Wren paused halfway across the threshold, his hand upon the door-latch. “I’ll start in Hyde Park and work my way out from there.”
Mr Grigsby looked as if he wanted to question why Wren would choose Hyde Park in particular as his starting point. Tolhurst looked as if he knew exactly why a young gentleman of means might lose himself in Hyde Park, and it came as no surprise to him that his nephew had gone astray in that particular direction—though the firm line of his mouth suggested he wished Wren wouldn’t say so aloud.
Before either man could question him further, Wren shut the door on them both and ran.
Oxford Street at dawn in midwinter meant a treacherous layer of ice upon the cobblestones gaining slush with every wagon-wheel that rattled over it. Even wrapped up in scarf, gloves, and overcoat, Wren felt the chill nipping at him. He dove into the crowded fog, lurching, slipping, and sliding alongside horses and carriages alike. His legs went wholly out from under him just once, whereupon he seized a lamp-post to keep from sprawling and hauled himself upright to press on.
At last he reached Cumberland Gate. A few moments after, Achilles loomed through the fog.
And in his shadow stood Shrike.
Wren’s heart leapt to see him. He’d not caught sight of Wren yet; his dark eyes remained fixed on some point in the fog beyond Wren’s own vision, putting him in profile which displayed his strong jaw, high cheekbones, and noble brow to great effect, and with the hood of his cloak down, the bulk of its furred folds added to the already-impressive breadth of his shoulders. His statuesque frame seemed to outstrip the monument he stood beneath.
Yet, Wren realized as he drew nearer, Shrike did not stand, but rather leaned back to brace his shoulders against Achilles’ base, his arms crossed over his chest beneath his cloak. Perhaps he had assumed a casual pose—or perhaps he felt too weak to stand under his own power. Perhaps his jaw appeared strong because he clenched it in pain.
Wren dashed to him.
This motion at last drew Shrike’s attention. His dark and brooding gaze lit up with a grin, and he pushed off from the plinth to greet Wren with a warm handclasp.
“Are you all right?” Wren asked.
Shrike appeared bemused. “Well enough. And you?”
“Your wound,” Wren continued, ignoring the question. “Does it pain you at all? I’ve brought medicine,” he added, releasing Shrike’s hand to dive into his satchel for the laudanum.
“A dull ache,” Shrike answered him, still looking confused.
Wren halted with his hand clenched around the laudanum bottle in his bag. “Your bones broke.”
“Almost a week ago, aye. They’re not fully healed, I admit, but the pains are not sharp.”
Wren hesitated, then dropped the laudanum back into his satchel and withdrew his hand, letting it fall to his side useless. “If you’re certain.”
“I am,” said Shrike. Then, with a wry smile, he added, “You may see for yourself when we’ve returned to Blackthorn.”
Wren would have liked nothing better than to strip Shrike down. Unfortunately more pressing matters demanded his attention.
Shrike knit his brow at Wren’s hesitation. “What else troubles you?”
“Felix Knoll is missing.”
“What is Felix Knoll?”
“A young gentleman determined to waste all the gifts life has seen fit to grant him,” Wren replied before he could stop himself.
Shrike tilted his head to the side.
“One of Mr Grigsby’s wards,” Wren explained. “He has inherited a great sum, held in trust until he takes his degree from university and attains his majority. And he is engaged to Miss Flora, in accordance with the wishes of both their late fathers.”
“What does he look like?” Shrike asked.
Wren supposed he ought to have started with that. “Blond hair, blue eyes, milky complexion. Handsome,” he added, trying not to let bitterness seep into his tone.
Recognition dawned in Shrike’s dark eyes. “The boy who visited your master the afternoon before we rode in the Wild Hunt.”
“Yes,” Wren said. Then, “How do you know that? He left well before you arrived.”
“I saw him through the window.”
