“Mr. Hayes,” Leo began, becoming rather tired of being disparaged, “I am here to assist in finding your son.”
He balked. “Youare to assist? You are no detective, young woman. What do you know about any of this? Oliver?” Again, he turned to his nephew, demanding an answer with an open glare.
Lord Hayes held up his hand. “Uncle, you cannot afford to be choosy right now. Inspector Reid has, on occasion, trustedMiss Spencer during his inquiries, and I recommend that in his absence, we do the same.”
The suggestion mirrored the one he’d made at Scotland Yard when Constance had argued against bringing Leo to Bloomsbury Square. The viscount’s willingness to see how she might be able to help had been unexpected, and Leo had the discomforting sense of not wanting to disappoint him.
Though Stanley was visibly unhappy, he sealed his lips and returned to the sitting room. Lord Hayes exhaled, then gestured for Leo to join them.
The air in the sitting room smelled of cigar smoke and whisky. In the corner of the hazy room, Constance was setting down a crystal decanter, having already poured herself a drink. She refused to look in Leo’s direction.
“How is it, exactly, you believe you can help, Miss Spencer?” Stanley Hayes asked. He stood by the flameless hearth, arms crossed, and chin lifted imperiously. He didn’t believe she could help them at all; that much was evident.
Leo did not reply straightaway. Three framed photographs set on an occasional table next to a settee had captured her attention. One portrait was of a much younger Stanley Hayes with a woman whom Leo presumed was his wife. They were attired in wedding garb, and Mrs. Hayes was holding an enormous bouquet of flowers. The two other portraits were of Constance and of a young boy who looked to be ten or eleven years old. George, she deduced.
His features were decidedly different from those of his fair-haired sister and parents; he possessed ink-black curls, dark eyes, and thick, dark eyebrows. The photographer had posed him with his elbow resting on the back of a chair, and though his head was angled to show more of the left half of his face, a dark smudge on his right cheek, just beneath his ear, was still visible.
“How old is your son, Mr. Hayes?” she asked as she made her way toward the photograph, her attention riveted.
“Thirteen,” he answered, after first rolling his eyes as if the question was irrelevant.
“The night of the benefit dinner, to which you canceled your attendance at the last minute, your wife accused you of lying to her. What did you lie about?”
Her question was met with spluttering outbursts from both Mr. Hayes and his daughter, both of whom spoke over each other in their indignation.
“Jasper had no right to tell you that!” Constance cried out, while her father shouted, “You impertinent shrew, who do you think you are?”
“Uncle.” Lord Hayes raised his voice with the clear message for Stanley to calm himself. Despite the difference in their ages, Oliver was Viscount, and so Stanley heeded him—though barely.
“All right, Mr. Hayes,” Leo said, lifting her eyes from the portrait of George. “I will tell you what I know, and what I suspect. Perhaps then, you will help to fill in the gaps. First, the victim at the benefit dinner, Martha Seabright, placed three children at the orphanage in 1871, when you were on the Board of Governors there. Second, among Martha’s possessions, I found an old letter in her handbag, mentioning an agreed upon sum of money she had received and acknowledging that she’ddone the right thing. It was dated May 14, 1871—May was the month her infant son, Edward, reportedly died at the orphanage. However, Paula, Martha’s eldest child, never believed her brother had died of fever. She suspected he’d been taken from the orphanage’s care and placed with another family.”
Stanley Hayes’s expression had gone to stone.
“Third, earlier this morning, I saw your wife leaving Martha Seabright’s home. Shortly thereafter, she departed London unexpectedly. So unceremoniously, in fact, that she did not evensay goodbye to her daughter. Just as you had not the previous day, when you dashed from London with George.”
The viscount stepped forward, his hard glare jumping between Leo and Stanley. “Miss Spencer, come to your point, please.”
She would, even knowing it would cement her as an enemy in the eyes of the others in the room. Was this how Jasper often felt whenever he was questioning a suspect? In that moment, she longed for him to be here, at her side, rather than hours away in another part of England.
“I believe your son, George was, in fact, born Edward Seabright and that you arranged for his secret adoption, paying Martha a large sum of money to turn him over to you and your wife.”
The reaction she expected came to pass, though with more fervor than she’d anticipated. Constance’s shout nearly deafened her.
“How dare you?” She stormed forward as if to better spear Leo with a blistering glare. “You are deranged! My father did no such thing!”
Lord Hayes closed his eyes and swore under his breath as he hurried to the sitting room door and slammed it shut, presumably to keep the servants from hearing anything more. Meanwhile, Stanley Hayes stood still, his eyes searching Leo with intensity.
“At first, I thought it was Mrs. Hayes who must have arranged for the adoption,” Leo went on, ignoring Constance. Her father’s unflinching reaction was far more interesting. Encouraging, even.
“But then, your servant overheard the row between the two of you the night of the dinner, wherein she accused you of lying to her,” she continued. “She knew, of course, that George was not her child by birth, but I suspect there was another element tothe adoption that you failed to tell her about. It was this element that upset her.”
“That is quite enough, you horrible woman!” Constance cried. She then implored her father with a beseeching look, “Say something, Father. Tell her she is mad and that George is not who she thinks he is.”
Lord Hayes held his uncle in a resolute stare, waiting for him to speak. But the seconds ticked by, and Stanley remained voiceless. As if in a daze, he walked to the nearest armchair and gripped the back of it hard, his knuckles turning white.
“Whatever you may think, the adoption was not illegal,” he said after another long moment. “I did not steal the boy.”
Constance clapped her hand over her mouth, muffling her gasp of horror. Leo felt a twinge of guilt at the shock she must have been experiencing.
