“Worse. Miss Rothschild suspects she was not their child at all.”
Richard gasped. “She suspectsshewas snatched? By them?”
“Unlikely. Mrs. Rothschild was well known for her philanthropic work. Mr. Rothschild was generous and supported her every cause.”
“Guilty consciences?”
“Perhaps. If Miss Rothschild was, indeed, snatched as a babe. About a year ago, she met a family from Kympton—”
“Kympton? That is near Pemberley, Darcy’s estate.” Richard’s heart leapt into his throat at the connection. It hardly seemed like more than a coincidence, but with the little Richard had to go on, every lead was worth pursuing.
Rouncewell rubbed his whiskers again. “Perhaps you know the family. Hale is their surname.”
A sharp inhale. “Mr. Hale is the rector there. My cousin gave him the living when it became available some five years ago. The rectory is suitable for their large family.”
“And far away from Kent, where their infant was stolen from their home allthose years ago,” Rouncewell said gravely. “Miss Rothschild is of a similar age to their lost child, and she bears a striking resemblance to Mrs. Hale. As tempting as it is for me to probe further into the matter, I fear it would only be a waste of time and cause her more hurt. Grief does not settle well with anyone, but some take it harder than others.” He sighed. “I suspect that Miss Rothschild is a lonely young woman so desperate to have someone in her life, she has imagined herself a new family.”
Richard tried to remember the Hales—the parents and their children. They all had various shades of ruddy hair, from bright red to the darker auburn Miss Rothschild possessed. Richard could not say if there were additional similarities. He looked at the young lady, searching for something familiar he could link to the Hales.
She spoke to her maid, her gaze roving over the people in the room until she locked eyes with him. The noisy room silenced and, for the briefest moment, time stopped as she peered at him with piercing emerald eyes. Something inside him softened. He instantly knew that, should she ask him for help, he could not refuse her.
However, he could not abandon Darcy to chase after a whim.
Richard looked away. He would write to his aunt Catherine as soon as he returned to his apartment. If a baby had been stolen in Kent, she would know about it. Nothing else about Miss Rothschild’s caseseemed to have anything to do with Darcy, and Richard did not have time to help lonely heiresses. He had to find Darcy and make sure Wickham married Miss Lydia.
Turning to Rouncewell, he said, “I mean to go to the River Police next. Is there any officer in particular I should speak to?” With a force of over eighty men on their payroll and an additional thousand on reserve, the River Police had gained a foothold against the thieves and looters preying on anchored ships. They might know something.
“I have several contacts there, and I suggest you allow me to speak with them. They are more willing to help one of their own than an outsider.”
That would save a great deal of time. Richard thanked him.
Before he could take his leave, Rouncewell gripped his elbow. In a low tone, he said, “The waterman brought in three new bodies. I was on my way to see if they belong to anyone I know when you arrived. I hate to ask, but should you accompany me?”
A shiver gripped Richard. He could not bear to think of Darcy—his cousin and closest friend—drowned or otherwise dead, but he had to know. He nodded.
They made their way to the banks of the Thames where a morgue housed the unfortunate souls washed up onto the shores, caught in dragnets, dredged from the bottom, or fished off the surface bythe watermen who made their living rowing people from one side of the river to the other. It was a damp, dreary place.
Richard closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, overwhelmed at the task before him. He uttered another when he discovered that Darcy was not one of the three corpses.
Seizing onto hope, Richard hailed another hackney. “Gracechurch Street,” he instructed the driver.
CHAPTER 8
Elizabeth closed the door softly behind her and tiptoed down the hall to the stairs. It had been a long night full of tantrums and tears, and her head felt like the drum her younger cousins beat, but Elizabeth longed to know if her uncle had received any news. She was disappointed in herself for falling asleep as long as she had.
The parlor was fuller than she had anticipated. Aunt and Uncle sat on the settee in front of the window, looking more rested than they had the day before when she and her father had arrived at Gracechurch Street. Papa and Colonel Fitzwilliam occupied the chairs opposite.
Her uncle greeted her. “Lizzy, I had hoped you would join us soon.” He nodded as the colonel rose from his seat to bow, and added, “I believe you know Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
Elizabeth smiled at the colonel. He looked as tired as she felt. She had always liked his company, but this proof of his devotion to his cousin raised him all the more in her esteem. “We met in Kent last spring. It is a pleasure to see you, Colonel, though I wish it were under more agreeable circumstances.”
“I do as well, Miss Bennet.” His smile did not reach his eyes, and she knew that whatever news he had come to share was not good.
“How is Lydia?” Papa asked.
Taking a seat in the empty chair beside the colonel, Elizabeth gratefully accepted the tea Aunt poured while she pondered how best to adjust her reply to suit their hopeful expressions. “Lydia’s hysterics cannot last much longer. Either she shall wear herself out or she shall tire of being so much in her room, and calm herself enough to venture out.”
She heard multiple sighs. It was not what they would have preferred to hear, but it was the truth, gently delivered.
