“Mrs Bailiwick, I presume?” said Wren.
She looked him up and down with an audible sniff.
“Mr Lofthouse, at your service,” Wren added with a bow. “Clerk to Mr Grigsby.”
Her formidable scowl relaxed by fractions. “So you are here to see our Miss Fairfield on behalf of her guardian.”
“Yes,” Wren lied. “Do forgive the short notice. Mr Grigsby is accompanying Mr Tolhurst and Mr Knoll to Rochester today, and they sent me on in advance of the invalid to bring Miss Fairfield the glad tidings.”
Mrs Bailiwick brightened considerably. “Glad tidings indeed, if our dear Mr Tolhurst is returned at last! We’ve so missed our marvellous music master. And I daresay Miss Fairfield shall be as happy to hear of his return as that of her fiancé—for, indeed, Mr Tolhurst has doted on her ever since she entered our academy.”
“Has he,” said Wren, more out of politeness than any real interest. As Mr Grigsby’s clerk, he’d assisted him in choosing his ward’s education, and therefore knew very well that Tolhurst had been the music and dancing master of Mrs Bailiwick’s Academy for many years. Long before Miss Flora had arrived at the tender age of eleven. Small wonder that the man should take an interest in his nephew’s betrothed. “Most attentive of him.”
“I’m certain you found him thus in London whilst he tended to his nephew,” said Mrs Bailiwick with a satisfied smile. “They may as well be family already—Miss Fairfield and Mr Tolhurst, I mean,” she added with another bizarre trill.
Wren forced a smile. “I should like to inform Miss Fairfield without delay—and, with your permission, in privacy. I’m afraid I must bring her some dreadful dull matters of business as well as joy.”
A hint of suspicion returned to Mrs Bailiwick’s gaze, but she nevertheless replied, “I suppose we might. Let me collect her for you. She’s in her French lessons at present.”
For a third time, Wren found himself left to his own devices in the academy. Yet he didn’t feel entirely alone. Mrs Bailiwick had left the door ajar in her departure. Through it, Wren glimpsed certain tittering figures peeking ‘round the corner at the end of the hall, darting out of sight when he turned his head fully towards them. As much as he would’ve liked to attribute this phenomenon to the fae, he suspected his masculine presence had excited the curiosity of the two dozen young ladies who lived cloistered as nuns save for Mr Tolhurst’s tutelage. He ignored them and pretended to study the artworks on the parlour walls. At third glance, he thought the horse might be an unfortunate hound after all.
“Mr Lofthouse.”
Wren turned to find Miss Flora standing on the threshold. She appeared not so astonished to see him as Wren might have expected. On the contrary, she seemed almost annoyed. The same housemaid who’d let Wren into the academy—with eyes and hair alike a deep mahogany shade, and rosebud lips parted in wonder—peered in at him over Miss Flora’s shoulder.
“Miss Fairfield,” Wren replied, avoiding the housemaid’s gaze. “I’m happy to report that yourfiancéisen routeto his uncle’s house here in Rochester for his convalescence.”
Miss Flora served him a blank stare. In a tone flatter even than Wren’s own, she replied, “I’m equally delighted to hear it. Though I do wonder at Mr Grigsby sending you ahead of them all this way just to tell me.”
Wren, having no explanation, cleared his throat. His mind had raced in panic all the way from his garret to Cemetery Gate to the academy. The rote script of polite formalities had carried him into the academy itself and through conversation with Mrs Bailiwick. Now, face-to-face with one who might have glimpsed the most unfettered fantasies he’d ever set down in ink, he found the cold fire of fear returning to his veins. In a voice far calmer than he felt, he added, “There is another matter, as well.”
“I wish you would name it,” said Miss Flora.
Wren let his eyes flick over to the housemaid, who yet remained standing just behind Miss Flora, before returning his attention to Miss Flora herself. “I would prefer to state my business in confidence.”
A faint smile ghosted across the corners of Miss Flora’s lips. “You may trust Sukie with your life.”
The ironic echo did not escape Wren. “Very well. Do allow me to apologize for any inconvenience my visit may incur.”
“If you were my only gentleman caller, Mr Lofthouse, I should scarcely have any inconveniences whatsoever.”
Wren stared at her. She’d spoken her words with nothing approaching affection. Indeed, her dry tone came very near to bitterness. Given their brief acquaintance, he didn’t think she could have any reason to grow fond of him in particular. And so he felt forced to conclude she spoke not from any favour toward him but from a distinct lack of favour towards her other gentleman caller. With Felix as her betrothed, Wren could hardly blame her—though her candour surprised him. Still, good manners demanded he force out, “You flatter me, Miss Fairfield.”
“I do not,” she returned, no less blunt than before.
Wren thought it prudent to come straight to the point. “I regret as well that I must come to you with ill tidings. Certain papers have vanished from Mr Grigsby’s office in Staple Inn.”
Miss Flora raised her brows.
Wren didn’t glance at Sukie, no matter how much his nerves compelled him to do so. Bad enough to have to phrase his enquiries so as not to arouse Miss Flora’s suspicions. He had no idea how to handle a housemaid. His father’s household had employed footmen, and what few maids assisted the housekeeper and cook had remained almost invisible—to him, at least. He forced his mind to his present difficulties and made a game attempt. “Have you heard anything—perhaps from Mr Knoll himself or from Mr Tolhurst—of any suspicious persons lurking around Staple Inn in recent weeks? Or noticed anything strange yourself on your own visit there?”
Miss Flora looked as if the strangest thing she’d noticed was Wren standing before her now. Yet all she said was, “I have not.”
Wren supposed that had been rather too much to hope for. Still, “If you should recall anything of the sort in the future, may I ask that you write and tell me of it?”
“Write to you,” Miss Flora echoed, “and not to Mr Grigsby?”
Wren’s intended speech died on his tongue.
