Saffron removed her gown with slow movements, to keep the dust from rubbing onto her chemise. “She must have thought it was the last place I would look.”
“Was it?”
Saffron laughed. “Yes. She knows me too well.”
A ruffle on Saffron’s skirt snagged on a hook of her corset. Rather than tug on it and tear the fabric that she could not easily repair or replace, she began the arduous process of untangling herself.
Angelica bounced off the bed and came over to help. Soon they had the soiled garment off and discarded in a corner. She would take it to a washerwoman for cleaning in the morning.
She selected one of the many plain gowns from a leather trunk in the corner and slipped it on.
“Let me see it, then,” Angelica said. “I hardly remember him.”
“You could not possibly have forgotten already,” Saffron said, pulling the painting from her pocket and handing it over.
“Look at that face.” Angelica laughed. “It’s no wonder he was a troublemaker.” She set the portrait on the bed. “Do you really think he’s still alive?”
Saffron unraveled her hair, shaking out black flakes of coal onto the carpet. “If he’d posed for an artist while he lived with us, I am certain he would have told us. So perhaps he posed since last we saw him. The body we buried must have been someone else. Perhaps our brother was robbed, his clothing stolen.”
“If he didn’t die, why would he stay away?” Angelica asked.
“I think our brother is neck deep in trouble. Maybe he owes someone a lot of money and is afraid that if he comes forward, he’ll end up in debtors’ gaol.”
Angelica groaned. “That sounds like him. But no letter? No sign at all?” Her voice wavered. “Why would he let us think he was dead?”
Saffron set the brush on the dressing table and wrapped her arms around Angelica, feeling her sister’s shoulders shake. In the mirror, she could see the tears gathering in her sister’s eyes.
“Wherever he is, I am sure he has a good reason for staying away. I am sure he feels he’s protecting us. We have to believe that.”
Angelica sniffed. “How are we going to find him?”
Saffron pulled back and squeezed her sister’s shoulders. “Leave that to me.”
A booming sound made them both jump.
“The door,” Angelica said. “Should I—”
“I’ll get it,” Saffron said firmly.
They had not received afternoon callers for weeks. If someone wanted to pay court to Angelica, then Saffron would gladly let them in, but the increasingly loud knocking suggested their visitor was not a caller.
As she descended the steps to the foyer, her corset seemed to tighten around her chest. The banging continued, shaking the old oak door on its hinges. She was tempted to retreat and wait for whoever it was to leave, but her feet continued moving until she was in front of the door, her hand on the knob.
She cracked the door open to see a short, rosy-cheeked man in a tweed suit clutching a sheaf of papers in one hand. He lowered his fist and straightened his shoulders. “Miss Summersby?”
“Yes?” She did not open the door any further, fearing he would shove his foot inside. This was no gentleman to offer his card. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place where she had seen him before.
He shoved his bundle at her. “You are in default.”
She stared at the stack of papers. “Excuse me?”
The man snapped his fingers and two burly men in workman’s clothes climbed the steps and stood behind him with their arms crossed. Neither of them would meet her gaze.
Please, no. Not now.
“Sorry, miss,” one of the burly men said, in a grating baritone. He splayed a hand on the door and pushed it open, sending her staggering back. The door slammed against the wall and the three men sauntered inside.
That was where she knew the short man from. He was the bank manager. Basil had held a few meetings at the house when they’d encountered financial difficulty in the past. Her charming brother had always been able to wheedle a few extra weeks out of the man through flattery and bribery. Saffron had watched her brother subtly press bank notes into the man’s hands when greeting him. She hadn’t understood the necessity.
