The offices of Chegarre & Associates were tucked into the clutter of Covent Square, hidden in plain sight in the shadow of St Paul’s Church. The long piazzas that lined the raucous marketplace were crowded today, as they were every day. And being that the Covent Square neighborhood was populated largely by those who made their living as entertainers, of both the artistic and the intimate persuasion, the tenements saw traffic that ebbed and flowed at all hours of the day and night. No one had the interest or the time to notice the comings and goings of Elise DeVries. Which was exactly how she wanted it.
There was no sign outside the shabby-fronted building that housed Chegarre & Associates, nor did the consultancy advertise its services in the Times. Even so, every person in the ton—and many outside it—knew about Chegarre and the secret miracles it worked for its clients.
Chegarre & Associates was a firm dedicated to fixing the private and personal problems of the very public people who were wealthy enough to afford Chegarre’s astronomical fees. When faced with the threat of humiliation, scandal, or dishonor, one could do no better than to avail oneself of Chegarre’s expert team for a solution. Elise had been a partner in the firm for just over five years, and there was little that surprised her any longer. She’d covertly tidied up inconvenient deaths, separated scandalous lovers, quashed illicit affairs, shut down illegal businesses, foiled kidnappings and extortion plots, and helped to zero out debts and addictions. The firm was masterful at making scandal simply disappear.
Which was not to say that resolving the Ashland matter would be easy.
Elise climbed the worn stone steps and let herself into the building, shutting the heavy wooden door firmly behind her. Immediately the din of the square vanished, replaced with a blessed silence. While the exterior of the once-luxurious town house still presented the same shabby facade as its neighbors, the interior had been restored to its former glory. The grandeur of the past was evident in the details of the polished wood on the walls and floor, the sparkle of crystal from the chandeliers and sconces overhead, and the subtle sheen of marble where it framed welcoming hearths. Elise leaned against the door and closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted in the absence of an audience.
She pulled off her spectacles and pressed her fingers to her eyes, making black spots dance behind her closed lids.
Seeing a woman restrained as the duchess had been had evoked unpleasant memories. And now, in the quiet and privacy of this space, it left her more than a little unsettled to be reminded of the lengths certain people would go to in the pursuit of their ambitions. Which was ridiculous, she knew. Greed and ambition were the very things that brought business to her doorstep, and the prevalence of both meant that all the members of the firm lived quite well. But for the first time since she had been hired by Chegarre, Elise wondered if perhaps she needed a break from the darker side of human nature. Perhaps she just needed to get out of London for a while.
Or perhaps she just needed a good, stiff drink.
“Miz Elise.”
Elise’s eyes snapped open. “Good afternoon, Roderick,” she said to the boy standing before her. He was about eight, dressed formally as befitted a pint-size butler, though the entire effect was somewhat ruined by the untamable cowlick that stood straight up from the back of his head.
“Didn’t recognize you from the window or I would’ve got the door for you,” he said, scratching his head.
“That was kind of the idea,” Elise replied, pushing herself wearily off the door and starting into the hall. Between this job and her work as a part-time actress at the Theatre Royal, she barely recognized herself anymore at any given moment. Every day brought a new role and a new deception to play out.
“I like that costume,” Roddy offered. “That’s a good one. You look like a real doctor.”
But she wasn’t a real doctor, Elise thought unhappily. She wasn’t a real anything, in fact. She was a chameleon, paid to become whomever the situation required. And false credentials would get her only so far.
“Mr. Alex is in the drawing room waiting for you,” Roddy continued.
“Good.” Elise brightened at that. Alexander Lavoie was not only her brother but a partner of Chegarre & Associates. As the owner of one of the most exclusive gaming hells in London, he was intimately familiar with the most influential and infamous members of the ton. And Alex had a particular talent for taking the secrets of these elite gamblers and depositing them into his coffers along with their money. This talent alone could turn a clever man into a very, very successful one.
And Alexander Lavoie was nothing if not clever.
“Lady Abigail is down in the kitchens,” Roddy told her. “Baking again. Says she couldn’t stand waiting and doing nothing. Do you want me to fetch her?”
“Not just yet.” Lady Abigail had been staying in the upstairs guest rooms of the town house while Elise assessed her case, and Elise couldn’t remember a time when their pantries had ever been as full of biscuits and breads.
“Are you sad, Miz Elise?” Roddy asked suddenly as they made their way toward the drawing room.
“What? Why do you ask?” Elise frowned.
“You looked kind of sad when you came in.”
She paused in the hall just outside the drawing room door. “Maybe a little. People can be horrible to each other. And sometimes it makes me sad to think about it too much.”
Roderick nodded sagely. “When I get sad or angry, I like to go down to the river and throw rocks into the water. It makes me feel better.”
Elise smiled despite herself. “Are you suggesting that I go throw rocks into the Thames?”
Roddy made a face. “Of course not, Miz Elise. Unless you want to. But surely you have something you like to do that makes you feel better?”
“Cows,” she said.
“Cows?”
“I used to milk the cows whenever I needed to think. Whenever I needed to let my mind rest and settle my thoughts.”
Roderick wrinkled his nose dubiously. “Did you want me to fetch you a cow? There are some kept over on—”
Elise laughed. “No, thank you, Roderick. I think you’ve cured any sadness for now. I can skip the milking for today.”
“Happy to help, Miz Elise.” Roddy flashed her a smile before he disappeared back down the hall, presumably in the direction of the kitchens and the delicious smells that were wafting up.
“Things must have gone poorly if you’re thinking of the old farm and wishing to milk cows again, little sister.” The drawl came from inside the doorway and Elise turned to find her brother leaning against the frame, his booted feet crossed and a half glass of whiskey in his hand.
He had hazel eyes as Elise did, though his tended toward dark amber while her own languished closer to green. They also shared the same dark, coffee-colored hair, though his possessed none of the wave that made hers curl. He was tall and lean, and the scar that started at his ear and ran over his cheekbone to catch at his lip gave him an intimidating appearance.
He stepped forward and made to kiss Elise on the cheek, before eyeing her beard in distaste and thinking better of it. Elise plucked the glass from his hand and took a bracing swallow, allowing the liquor to blaze a trail of fire down her throat.
“That bad?” Alex asked with some sympathy.
“Worse.” She drained what was left. “They have the duchess chained to her bed and drugged, and I’m quite certain Francis Ellery is paying to have her kept that way.” She pressed the cool glass to her forehead. “She’s utterly helpless.”
“Is she mad?”
“I don’t believe she is. But even if she were, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” She shuddered slightly. “I can’t leave her like that, Alex. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“I know,” Alex said gently. “We’ll get this sorted. But we’ll do it one step at a time.”
Elise nodded and took a deep breath. “Of course.” She was letting too many of her own emotions muddy the waters here. And emotions had no place in this job. If she really wanted to help the duchess, she needed to focus on fact. “Tell me what you were able to find out about Francis Ellery,” she said.
“Come,” Alex urged, as he ushered her farther into the drawing room. “If we’re going to talk about Francis Ellery, I’m going to need more whiskey.”
Elise followed him into the room decorated in soothing shades of blue. A long Edward East clock kept time against the far wall, while beautifully carved furniture pieces upholstered in sumptuous brocades were arranged over the Aubusson rug at their feet. It was a room meant to impress and put even their most privileged clients at ease.
Alex plucked the glass from her hand and refilled it generously from a collection of crystal decanters along a rosewood sideboard. He handed the glass back to her before pouring another for himself and took a seat on the sofa, settling back into the plush cushions.
“Would you care to sit?” he inquired.
“I’ll stand.” It was all she could do not to pace.
“Suit yourself.”
Elise took a more measured sip from her glass. “Tell me about Francis Ellery,” she repeated.
“Francis Ellery”—Alex’s top lip turned up, pulling at his scar—“does not gamble at my establishment.”
“He doesn’t gamble?”
Alex swirled the contents of his glass. “I didn’t say that. He gambles heavily, but he no longer does so under my roof. He is a liar and a cheat. Two things I can never have on my gaming floor, if only because, together, they inevitably lead to violence. Which of course inevitably leads to the destruction of beautiful property, namely my own. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to get bloodstains out of baize. Ghastly expensive, those faro tables.”
“So you’ve told me. On multiple occasions,” Elise said dryly. “What else?”
“Mr. Ellery has a number of gambling debts. Very large debts. And word is that the collectors are becoming impatient.”
“Ah. I can imagine Mr. Ellery is all the more eager to have the Ashland title in hand.”
Alex peered at Elise. “Are you aware of how much wealth is associated with the dukedom? The real property alone is staggering. The last duke was one of the single richest landholders in all of Southern England.”
“I am aware.” She paused. “What about the late duke’s son? Did you discover anything about him from your club clientele?”
“I did indeed. The Marquess of Heatherton, after a half-dozen glasses of my best French brandy, confided that there was, and still is, speculation about the boy. Especially now with the death of the old duke. Heatherton saw the boy only once when the child was near nine or ten—said he was the spitting image of his father—but after that he never saw him again. No evidence of him ever attending Eton or another school befitting a duke’s son. No appearances at country shoots or hunts, even once he was old enough to take part. The old duke refused to speak his son’s name, and the general consensus was that the boy had died, though no one ever confirmed it with any degree of confidence.”
“Huh.” Elise scratched at her beard.
“Heatherton did go on to say that he witnessed the duchess making a terrible scene when he called on Her Grace and Mr. Ellery to offer condolences after Ashland’s death. The marquess said the duchess became quite agitated. In fact she begged Heatherton to help her find her son. When Mr. Ellery reminded his aunt that Noah Ellery was long dead, she began raving, insisting he was alive, and eventually Mr. Ellery had to bodily drag the duchess from the room to see her settled upstairs. He took great pains to later excuse his aunt’s wild rant as a product of her mind-altering grief.”
“Mind-altering?” Elise asked.
“Ellery’s words, not mine. Though isn’t it terribly convenient that the single person who believes that Noah Ellery is alive has now been committed to Bedlam?”
Abigail will fetch Noah. Elise heard Miriam’s words echo in her head. “She isn’t the only one who believes the heir to Ashland is alive. I think his sister does too.”
Alex’s brows rose. “And why, then, would Lady Abigail decline to mention this?”
“Perhaps I can answer that.”
Elise froze, an unpleasant ripple of unease coursing through her. Slowly she turned toward the voice that had spoken.
He was standing in the doorway of the study, one hand tucked into the front of his coat, the other resting on the top of a silver-tipped walking stick. He was a physically impressive man, with red-gold hair and pale-blue eyes set into an aquiline face reminiscent of early Tudor portraits, from before their monarchs had fallen victim to vice and the ravages of age. He was dressed expensively, the finest fabrics tailored to perfection on his sleek frame, a blindingly white cravat tied intricately at his neck. A gold ring glinted off a finger as he adjusted his grip on the head of his walking stick.
“King,” she said by way of careful greeting. It was the only name the man had. Or at least the only one Elise had ever heard. But that was to be expected from a man with no past who had risen ruthlessly and violently through the ranks of London’s underworld until he rested at the very pinnacle. He traded in rare antiquities, art, jewelry—anything, really, that could be obtained and that would fetch a price from discriminating buyers with very deep pockets and very few principles. Elise doubted that there existed anything in this world that King could not unearth. Assuming the money was right, of course.
“I let myself in,” the man said. “There was a decided lack of opposition. You might want to think about addressing that.”
“Come to steal the silverware, King?” Alex asked casually from the sofa, crossing his legs. He looked relaxed, but Elise could sense the hostility rolling off him in waves.
King’s eyes flickered in the direction of her brother briefly. “Perhaps not today, Mr. Lavoie.” He stepped into the room and walked slowly toward Elise. “By God, I can see why the duchess adores you.” He came to a stop in front of Elise, examining her appearance. “I would wager your own mother would never recognize you.”
“Miss Moore isn’t here at the moment,” Elise told him. Ivory Moore was both the founder of Chegarre & Associates and the former Duchess of Knightley. It was usually she who negotiated with King when necessity required it.
“I know. The duchess is in Chelmsford.”
Elise narrowed her eyes at him. Ivory was indeed in Chelmsford, managing a situation there. But that was not common knowledge.
King shrugged in response. “One hears things.”
And that was the problem, Elise thought to herself. The man was as dangerous and as unpredictable as a pit viper, but he had connections that ran as deeply into the upper echelons of London society as they did into the gutters of the underworld. And there were times when Chegarre & Associates needed his assistance.
King reached out a hand and touched the lapel of Elise’s coat, rubbing the coarse wool between his fingers, as if testing its quality. It was everything she could do to remain still.
“I would trouble you to step away from my sister,” Alex said, taking a slow sip of whiskey, his posture not altering, but the threat in his voice unmistakable.
The corner of King’s mouth lifted, and he withdrew his hand. “No need to get so prickly, Lavoie. I am rather an admirer of Miss DeVries, if you must know. I have great respect for those who are good at what they do.”
Alex made a rude noise. “Respect? A strange word coming from the mouth of a man who thought auctioning a wom—”
“Whatever business was between the duchess and myself was just that, Lavoie. Business.” King looked at Alex coldly.
“Enough.” Elise put her hands on her hips, drawing on those acting skills that King had so recently praised and cloaking her face in a mask of boredom. “We’re wasting time, and I have clients waiting. Why are you here, King?”
King examined the ring on his finger. “I was made to understand that you were asking questions about Francis Ellery and the son of the late Duke of Ashland on behalf of a client.”
Jesus, was there nothing that this man didn’t hear? She glanced at Alex and saw him put his glass to the side. “Perhaps,” she replied.
“In the spirit of the respect I have for this fine firm, I thought I might bring to your attention the fact that Francis Ellery has recently hired two assassins.”
Elise felt her jaw slacken. “I beg your pardon?”
“Not good ones, mind you, because Ellery simply can’t afford them. The vainglorious sot has galloped his way through whatever money was left to him and whatever he borrowed after that. And good assassins, the kind that can make murder seem like the most innocent of accidents, are heinously expensive. At least my favorites are. Highway robbery if you ask me, but then again, one gets what one pays for.”
Elise was trying to make sense of this. “Why are you sharing this with us?”
“Because their target is Noah Ellery.”
A deafening silence descended in the room.
“He’s alive then,” Elise said carefully.
“Yes. Or at least he was the last time I saw him. And I’d very much like to locate him before these middling assassins do.”
Elise’s mind was racing. “When did you see him last?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“Where?”
“Here. In London.”
“Ellery was in London?”
“He was. Until Lady Abigail left the glitter of high society behind and married a blacksmith from Derby. Very dedicated to and protective of his sister, you know.” His eyes slid to Alex.
Elise frowned. “Lady Abigail didn’t mention any of this.”
“That is because Lady Abigail never knew he was in London. It’s possible she assumes him dead. I can tell you with certainty that she’s never done or said anything in the past twelve years to indicate that she believes he’s still alive.”
“You’ve been watching her.”
King smoothed a finger over the top of his walking stick. “Checking in occasionally, perhaps.”
“And how did you know the duke’s son was in London?”
“That is none of your business.”
Elise regarded King impassively, knowing there was something much deeper here than King’s professed respect for Chegarre & Associates. “Just what, exactly, is your interest in Noah Ellery?”
Something in King’s face shifted. “That would also be none of your business.”
“No, that is very much my business. For I am not in the habit of locating individuals if I know that exposing them will endanger their lives.”
King’s nostrils flared slightly. “You think I wish to harm him?”
Elise shrugged. “Do you?”
The man’s pale eyes slitted. “If I had known before today that Francis Ellery had hired such men, I would have located these assassins and paid them double to forget the name Noah Ellery ever existed. I might have paid them double again to make Francis Ellery disappear instead. Still might.” A muscle flexed along his clean-shaven jaw. “But they are in the wind at the moment. And I can’t have Francis killed. Not yet. He may still be useful in locating the heir to Ashland.”
“And just why do you wish to find him?” Elise prodded, deliberately ignoring King’s casual threat to have Francis Ellery executed.
“Because I owe Noah a great debt.” For a split second, there was emotion on King’s face, a vulnerable pain, though it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “And I do not wish to see him harmed.”
Elise blinked. Bloody hell. Did a real human being dwell somewhere beneath King’s icy, twisted exterior?
“If you know so much about this man, why do you need me to find him?”
“Because I have been unable to. And believe me, I’ve tried. But Noah Ellery has covered his tracks too well.”
“I see.”
“I am told you used to be a tracker for the British army. Somewhere in the Empire’s colonies.”
Elise stilled. That wasn’t something she often shared. But it was a waste of time wondering how King had come to know it. “Yes.”
“Further, I am told that you are the best.”
“At what?”
“At finding people who don’t wish to be found.”
“Yes. I am,” said Elise. She knew King had little tolerance for false modesty.
“I know Lady Abigail is here at present,” King said. “And I am hopeful that she can offer a clue as to her brother’s whereabouts that I have yet to uncover. But I know she does not have the funds to pay all of the charges that will be incurred in this matter. I do, and I wish Chegarre to look to me for compensation. But do not, under any circumstances, divulge my involvement in this matter to anyone. This conversation never happened, do you understand?”
“Yes.” Elise paused, frowning. There were more important issues at hand than invoicing details. “How does Francis Ellery even know his cousin is alive?”
“There are some very thin rumors surfacing now,” King said, tracing the tip of his walking stick over the pattern in the rug. “Among those who knew the late Duke of Ashland had a son. Among those who remember that child. Among those who have discovered that there is no credible record of death for that child, who, as far as anyone can determine, has not been seen in over twenty years. Rumors enough to stay Francis’s hand on the duchy of Ashland. At least for now. At least until Noah Ellery can be confirmed dead.” King looked up at her, and his eyes were as flat and as frigid as Elise had ever seen them.
She felt her skin crawl.
King’s cane stilled on the carpet, his knuckles tightening on the handle. “I take exception to a man who thinks to claim something he has no right to from someone who…” He trailed off, and Elise wondered silently just what the hell Noah Ellery had done to earn such devotion from a man as terrifying as this one. “You’ll advise me of your progress?” King’s hand relaxed, and he straightened.
“Of course,” Elise murmured.
“Very good. Mr. Lavoie, Miss DeVries, always a pleasure.” He offered them a smile with no warmth. “I’ll see myself out.”
A silence fell as both Elise and Alex considered the empty doorway through which King had just vanished.
“Is he telling the truth, do you think?” Alex asked presently, pushing himself to his feet.
“I think King was as honest as he’s ever been,” Elise said slowly.
“More than we can say about Lady Abigail.”
“Yes.” Elise put her glass down on the sideboard and pulled off her beard, wincing as the glue tugged at her skin. “It won’t be the last time a client tries to conceal something of importance from us. Though for the life of me, I can’t begin to guess why Lady Abigail hasn’t contacted her brother if she knows he’s alive. He could free his mother from Bedlam in less than a moment.” She rubbed at the reddened skin on her jaw, thinking of the duchess imprisoned in chains.
The same sense of weary sadness she had felt earlier pressed in on her again.
“Are you all right?” Alex had stepped closer to her.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You were talking to Roddy about milking cows.”
“Do you ever miss it? Home, that is?” Elise asked suddenly, thinking of the orchards and the pastures and the forests that they had grown up in. Where things had been simple and straightforward.
Alex was quiet. “I don’t miss the war,” he said.
“I’m not talking about the war, or what it cost us. I’m talking about the farm. When we were still a family.”
“You’re still my family, little sister,” Alex reminded her. “And it doesn’t matter if we’re in York or London.”
“I know.”
“I try not to look backwards, Elise. Makes it hard to see where you’re going.”
Elise looked down. Alex was right. But it was also hard to see where you were going when you couldn’t even be sure who you were anymore.
“Do you want me to handle this, Elise?” Alex asked. “I can close the club for a week—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Elise said, raising her head. “I’ve got nothing holding me here. The theater is closed. The ink isn’t even dry on Elliston’s lease, and he’s talking about repainting the entire interior. It will be months before he’ll reopen.” She had no idea where this melancholy was coming from, but she needed to focus on the task ahead of her. If she was to help the Duchess of Ashland, she would need to be at her best. “I’ll handle this, Alex. If Noah Ellery is alive, I’ll find him. It’s what I do, after all.”
“Right.” Alex was still watching her. “Well, do you want me to help you talk to Lady Abigail at least?”
“No, I think this will go better if I interview Lady Abigail alone. I don’t want her to feel ambushed.”
“Understood.” Alex glanced in the direction of the hall. “But I insist you send me word about the outcome. Especially,” he added, “if you come across a living, dead heir.”
* * *
Roddy fetched Lady Abigail from the kitchens at Elise’s request, and she arrived in the drawing room slightly out of breath, a look of hopeful expectation stamped on her face.
“Were you able to see my mother, Miss DeVries?” Abigail asked, hurrying forward.
“I did,” Elise answered, removing her wig and running her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp.
“Was she all right? Surely you could see that there was nothing wrong with her?”
Elise let her hands drop as she regarded the woman standing in front of her. Abigail had her hands on her sturdy hips, her blond hair escaping the tight crown of braids at the back of her head. The seconds ticked by, and still Elise said nothing. The hope in Lady Abigail’s eyes faded and was replaced by deep apprehension.
“Where is Noah living at the moment?” Elise finally inquired. She had no interest in wasting any more time.
The woman paled, before bright spots of pink burned into her cheeks and she looked away. “My brother is dead.”
Lady Abigail was lying. She, like King, knew Noah Ellery was alive.
“You are right about one thing, my lady,” said Elise. “I don’t think that there is anything wrong with your mother or her mind. Yet your cousin pays handsomely to keep her locked up, subjected to torturous treatments that have no curative benefit, but will likely kill her within a month. Maybe two.”
“Oh God.” Lady Abigail sat down heavily on the settee.
“Let me tell you what I think, my lady, and you can simply agree or disagree. I think one cannot inherit a dukedom if the current, sane duchess insists that her son, the rightful heir, yet lives.” Elise came to sit next to Abigail. “With such a claim, the estate could be tied up indefinitely.”
Lady Abigail had her face buried in her hands. “This is such a bloody mess,” she mumbled through her fingers. She sounded on the brink of tears. “Damn Francis and his damn greed.”
“Did you never consider what would happen when your father died?”
“Of course! But I didn’t think Francis would do…this.” Abigail’s voice was barely audible.
“Is there no one you can appeal to for help?” Elise asked. “Old friends? Surely someone with enough political and social leverage could look into this on your behalf? You are, after all, the daughter of a duke.”
Abigail shook her head. “I have no friends in London anymore. I’m afraid I burned all of those bridges, though I can’t say I’ve ever regretted it until now. The members of the ton are more eager to align themselves with the next Duke of Ashland than the daughter of a madwoman.” She made a rude noise. “And people wonder why I left London and never looked back.”
Elise sighed. None of what Abigail had said was surprising, but they were still back where they had started. “Is your brother truly mad, as Francis implies?” Elise tried a different tack, though she winced slightly at the cruel manner in which her words came out. “Is that why he doesn’t wish to be found?”
Abigail was worrying a loose thread on her sleeve. Her lips were pressed in a thin line. “He might not have spoken as a child, but Noah is not mad.”
“Nor is he dead,” prompted Elise.
The woman shook her head miserably.
Elise felt a small rush of satisfaction. Now they were getting somewhere. “Where is he then? For I fear that he is the only person who has the power to save your mother in time. He must be fetched back to London.”
“I don’t know where my parents sent him. One day I came home and he was simply gone. I was only fourteen at the time, and they refused to tell me anything. His name was never mentioned in our household again until five years later when my father sat my mother and me down and told us that Noah was dead. He offered not a single detail about how he died, but demanded we accept my brother’s death as fact and move forward.”
Well, that didn’t help. Abigail clearly had no idea where Noah had gone. It could have been Scotland. Or France. Or it could have been the moon. But if she had no idea where he had gone…“Then how do you know he is alive?”
From the front of her dress, Abigail carefully removed a brooch and handed it to Elise. It was heavy, crafted not by a jeweler but more likely by a smith. It was a piece of crude simplistic beauty, tiny strands of steel woven into the shape of a rose.
“He sent this to me, six months after my wedding day, along with a letter.”
“A letter? Your brother announced his resurrection with a letter?” Good Lord.
“Yes.” Abigail sniffed, sounding a little defensive. “Once I got over the shock, it was the best wedding gift I could ever have dreamed of.”
“And did this letter tell you where he was?”
“No. It only said that he loved me and that he was proud of me for finding the courage to choose my own happiness. He asked me not to look for him, but to trust that he had found his own measure of happiness.”
“Did it say where he had been sent as a child?”
“No.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “But…”
“But what?”
“Even if you could find Noah, I don’t know if he’ll come back to London.”
“I beg your pardon?” Elise wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Your mother—his mother—might die imprisoned, your cousin stands to steal the entire dukedom out from under him, and he won’t return to London?” Abigail had said Noah Ellery wasn’t insane, but Elise was beginning to wonder.
Abigail looked at Elise unhappily. “The only other thing he said in his letter was that our parents were dead to him. And that he would never return to the world that we had both been born into.”
Elise stifled a groan. This was getting more complicated by the second.
“But there was a Nottingham postmark on the letter,” Abigail rushed on. “And my husband recognized the workmanship of the brooch. He apprenticed together with a blacksmith who enjoyed making pieces like this out of leftover bits of metal. And sure enough, we found the man’s initials on the bottom of the piece.”
Elise turned the brooch over and squinted at the tiny letters worked discreetly along the lower edge of the steel stem. “J. B.”
“He’s a smith by the name of John Barr. He lives and works in Nottingham.”
And right now he was the only link to a missing duke. A long shot, to be sure. But a starting place. It was doubtful that Noah Ellery was still in Nottingham. But no matter how carefully a person tried to cover his tracks, small clues were inevitably left behind. And Elise was very good at finding such clues.
Unfortunately, others were already looking as well.
“Does anyone else know about the brooch or that your brother is still alive?” Elise asked urgently.
“Just my husband. And my mother.”
That much had become obvious. “Was it you who told her?”
Abigail nodded. “When I married, my father disowned me. But she defied my father and came to visit me secretly when my first son was born. She was still so heartbroken over Noah. And holding my son in my arms, it broke my heart to think about what it would be like to lose a child. Maybe it was a mistake. But I told her. Showed her Noah’s letter.”
“I see. But you’re certain you never showed the letter to anyone else?”
“Oh God.” Abigail’s face had suddenly gone ashen. “The letter. I kept it in a box that held a pair of sapphire earrings I’d saved from my youth. And it was stolen.”
“When?” Elise demanded. King hadn’t mentioned a letter, or the burglary of Abigail’s home. As implausible as it seemed, the all-knowing King had missed two critical pieces of information.
“The day before I left to come here to London. I thought it was the jewelry the thieves were after. But it wasn’t, was it?”
Elise ran her hands over her face in frustration before shaking her head. “No.”
If Abigail was right that she and her mother were the only people who had known about Noah’s letter, it was clear that Ellery, or the men he’d hired, had gotten very, very lucky. They’d targeted Lady Abigail’s house without much hope of finding anything useful and had stumbled upon a gold mine.
“Francis has people looking for Noah, doesn’t he?” Abigail whispered.
Elise debated the wisdom of telling Abigail the rest of it. In the end she said, “Yes. And it is absolutely necessary that I find him first.”
Lady Abigail pressed a hand to her mouth. “They’ll kill Noah if they find him.”
Elise nodded reluctantly, though she was relieved that Abigail understood. “Yes.” She paused. “If they can find him. It would seem he’s hidden himself quite well.”
Abigail’s eyes had filled with tears. “What am I going to do?”
“You are going to do nothing,” Elise told her. “You will stay here as our guest and avoid Francis Ellery. And whatever you do, do not mention your brother, or the fact that he is alive, to anyone outside of these walls. The last thing I need is to return to find out your cousin has somehow managed to have you locked up in Bedlam as well.”
“But—”
“I can find your brother,” Elise told her, trying to infuse her tone with a calm reassurance she wasn’t feeling at the moment. If Noah Ellery had managed to stay invisible for so many years, it wouldn’t be easy. “I am very good at finding people who don’t wish to be found.” That part, at least, was true.
“I can’t lose him again,” Lady Abigail whispered. “Please, Miss DeVries. Find my brother and bring him back.”