Pentney House
One in the afternoon
Eloise sipped hertea slowly, clenching her other fist in her lap, because both actions were infinitely more polite than punching Constable Lewis in the throat. Which, at that moment, she truly wanted to do. Truly. Without hesitation.
The man, as odious as before, had forgone his usual platitudes and moved on to snide comments about titled sons who thought they were invincible—attempting a subtlety the man did not have the wherewithal to express with any modicum of success. The resulting tone was patronizing enough to irritate even the placid Earl of Pentney as well as his daughter, as evidenced by his narrowed eyes and a scowl that could carve meat.
Lewis also still had on that blasted hat.
“So you have not talked to my son’s friends again.” The earl’s disapproving tone kept Eloise’s mouth closed—about the only thing in this conversation that did.
The constable held one hand wide as the other juggled a teacup ill-suited for his rough, broad hands. “What use? They will not say anything more to me. They fear legal consequences if they say too much.”
Eloise set her cup down, an alarm plucking at the back of her neck. “Prostitution is not illegal. And they are all of age to engage in such, even Lord Timothy. What illegal activities would they be concerned about?” She waited, eyebrows arched in question.
The men fell silent, and the constable’s face grew bright red. He attempted to glance surreptitiously at the earl, but almost spilled his tea in the process. Eloise sighed in frustration and fought the urge to tell them both where she had been the past twenty-four hours and where she planned to be in the next twenty-four. Instead she pursed her lips for a moment, then spoke softly but evenly.
“Constable, Lord Timothy and I are close. He has always told me everything about himself—his dreams, his desires, what he wants to do and achieve. He’s also five and ten, which means he adores trying to shock me. It is almost a game we play. He tells me outrageous things, and I pretend to be mortified by their impropriety, even when I’m not. He told me he and his friends planned to gamble, visit a brothel—and spy on a molly house.”
Now her father turned red. “Eloise! You did not mention—”
“I thought telling you the first two would be enough. They are normal. They have the same desires of every young man and the curiosity of every male that age. Timothy, however, does not yet have the reticent sense of propriety grown men learn to exhibit. Yes, he tells me things he should not, but I encourage his openness with me. I would remind you both that I am not a blushing debutante and have not been for many years. I have chaperoned all my sisters and many of their friends, and I have a keen eye and ear for what young men want. Not all young men are gentlemen, and I have reprimanded my fair share of potential reprobates.”
Eloise paused and refilled all their teacups. “Now. What do you think they are afraid of?”
Lewis studied his teacup as if it were a beast about to attack. “They told me enough—and I talked to a few people at a few establishments I know. I found someone who remembered three young men of their description. They didn’t just spy on the, um, house.”
“Ah,” Eloise said. “They went in.”
“Dear God in heaven,” her father muttered.
“Apparently,” the constable said. “But this gentleman said they did not stay long. Whatever they saw startled them enough that they bolted.”
“Thank God for that.” Percival Surrey shifted uncomfortably. “But Lord Timothy was with them at that time?”
“Yes. They went there first. They then arrived at Campion’s. I plan to talk to them again, although that may be a few days hence.”
The earl cleared his throat. “Yes, we have heard about last night’s events there.”
The constable sniffed. “Every noble in the south of England has debts with Campion’s hell. A lot of nerves being stirred about who will inherit the business along with those debts. If the new owner calls in all those debts, a lot of property and money will suddenly change hands.”
Eloise added sugar and milk to her tea, stirring it slowly and thoroughly.
Percival Surrey stiffened his back. “Then they should not have risked so much over a game of cards.” When the constable’s look turned sharp, the earl dismissed his concern with a wave. “I am not moralizing, Lewis. I have no issue with men gambling. I do think it’s financially irresponsible to risk your family’s living and home. I have heard that earlier this year Campion called in a debt on Lord Broxley and took possession of one of the Broxley properties, a country estate in Maidstone. Been in that family for generations. One foolish night ofvingt-et-unand it now belongs to a gambling empire in Covent Garden. It’s outrageous!”
Eloise peered at her father through half-lidded eyes. Broxley. Maidstone.Kent.She filed those tidbits away for later. Adrienne’s family lived in Kent, and the earl they had wanted her to marry had been part of a dying dynasty, impoverished and seeking an heiress to merge money with aristocracy. Such a property might have interest from those newly rich industrialists who seem to be trying so hard to work their way into English nobility these days.
Indeed, such men seemed to appear in the papers almost every day, buying this property or that, eager to expand and find ways to develop and grow new businesses.
She set down her tea, an urge to be away from here rising within.
“So what do you plan to do to find my son while you wait for Campion’s to reopen?”
Lewis shrugged. “Honestly, your lordship, I’m not sure what else Icando. The people in the Garden know we are looking for him, but most are not eager to help. They’re loyal only to their own. And there’s still the possibility that he’s—y’know—that he’s—”
“Yes, but I will not entertain that potentiality, sir, until a great deal more time has passed. Not while we can still hope.” The earl stood. “Thank you, sir, for the information.”
Lewis saw the dismissal for what it was. He stood, tipped his hat at Eloise, who held both her tongue and her manners, giving him a slight nod. Mullens instantly appeared at the open door of the drawing room, ready to usher the man out.
