Percy looked at his daughter. “Well?”
“The man is completely loathsome and essentially incompetent.”
“I agree, but I don’t know any other recourse.”
“I do.”
Her father studied her. “And that would be...?”
“Timothy told me that Mowbray and Galpin had done this before. That Galpin knew how to get into Campion’s because he had already visited their brothel.”
He stared at her. “He told you this?”
She stood and went to him. “You should really discontinue being startled by anything I say, Papa.”
“My apologies, but I continue to be stunned by how much a genteel young woman knows about the vagaries of this city.”
“Perhaps if you would stop thinking of me as genteel and young.”
He smiled fondly at her. “Never.”
Eloise touched his arm. “Go to Eton. Talk to their instructors. Timothy told me once that Mowbray has a tutor he is especially close to, a vicar near there named Yeatman. Perhaps they have told him things they would never tell their parents.”
He nodded. “I will leave within the hour. This is a good idea, and it will give me the sense that I’m doing something to find him. Perhaps it will help your mother as well to know we are both helping. I’m not sure what will happen to her if we do not locate him.” After a pause, he took her hand. “I am grateful that you and Timothy have this bond.”
Eloise swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “He is becoming a fine young man. We made the right choice for him, Papa. I am grateful he is your heir.”
“So am I.”
He gave her arm a quick squeeze, then she headed back to her bedchamber. Eloise penned a quick note, sealed it, then rang for Delie. The young maid helped her into a night rail, then took the note downstairs to a footman, along with money for a hackney. Despite the time of day, Eloise knew she needed to rest. Last night had been exhausting, and her plans for tonight might be even more so.
But before she lay down for a nap, Eloise set pen to paper for one more note, this one to her father, which he should not discover until he returned from Eton. She only hoped he would not disown her when he discovered she had spent several nights away from home—in a brothel. He most likely would—he would have to—but she hoped her success would minimize the scandal. She sealed the note, then leaned it against the clock on her mantel.
Eloise paused at her dressing table, struck by the haggard look on her face. She sank down on the small chair, staring at the dark hollows around her eyes, the deep lines in her face. She caught a glimpse of the bed behind her, and the memory of her last conversation with Timothy flashed through her mind. He did look so much like her father that the deception that Timothy was her brother instead of her son fooled everyone. All of Society knew that her mother had been ill, that the birth had been difficult—requiring a long confinement during which Eloise, as the oldest Pentney daughter, took care of both her mother and the newborn baby.
Sometimes, Eloise thought that even her parents had adjusted to the masquerade. They referred to Timothy as their son as easily as they did their daughters. Eloise, however, still stumbled over references to him as her brother, preferring just to call him Timothy or Lord Timothy in most settings. And since early Sunday morning, she had tried to hold her fears, her grief at his disappearance at bay. Such strong emotions were improper, especially as his sister. And she had relied on her anger to push her through—anger at Timothy, at Constable Lewis, and at the sheer helplessness of not being able to charge into the streets to find him.
Only with Robert had she slipped. He had seen through the deception, had not judged or rejected her—not for that, not for dressing like a man, not for seeking her own way. She had taken comfort in his arms. And probably would again.
There was no comfort in the world like having allies. Adrienne. Robert.
Eloise turned on the stool to look again at the end of her bed, as if her lanky, defiant son continued to lounge there, all attitude and vulnerability.Timothy, where are you?
The grief hit then, making her gasp. A dark wave swamped her with a threat of loss, a pain that sliced into the core of her. Trying to catch her breath, Eloise went to her bed, buried herself in the thick covers, and curled into a tight ball. The sobs that rolled out of her gripped every muscle as the tears flowed, doing so until sleep finally claimed her.
*
Monday, 18 July 1825
Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium
Eight in the evening
Robert stared atthe note in his hand, trying to read between the lines, but any hidden message escaped him entirely. In his defense, the missive only featured four short declarations, no greeting, and a signature meaningful only to him—even that made him glad he recognized the left-slanted handwriting.
Industrialists, especially Americans, like to invest in successful companies. They value profit over propriety. Suggestions to come. Quid pro quo.
E
