“Well, youarepart of this.”
“Of course, she is,” Kincaid muttered. “Stop your mooning and come on. And,” he called over his shoulder, “bring along the sketches.”
In the study,Davy stood fingering the brim of his hat, while Pip gawked at the wall of books. Fox hadn’t spent much time in this room, tucked under a stairwell and poorly lit by the tall slender window that squinted north. It had no use for a painter, but it was the perfect sort of cave for Shaldon’s plotting.
He and Farnsworth had arranged themselves around the desk.
Perry gaped at the bookshelves—apparently, she’d not yet seen this room—and then spotted Pip. She went to the boy and turned him around by the shoulders. He dropped his cap, and she picked it up. “Are you quite all right?”
His face scrunched in a freckled frown, and he stared at her neck.
“Pip,” Davy said, “her ladyship asked you a question.”
So, Davy had been apprised of the rankings and pecking order.
“Aye, miss,” Pip said. “That’s a right big bruise you have.”
She nodded. “It will go away.” She set her hand to his forehead and the boy visibly flinched. “I feared you would have a fever after that dunking last night, but you feel all right.”
Shaldon cleared his throat. Fox handed him the drawings. The room went still, as it always did when the spy lord was thinking.
The man’s face revealed nothing. He’d mastered the art of concealment needed to survive the veiled knives of his class. His work for the government had required him to firm up that mask even more.
But Fox saw the grimness forming as Shaldon lifted each sheet and examined it.
He silently slid the sketches to Farnsworth, seated across the desk from him. Farnsworth looked and passed them to Kincaid.
“Come here, lad.” Kincaid took an empty chair and beckoned the boy. “Tell me what you think.” He laid the sketches out on the desk.
Pip scrunched his face over them, leaning in close. The boy was, quite possibly, nearsighted, which made for questionable testimony.
Though they didn’t need his testimony. Perry’s was enough.
Davy stood stock straight and unmoving near the bookshelf. Pip cast him a quick look, and Fox realized it wasn’t nearsightedness driving him, it was fear.
Pip had known the big man all along. In the way of the children within any criminal enterprise, he had kept his mouth shut.
Davy nodded.
“Aye,” Pip said. “That be them.”
Heat pounded through him. He’d recognized the man who assaulted Perry, and yet neither he nor his father had said anything. What the hell was afoot here?
“Who is the short man?” Fox asked, trying to keep his tone even.
Another look was exchanged between father and son.
Davy let out a long breath. “The Squire’s groom, Harv. I don’t know the last name. Not from these parts. I’ll need to get going soon, sirs. Scruggs is calling all to the inn.”
Shaldon nodded. “Take the boy to the kitchen. The ladies will look after him.”
“I want to go, Da,” Pip said.
Perry took a step toward the boy, but Fox touched her arm and shook his head.
“You’ll stay here like I told you.” Davy’s voice was firm, and surprisingly gentle. For once, Davy appeared totally sober.
“And your women?” Kincaid asked.
