connor supposed. Here was a lady who knew how to go about, and that, Trumbull could appreciate.
He stood at attention before her while Connor leaned against the softly timeworn mantel.
“The tea is delicious,” Maggie told him.
He bowed. But then, seeing her warm, winning smile, he admitted, “I could make it with my eyes closed, ma’am.”
She chuckled. “I am sure you could. Oh, please, Mr. Trumbull, do sit. This is your home, after all. And may I say, it is charming.”
As are you, Connor thought, watching her in action.
Trumbull considered this, then remembered he was host this time, not employee, and sat, looking rather pleased with himself for the distinction he’d been shown. “How may I be of assistance, Lady Margaret?”
No doubt he was wondering what the devil they were doing there.
She took a dainty sip of tea, nodding at the question, and then began, in her diplomatic way. “First of all, I understand things went somewhat awry leading up to your departure from Amberley House.”
Connor managed not to snort. That was putting it mildly.
“And I want you to know,” she continued, “there is no suspicion upon you of any kind. In fact, we would be most honored if you would consider returning to your post at some point in the future.”
Trumbull looked so astonished that he set the teapot down abruptly, having just begun to pour himself a cup, since Her Ladyship had made it clear that, at the moment, they were dispensing with the formalities. Perhaps he feared that his bony, wrinkled hand might shake at such an offer.
“You needn’t answer just now if you don’t wish to,” she said, “but will you kindly consider it?”
“I-I will. Thank you, my lady.” He glanced dazedly at Connor. “I thank you both.”
Connor gave him a nod of acknowledgment.
“It is the least that you deserve,” Maggie said. “But there is another reason for our visit.”
Trumbull cocked his bald head. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Well.” Maggie glanced down at her lap, fretting into her teacup. “The authorities still have reached no satisfactory conclusion to that whole troubling business at Twelfth Night.”
Trumbull frowned.
“His Grace worries that if someone means him harm, then I may be at risk, too.”
Connor had not seen her this adorably demure since that first night when she’d come knocking on his door, begging him to spare her stupid beau.
She was irresistible in this mode, in his experience.
She shook her head, topped with a rose-pink bonnet to match her gown.
“And so, you see, we cannot marry until the threat is resolved. We are obviously eager to start our new lives together,” she said with a darling blush as she glanced over at Connor by the fireplace.
He nodded in agreement, but kept his mouth shut. He had already botched things enough with the old high stickler.
“Any details you remember from around Twelfth Night might at least help us glean a sense of what we are truly dealing with. So if there is anything at all that you might be able to tell us…?”
Trumbull frowned. “I am sorry, my lady. I have no further information beyond what I’ve thrice now told the Bow Street officers.”
“Hmm.” Maggie nodded. “It must have been distressing for you when suspicion slanted toward someone on the staff.”
“I never believed that,” he said emphatically, still looking routed by the mystery.
“So, you noticed no irregularities amongst the servants?”
“No, nor even the delivery personnel. The coalman, the milkman, the fishmonger’s boy. Everything was in order from all that I could see.”
“Well, who do you think poisoned His Grace?”
“Lady Margaret, if I may be frank, I am not convinced there was poison involved.” He shook his head, staring at her. “It…seems impossible.”
“So, what do you believe happened?”
“I personally believe that, er, Sergeant McFeatheridge either took ill with a stomach flu, as is common in wintertime or—more likely—sickened himself with too. Much. Drink.” Trumbull very determinedly ignored Connor at this moment. “The gentlemen were very merry, my lady.” Disapproval sharpened his clipped, terse voice to fine-edged precision. “Very merry indeed.”
Maggie pressed her lips together and dropped her gaze, somehow stifling the humor that Connor could feel bubbling beneath her polite surface.
He cleared his throat. “We did become rather rowdy now and then.”
Not that he was sorry. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die. The soldier’s creed.
“But suppose for argument’s sake that someone did put poison in the food,” Maggie continued. “Perhaps not to kill the duke, but merely intending to drug him for some reason. Whom would you suspect?”
“None of our people, my lady.” Trumbull fell silent for a moment, clearly wanting to please her by giving some sort of answer. “I suppose, in hindsight, it might have been possible for some intruder to have stolen in secretly and done it. With so many of His Grace’s regimentals coming and going, the doors were scarcely ever locked.”
“Was anyone hanging about who didn’t belong at Amberley House?”
“Other than His Grace’s twenty-three guests?” he asked pointedly.
Connor was well aware that Trumbull approved neither of him nor his Army mates.
Maggie nodded encouragingly. “Yes. Someone who might’ve known the staff’s comings and goings, and perhaps had access to the kitchens?”
“Well,” Trumbull said in an offhand way, shrugging, “there was one person allegedly hanging about, though I myself never saw him. If I had, believe you me…”
Connor suddenly came to attention, though he remained motionless.
“Who was that?” Maggie asked.
Trumbull sighed. “Ah, one day, I overheard three of our chambermaids gossiping about the scullery girl, Saphronia Diggs. Begging your pardon, ma’am, it is a bit improper, what I overheard.”
“It’s all right.”
“They claimed that Simple Saffie, as they called her, was holding trysts in the coach house with a soldier—not one of His Grace’s guests.”
“Certainly not,” Connor murmured. Even the rowdiest of his mates would have known that he would never tolerate them harassing his servant girls. Such behavior would have resulted in immediate ejection from the party.
“Naturally,” Trumbull continued, “upon overhearing their maids’ gossip, I revealed my presence and demanded explanations, but the gels were much abashed, confessed it was just idle talk, and quickly apologized for their impertinence. Even so, I called Saffie into my office and questioned her, for this would be an offense that warrants a maid’s instant dismissal, as I’m sure Your Ladyship would well agree.”
“Oh yes,” Maggie said gravely. “Do go on.”
“Saffie vehemently denied the accusation and, indeed, burst into tears, telling me over and over again that she was a good girl.” Trumbull paused with a look of grandfatherly concern. “’Twas quite affecting. Perhaps I erred on the side of compassion. But Saffie is…different, you see.”
“Different how, Trumbull?”
“A bit feeble-minded. For any other maid in the household, I assure you, the accusation alone would have been enough for me to send her off without a reference. I will not tolerate such nonsense in His Grace’s house. But with Saffie being simple as she is, I…felt she deserved another chance. After all, it’s only the scullery.”
“Simple?” Maggie asked.
“Yes,” Trumbull said regretfully. “She’s quite a pretty girl, but she’s not…all there. Has the mind of a child.”
“I see.”
“She means well; she is sincere enough. But if I had shown her the door, only the good Lord above knows how the poor creature would have fared out in the world. Unfortunately, His Grace dismissed her anyway, along with the rest of us. I don’t suppose the master realized he was throwing an innocent to the wolves.”
Connor’s heart sank possibly through the floor, hearing this. Trumbull would not even look at him.
“Do you know what ever became of her?” Maggie asked gently.
The aged butler shook his head. “I should hope her family took her in.”
Maggie looked relieved. “At least she does have family, then?”
Trumbull could not hide his disdain. “Yes. They live not far from here, in fact. I know of an elder brother, works in the mill next to Sadler’s Wells. I must say, I got the impression that Saffie was rather afraid of him. From what I understand, Mr. Diggs is a low, rough sort, given to drink and brawling.”
“I see,” Maggie said faintly.
Trumbull paused and gave them both a measured glance. “Normally, I would never consider a girl with such unsavory connections for employment in the ducal mansion, but given Miss Diggs’ especially dismal prospects in life, Christian charity compelled me to offer her a chance—with Cook’s approval, of course.
“In the end,” Trumbull continued, “we were quite pleased with how Saffie turned out. She was always a hard worker, and obedient. Whatever her limitations, she is perfectly capable of strenuous physical labor.”
Maggie sent Connor a worried glance; he was busy wallowing in guilt.
“It was good of you to give her a place in life,” she said, turning back to the butler.
Trumbull tilted his head. “Be that as it may, it was not always easy for her at Amberley House.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“That day I came upon the chambermaids tearing her down behind her back, well… The truth is, this was not an infrequent occurrence.” Trumbull shook his head, lowering his gaze. “I regret to say that Saffie was often the target of teasing by some of the other servants. I suppose she made easy prey, simple as she is. It’s not the girl’s fault she was born slightly lacking in wits,” he said indignantly. “At least the Lord gave her a pretty face—to make up for it, I should think—but that only brought her more hostility from some of the other maids.”
The old man sighed. “Poor Saffie. She is quite innocent, and altogether well-meaning. She cannot help what she is. Nor can we all. The point is, if she lied to me when I confronted her about this ugly rumor, which I seriously doubt—I can tell when they are lying—if she was indeed letting some ruffian take advantage of her in the coach house, then I would venture to say there is…a remote possibility that he might’ve gained access to the mansion somehow, through her. But the whole thing is absurd.”
“Why?” Maggie asked. “How are you so sure?”
“Because the chambermaids were saying that this lover of hers was an officer of the dragoons, no less! Honestly.” Trumbull shook his head, while Connor and she exchanged a grim look of shock, having found a highly incriminating button. “The dragoons are among the elite troops of England, ma’am, our modern-day knights, gentlemen of birth and breeding, sworn to chivalry—the heroes of Waterloo! For one of them to use a girl like Saffie in such an unspeakable fashion would be, why, ’twould be the very nadir of dishonor. Who could believe such a thing?”
Connor could not believe the old man’s naiveté.
There were, of course, those patriotic souls who tended to worship the flag and the military, especially in wartime. But they were usually not “wise old men” who understood the carnage, but impressionable young girls who thought the lads looked dashing in their uniforms.
Like a young scullery maid would have done.
God, if some cocksure dragoon had come stalking this servant girl to get to Connor, she wouldn’t have had a chance. Connor’s jaw was clenched and his stomach turned with the sickening realizations spinning through his mind.
Unwanted by her family, ill-equipped to face life, bullied by the other maids, she’d have been desperately vulnerable to a man’s smooth lies. Especially a dragoon, those arrogant bastards. Toy soldiers on their shiny horses, all glory, no brains, infantrymen liked to say of them.
Connor supposed he should be happy that at least it hadn’t been Cousin Richard romping in the carriage house with one of them, but he could not muster the sentiment, awash in self-recrimination for having tossed the girl right into this scoundrel’s arms.
To be sure, he felt the sting of Trumbull’s veiled reproach aimed at him—an infantry officer—by pointedly heaping praise upon those swaggering cavalry dunderheads, but Connor didn’t care.
The old man had more cause to be angry at him than Connor had previously realized.
It seemed he had allowed his Irish temper to run away with him where the servants were concerned. He knew why he had done it, of course. He had been out of his element as a newly minted duke, taken off guard, and outraged to be offered such a welcome to his new London home: a plate of poisoned food.
His first thought, his knee-jerk reaction, had been to assume that the English staff were slyly taking a go at him because he was Irish-born and they thought him unworthy. Well, he’d been fighting that battle all his life. And before he had realized the seriousness of the situation, some part of him must have also equated the poisoning with the same sort of unpleasant initiation rituals that new recruits faced when they arrived at their regiments.
The veterans enjoyed subjecting the cherries to all manner of pranks and pummeling to test them, a rough way of preparing them to face their first battle.
Moreover, Connor’s deep sense of loyalty had added fire to his outrage, to think that it should have been his best mate Rory to bear the brunt of what had been intended for him.
But this visit to Mr. Trumbull’s cottage clearly showed Connor the error of his ways. He had acted out of anger, and prejudice, with undue haste.
Maggie was right. The staff had not deserved to be sacked. And, apparently, for some of them, his lashing out like that may have led to disaster.
He had to repair this. Now. And so, in the silence that hung on the air after Trumbull’s revelations, he swallowed his pride, cleared his throat, and lifted his chin.
He tried in that moment to look as much the part of a proper duke as a bloodstained barbarian could manage. Somehow it was easier to play the role with Maggie by his side, for it was plain that she, at least, had been born to maneuver her way smoothly around the polite world.
“I say, Mr. Trumbull.” He moved away from the mantel, his posture stiffening. “It is not often that I find myself in the position of having to ask for another man’s forgiveness. But I fear I acted in haste in the matter of your dismissal.”
The old butler’s eyes became as round as the saucers on which he had served the tea.
If hearing Lady Margaret address him a few times with the honorific “mister” had startled him, a personal apology from the fourth Duke of Amberley rendered him speechless.
Connor hoped he did not stop the old man’s heart with his next words.
“I, er, I should be personally grateful if you would consider returning to my employ—with a raise in pay for your trouble, of course.” Connor cleared his throat awkwardly and awaited Trumbull’s reply.
Maggie turned, however, and sent him a tender glance, erasing any doubt that he’d done the right thing.
Trumbull was still trying to gather his wits. Connor really did not know how the ex-butler would answer. Old as he was, perhaps he was enjoying the leisure of his retirement.
Then his future duchess chimed in with her usual delicacy. “I second that offer, Trumbull, although, of course, I wouldn’t want you to feel compelled, if you do not wish to return. But it would be a great relief to me as a new bride to know that a man of such experience as yourself—and expertise—was at the helm of my new household. It is, after all, a great responsibility.”
Finally, Trumbull found his tongue. He rose to his feet. “Your Grace and Lady Margaret are both entirely generous,” he declared, slightly abashed. Perhaps no one of such high birth had ever spoken to him in such respectful terms before. “I hardly know what to say…”
“Will you at least think on it?” Maggie asked sweetly.
He nodded. “Yes, my lady. And Your Grace need not apologize.” Trumbull hesitated, though it was clear he had felt differently about this when they’d arrived. “That is to say, I cannot blame you for being angry, sir. It was a most distressing experience for us all. I only wish I knew how the blasted thing happened in the first place.”
Trumbull sighed, lowering his gaze. Stiff-spined as he was, his shoulders slumped, and Connor realized that though the old fellow still didn’t believe it was attempted murder, he truly did blame himself for the inexplicable lapse.
“Whoever has done this, we will find them,” Connor assured him. “This will not stand. I can promise you that.”
“You see, Trumbull,” Maggie said, “you may not be aware that His Grace now believes it was not just he, himself, who was targeted, but that there is some nefarious plot afoot against the entire House of Amberley.”
Trumbull’s white eyebrows shot upward as he turned to Connor. “Do you mean to say you believe the other deaths in the family are suspicious, Your Grace?”
“’Tis possible.” Connor nodded.
“Nothing is certain yet,” said Maggie.
“Good heavens…” Trumbull looked stricken. “Your Grace, I served under all three past dukes. It seems ages ago that I was a young footman serving under the First Duke, even in his bachelor days, when he was still marquess. I remember when he used to go out riding ’round the countryside with King George himself…
“And dear Reverend Lord Rupert. That’s what we all called him for so many years before he became the second duke…” Trumbull’s eyes turned steely. “Sir! If someone harmed either brother or young Richard, I hardly know what to say. Do you suspect that even Duke Richard was murdered?”
Connor nodded.
Trumbull sat back down slowly. “If this is true, and they were killed under my very nose, then I am thrice shamed, and in no wise deserve the post.”
“Nonsense,” Maggie said gently. Leaning forward, she laid a hand on his arm, which startled him. Her gaze teemed with kind reassurance. “Even Bow Street has failed to find the answers, and you had no reason to suspect. Nothing is confirmed yet, Trumbull, so, please, do not trouble yourself so. It may prove that the first and second dukes’ deaths were indeed the accidents they seemed. We simply aren’t sure yet.”
“Maybe even Richard’s crash, too,” Connor added. “If the truth proves otherwise”—he shrugged—“there is no way you could have known.”
“But it would put both our minds at ease if you were there at Amberley House once more, only now, alerted to whatever mischief is afoot.”
“However, it could be dangerous,” Connor warned. “That is why I dare not marry Lady Margaret until this threat is removed. Given your advanced years, sir, if you do not wish to get involved, I would thoroughly understand—”
“Oh, to be sure, Your Grace, I will be there.” Trumbull lifted his chin and stood tall once more, rising creakily from his cozy couch, ready for duty. His dejection faded as he straightened his shoulders and looked at them with flinty determination. “When would you like me to begin?”
* * *
“I’m very proud of you,” Maggie told her handsome fiancé as they walked back out into the sunshine a short while later. “You quite impressed me in there.”
“Me?” Connor glanced at her in surprise, then opened the little garden gate for her at the end of the flagstone path. “You’re the one who charmed him.”
“Come, it is a rare man, let alone a duke, who would have the humility—and the integrity—to apologize to a servant.”
“Trumbull deserved it.” He followed her out and pulled the gate shut behind him. “I’m glad you got him back for me.”
“Me too.” Maggie smiled at him as they headed toward their two parked carriages. “We’ll need an expert to get that house of yours back in order after you turned it into an army camp.”
“At least my aunts will be happy now,” he said, but his brief grin faded. “We’ve got to track this poor Saffie girl down as soon as possible and find out the name of her dragoon. If she’s still alive.”
Maggie froze. “You think he might’ve killed her?”
His glance was grim but matter-of-fact, and the dark realization promptly sank into her mind.
“Of course,” she murmured to herself. “If the scullery maid knows what really happened, then she could lay information against our dragoon and send him to the gallows.”
Connor gave a taut nod. “Exactly. We need her address.”
“I’ll fetch the servant records.” Maggie strode ahead to Connor’s town coach, parked alongside the sleepy dirt road ahead of the carriage that Edward had lent her for her “errands” today.
Nestor and Will leaned against the glossy black side of Connor’s town coach, chatting with Penelope, while Hubert, Delia’s usual coachman, sat atop the driver’s box of the second carriage, waiting for Maggie.
All the Birdwell servants were still in mutiny toward Delia after what she’d done to Maggie in Hyde Park, so Hubert had been more than happy to drive her around today, and had promised her his discretion.
After much consideration, Maggie had told Edward but not Delia about Connor’s proposal. She’d told her trusted brother-in-law to expect a visit from the duke in due time so he could make his formal request for her hand.
Until that day came, Maggie had implored Edward to keep her big news quiet for now, so that Delia could not spoil it for her again.
Good old Edward, he’d agreed, and had even poured them both a glass of champagne so he could toast to her triumph. “Are you sure about this man?” had been his only question. Maggie had given a heartfelt yes and joyfully admitted that she was in love with their new neighbor.
Hearing that, Edward had gladly put his extra coach at her disposal for the day, assuming that her errands had to do with preliminary wedding planning.
In a sense, this was absolutely true. She should not have liked to lie to him.
But she saw no reason to tell him about the attempts on Connor’s life and this mystery they were determined to resolve, for protectiveness might have caused him to forbid her from involving herself in this.
With that, Maggie flipped the bound folio of household records open and whisked through the pages listing the employment details on each staff member.
“Here she is. Saphronia Diggs. She lives in Muggeridge Lane.” Maggie looked around at the others. “Does anyone know where that is?”
No one had heard of it, so Connor went back to ask Trumbull for directions, since he had said Saffie’s kin lived nearby. The butler came to the door, leaving the front window where he had been discreetly peeking out at them.
He soon pointed them in the right direction, but warned that Muggeridge Lane was a ramshackle place, peopled by the rugged bruisers who made their living doing backbreaking labor at the mill and nearby brickyard.
“Maybe we should part ways here,” Connor said as he ran his hand quickly over his hair to smooth it down, then pulled his top hat on.
“Nonsense. I shall be perfectly safe with you there, Major. Besides, Trumbull said it’s right by Sadler’s Wells theater; how dangerous can it really be? And once more, you’ll most likely need me,” Maggie reminded him.
“She’s right, sir,” Will spoke up. “Saffie was afraid of you even before you fired her.”
“You know her?” Maggie asked the skinny lad.
Will nodded. “She was a sweet girl. I felt sorry for her, the way the others picked on her. Half the time she didn’t even know they were making fun of her. I wanted to punch them,” Will mumbled, “but I didn’t.”
“See?” Connor said in amusement. “Will can help me get her to talk.”
Maggie cocked a fist on her hip. “Your Grace, if you were a frightened girl, would you sooner trust a scowling, oversized duke and two ex-soldiers, or a lady and her maid?”
One corner of his handsome mouth quirked upward. “Point taken.”
“Good, for after everything she’s probably been through with this blackguard…”
“If she’s even alive,” Connor said, and Will blanched.
“You think he might’ve killed her?” the lad cried.
“What if he’s there?” Nestor interjected, silencing them all for a moment.
Maggie and Penelope glanced at each other; the maid looked a trifle worried at being included in this bad business.
“Then I’ll shoot him,” Connor said blandly. “You ladies can look away. If you still insist on coming, that is.”
“You’re armed?” Maggie asked.
“Always,” Connor said, and behind him, Will nodded emphatically, glancing at the major.
“Shall we?” Nestor asked, opening the coach door.
Maggie nodded, then she and Penelope hurried back to their own carriage.
With Trumbull watching from out his cottage window and Society still ignorant of their as-yet informal betrothal, Maggie had insisted on them observing propriety by traveling in two separate carriages.
Hubert and the liveried footman posted on the standing bar at the back of her coach were the only two residents of the Birdwell household other than Edward and Penelope who knew of her pending engagement.
All four had been sworn to secrecy.
“Follow the duke’s coach again, Hubert,” Maggie instructed the driver. “We have an unexpected stop.”
“Yes, milady.” Beneath the brim of his tricorn hat, however, the coachman looked a bit puzzled as he got the door for them, so she explained to avoid any risk of gossip in the servant hall.
“We just found out that one of Amberley’s former servant girls may have fallen into most perilous circumstances. We need to make sure she is safe at home with her family.”
He bowed his head, looking relieved at the explanation. “Of course, ma’am.”
Maggie climbed in and took her seat, and Penelope followed. In short order, their little two-coach caravan wove through the rural peace and quiet of Islington, heading back southward toward Town.
Sadler’s Wells was on the way—home of the famous aquatic spectacles.
Genteel folk went there all the time to enjoy a night’s lively entertainment, but Maggie had never even realized there was a mill of some sort tucked away behind it.
She desperately hoped that when they found the brother’s residence, Saffie would be there, safe and sound.
What they would do with the former scullery maid once they found her, Maggie did not know, but she supposed they had to remove her somehow, given the threat to her life that her dragoon still might pose, if he was indeed the ruthless soul responsible for the three dukes’ murders.
Whoever he was, he sounded like a most unpleasant fellow.
She thought again of that stranger, the dragoon, who had offered her the ride home during the rainstorm. Could that be the man? The notion that she might have stood there talking to a killer that day sent an arrow of pure ice down her spine. He knew my name. And now he knows where I live…
A shudder ran through her, but she was glad that, at least, she had told Connor about the incident. She hadn’t thought much about it until they had found that button off a dragoon’s uniform in the coach house.
Trysts taking place there between Saffie and this man would explain how it got there.
With gooseflesh marching down her arms, Maggie pushed aside her anxiety over it all to focus on the next task at hand. The sooner they found Saffie alive and well, the sooner they would learn her lover’s name.
Then Connor could track the blackguard down and put an end to this, and they could start their new lives together without having to constantly look over their shoulders.
Trotting on through the bright spring day, they passed a pond, open fields, and a herd of grazing cows.
In the hazy distance, they could just make out the London skyline and the gleaming dome of St. Paul’s.
Then, about a mile farther down the road, they veered off to the right into the Sadler’s Wells complex, with its music hall and aquatic theater, tea gardens, and the old Sir Hugh Middleton Tavern, named after the founder of the waterworks there.
Indeed, they had passed several peaceful reservoirs, owned and operated by the powerful New River Company. This august firm had built the artificial New River, channeling the region’s many underground streams into a proper system that supplied half of London with its drinking water.
The ingenuity of the man-made river was most impressive, Maggie thought, considering it had been built two hundred years ago.
Weaving past another of the spas established in this area, so rich in mineral springs, they admired the New River, with its locks and genteel brick promenade. Youngsters stood fishing atop its thick cement wall.
Deeper into the winding, tree-lined lanes around Sadler’s Wells, they came upon the New River Head, the largest of the reservoirs. It had an oblong shape with a walled pond at its center.
With the carriage windows open and the breeze blowing through, Penelope and Maggie enjoyed the view of shimmering waters under blue May skies, with the bright green fields rolling out behind it.
Just a little taste of the countryside…
It made Maggie think of Kent and Halford Manor, and just for a moment, she was homesick.
Hubert followed the duke’s carriage onward, however, and there, tucked away at the back corner of the reservoir, stood the mill.
It was a large, plain redbrick building with great chimneys billowing white clouds of smoke, as if some great furnace burned within, and when Maggie spotted a yard full of cast-iron pipes, it dawned on her that that was what they manufactured here.
Come to think of it, she had heard that sections of London were in the process of having their ancient, leaky wooden water pipes replaced with new cast-iron ones. Since the mill sat upon New River Company property, it made sense that the waterworks would also be supplying the replacement pipes throughout the city.
The mill yard bustled with activity, but they hurried on by; many of the men hard at work turned to scrutinize the two fine coaches rolling past.
Just beyond the mill, they found the rows of terrace dwellings set up for the millworkers.
Sure enough, per Mr. Trumbull’s directions, the last street there proved to be Muggeridge Lane.
But apparently, the butler was more of a snob about such things than Maggie was, for the place looked respectable enough to her—a neighborhood of hardworking people, poor but decent.
The redbrick terrace houses were identical and small, with walled gardens in the back, laundry flapping in the breeze of many of them.
When they spotted Number 62, Saffie’s home address listed in the servant records, they glided to a halt and got out. Jittery anticipation building as to whether the girl was here or alive or dead, Maggie and Penelope exchanged a worried glance as Connor walked over to them with Will in tow.
“Ready?” Connor asked.
Maggie smoothed the tassel on the end of her reticule as her heart began to pound. Then all four of them proceeded to the door of Saffie’s brother’s house.
Will stepped forward and knocked, then retreated to stand behind Connor.
Nothing happened.
They looked around at each other.
“Maybe he’s at work,” Penelope said.
Maggie shrugged. “Yes, but if he’s got a wife, she should be at home—with Saffie. Don’t you think?”
“Did the butler tell you if Mr. Diggs is married?” Will asked with a frown.
“He didn’t say.” Connor knocked this time, louder. “Anybody home? Mr. Diggs?”
The door suddenly jerked open and a rumpled man appeared.
With his fist raised mid-knock, Connor nearly rapped the fellow in the forehead.
“Wot?” he barked. “You woke me up! What do ye want?”
Maggie blinked at this greeting.
Connor lowered his hand to his side. “We’re looking for Miss Diggs.”
The bearded man stared blearily at them, red-eyed, surrounded by a cloud of fumes from last night’s ale. He appeared to have fallen asleep in his clothes; his plain, wrinkled shirt hung open down his hairy chest, and his feet were bare.
Maggie supposed she should be grateful that at least he had on breeches.
Well, Trumbull had warned them this man liked his drink.
“Your sister?” Connor prompted impatiently.
“Why?” Diggs glanced skeptically from him to Maggie, eyeing their upper-class garb. “Wot’s she done now?”
“She hasn’t done anything,” Maggie said in a gentler tone. “We are concerned that she might be in danger—”
“Oh, she’ll be in danger, all right, next time she shows her face around ’ere, the little slut.”
Maggie jolted. And she thought her sibling was bad! At least Delia had never called her such a name.
“Why do you say that?” Connor demanded.
“Never mind it.” As he warily scrutinized them, Diggs’s glance flicked to the two fine carriages with gleaming horses and liveried footmen standing at the ready. “Who are you lot?”
Finally recovering her tongue, Maggie nodded politely toward Connor. “This gentleman used to be your sister’s employer.”
“Ohhh, I see.” The stinky fellow looked Connor up and down. “So it’s your fault, then.”
“Pardon?” Maggie asked in surprise.
Diggs pointed at Connor, who was scowling. “He sacked her, and now she’s ended up a whore.”
“Mind your tongue in front of the lady,” Connor ordered.
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” the man corrected sarcastically. “A soiled dove.” Then he gave Connor a cold look. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself, sir. Not that I’m surprised. In the end, it’s probably all she’s good for, anyway. Chit’s barely got a brain in her head.”
Maggie was nonplussed.
“Do you know where she’s working?” Connor growled.
“Are you joking?” Diggs retorted. “I’m her brother! If I did, I’d have dragged her out by her hair months ago, wouldn’t I? But she’s hiding from me, see. Knows I’ll tan her hide. Little numbskull. Useless, she is. Only way to manage that girl, beat some sense into her.”
Maggie’s jaw dropped, and Connor’s fist clenched, but Diggs noticed neither, dismissing the whole matter with a weary wave of his hand.
“Eh, let her make her living on her back for all I care. Just another mouth to feed. But that little simpleton had better not show up here with some faceless fool’s brat in her belly, that I can tell you. Because I’ll send ’em both on to the workhouse.”
“If you see her”—Connor’s voice sounded slightly strained with the effort to hold his anger in check—“will you have her call on me at Amberley House?”
“Aye, I suppose,” Diggs grumbled. “But if you see her first, you tell Saffie that our mum’s rollin’ over in her grave with what she’s gone and done. Now, if you fine people will excuse me. The mill closes late and opens early, and some of us have to work nights.”
Slam!
Maggie blinked as the door banged shut in their faces.
Connor and she both stared at it for a moment, then glanced at each other, speechless. “Well!” he finally said. “What a charming fellow.”
Maggie shook off her astonishment, still marveling at the man’s casual brutality. “I daresay Mr. Trumbull was not exaggerating after all.”
“Criminy,” Will muttered from behind them. He shook his head, looking stunned and saddened at what his little friend had had to endure. Penelope shook her head.
Then they all turned away and headed back slowly toward the carriages.
“Saffie’s not simple,” Will muttered. “She just daydreams all the time.”
Connor looked askance at him.
“Well, what do we do now?” Maggie asked once she’d found her voice again.
“I hardly know,” Connor growled. “There are hundreds and hundreds of brothels in London… The city’s infamous for it, even on the Continent. Girl’s a needle in a haystack at this point. For that matter, we don’t even know if she’s still in London. He might’ve taken her elsewhere.”
“Or got rid of her altogether,” Maggie murmured grimly.
“God, I hope I’m not responsible for this,” Connor said.
“Of course not. The dragoon who targeted her is, not you.” Maggie could see by the brooding look that he begged to differ.
He looked away, glowering. “I suppose I’ll have one of my useless Bow Street fellows check to see if anyone matching Saffie’s description has turned up dead in London over the past few months. Will, you’ll have to come along to tell them what she looks like. I don’t remember her at all.”
“She was pretty,” Will said in a somber tone.
Connor sighed. “Unfortunately, it seems that, at least for now, our search has reached an impasse.”
Maggie nodded, her heart sinking, then glanced toward the road. The sun was bright overhead, climbing toward noon.
“I suppose this is where we must say goodbye.” She looked up at Connor. “I have to get back in time for morning calls.”
Penelope and Will drifted away, giving the two of them some privacy as they stood near the carriages.
Connor took Maggie’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Thanks for all your help today.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll see you Friday evening, yes?”
“Aunt Lucinda’s soirée.” Though her heart was troubled over Saffie, Maggie smiled and squeezed his gloved fingers in her own. “I’ll be there.”
“Thank God,” he muttered. “I’m counting on you to help preserve my sanity that night.” Then he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Enjoy your morning calls, my dear. Though I still don’t understand why they call them that when it’s clearly afternoon.”
She chuckled and pulled away with reluctance, sliding her fingers across his palm as they parted. “I will. You enjoy your day, too. And let’s both say a prayer for Saffie, wherever she is.”
He nodded and sketched a bow as Maggie withdrew.
“You know, if we do find her,” she said to Penelope when they got back into their coach, “there’s no way we can bring her back here to that dreadful brother of hers.”
“Not if he’s going to beat her,” Penelope agreed with a huff. “Brute.”
They lapsed into thoughtful silence as Hubert drove them home, following Connor’s town coach the whole way back.
When they finally rolled into Moonlight Square, Penelope was the first to spot the dark-haired man sitting on the front steps of Amberley House, idly whittling wood with a penknife.
“Who’s that?” she asked, pointing toward the open window on her side of the carriage.
Instantly, Maggie leaned over to look, fearing the worst. Was it the killer? Had the dragoon returned?
But when the brawny, apple-cheeked fellow jumped up, hailing Connor’s coach with a broad smile, Maggie breathed a sigh of relief.
Whoever he was, he got quite a reaction from the duke—and Will and Nestor, too.
The surgeon-turned-coachman stopped Connor’s town coach in the middle of the street, blocking the way for Maggie and Penelope, to their surprise. Even more startling, Connor immediately leapt out of his carriage with Will right behind him.
“Rory!” they both cried.
The newcomer grinned, flipped his penknife closed, twirled it nimbly in his hand, and put it away just in time to return Connor’s brief bear hug. “Major. Willy.”
“Good God, man, where’s the rest of you?” Connor cried with a grin from ear to ear as he clapped the fellow on both shoulders.
“Ha! Poisoning was good for me,” the newcomer declared, slapping his own flat stomach.
“I barely recognize you!” Connor exclaimed.
The newcomer lifted his arms out to his sides. “Gorgeous, ain’t I?”
Connor smirked. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Penelope made a low sound of possible agreement, studying the fellow, while, out on the pavement, a laughing Will leaned close to shake his hand.
“Welcome back, sarge! You’re almost as skinny as me now.”
“God, I hope not,” the man said, whacking Will on the back with a chuckle.
The boy went flying, but he seemed to have expected that.
The cheerful man turned last to Nestor and waved. “Better move your arse, doc—you’re blocking the street. I think these pretty ladies want to get through.”
“Oh my,” Penelope murmured when the roguish fellow beamed a smile at her through the carriage window.
Maggie arched a brow, glancing at her fashionable maid.
Connor, standing behind his friend, looked equally surprised.
But Nestor duly laid hold of the lead horse’s bridle and moved the coach aside so they could pass.
“Well, that answers that question,” Maggie said with amusement. “At least now we know who he is.”
Penelope nodded and sent her a twinkling glance, blushing just a bit after having caught his eye. “That’s Rory.”