“It is a possibility.” That had been Father and Richard’s primary concern. The Devil’s Tavern was an unsavory place, not just for the hardened folks who frequented such an establishment, but for its location near the Thames. Even if Darcy had identified himself as a landowner, they might not have believed him. Gentry had no reason to enter that part of town.
Why had Darcy not told him he was meeting with Wickham? Richard would have accompanied him, wearing his uniform to offer a degree of protection for them both.
He had argued as much to Father the night before, and his father’s retort rang in his ear then, too. “What about Georgiana?” And he was right.
Darcy would have reasoned that, should something befall him, she would not be left without a guardian so long as she had Richard. And so his stubborn cousin had gone to the enemy’s camp, determined to bend Wickham to his will, risking his own neck to save the standing of a family with whom Darcy held no hope of uniting himself.
Richard spent most of the night and a fair portion of the early hours that morning cursing Darcy’s heightened sense of responsibility and honor. His cousin did not take his life lightly, but if someone he loved was in danger, he would not hesitate to stand betweenthem and peril.
Richard hissed a slow exhale. How could he condemn his protective cousin when he would do the same for his family? For the lady he would one day love?
Rouncewell interrupted his thoughts. “Do you wish for me to put a word in ‘The Quarterly Pursuit’? Get the public to assist in finding him?” The weekly newspaper provided the public with descriptions of criminals, information on stolen goods, and other activities of the underworld. While the journal kept people informed, it had also proved to be a valuable resource for the runners when readers came forward with helpful testimony.
But Richard’s father had been adamant. It was too soon to expose their family to the public eye. The paper was helpful, but there were people who preyed on anxious families. Sorting false testimony and dealing with fake ransom notes would only slow them down. “My father believes it best to keep Darcy’s disappearance quiet for now. We are prepared to devote all of our time to his recovery.”
“Very good. Has there been a ransom note? Any known threats?”
“Nothing. One moment, he was in town, and the next, he was gone. He was last seen by the waterfront.” Richard gave the specific location of the inn where Wickham stayed.
Rouncewell stewed on that, eyes staring unfixed, fingers tugging his side whiskers.
Richard’s thoughts turned to the potential dangers. Aside from the press gangs and thieves, there were the Resurrection Men. Those unscrupulous monsters, tired of grave robbing, had begun killing able-bodied men so that they could sell the fresh cadavers to eager surgeons.
Finally, Rouncewell spoke. “It is not as bad there as St. Giles, but that is no place for a gentleman. What was he doing in that area?”
Richard told him about Wickham, keeping certain details about the lady silent to protect the Bennets’ reputation.
“What about this Wickham? Could he be involved?” Rouncewell asked.
“I have three reliable youths posted near the inn. If Wickham attempts to escape or if he meets with anyone suspicious, they are to report to me immediately. His involvement is unlikely, but until we find Darcy, I must acknowledge the possibility.”
Rouncewell nodded. “Good. You cannot afford to overlook anyone. Too many times, the originator of the worst, most brutal crimes are members of one’s own family. Or a close friend.”
“A sad testament to our times.”
“It is at that, but I see too much of it to ignore the reality.”
The entrance door opened, and they stepped aside to allow the young lady and her maid a wider path. Richard only caught a glimpse of herface before her bonnet blocked his view. She left a soft trail of jasmine in her wake, an improvement over the pressed bodies in the office.
“She is a persistent one,” Rouncewell muttered.
Richard noticed the determination in the young lady’s rigid posture and the confidence with which she approached one of the senior runners. Whatever she was after, she would not give up easily.
She spun around, and Richard sucked in a breath. The quality of her gown, the elegance of her bonnet, and the perfection of her auburn ringlets around alabaster skin suggested she was of a privileged class that did not belong in a place such as this. And yet, she did not seem in the least bit uncomfortable.
“What is her story?” Richard did not have the time to ask, but he was intrigued.
“Poor lass,” Rouncewell said, dropping his hand from his whiskers. “I feel for her predicament, but she will never get her sort to admit to what she fears they have done. They are above the law. And unless she finds the persons involved in a crime committed over twenty years ago—a crime for which she has no proof—she is unlikely to get them to admit to any wrongdoing.”
“What does she suspect?”
Rouncewell’s voice was low and cold. “Baby snatching.”
Revulsion twisted Richard’s stomach. It pained himto know there existed such an evil in the world. “Who is she?” he asked.
“The only child and heiress of Mr. and Mrs. Rothschild. They recently died in a carriage accident.”
“Foul play?”
