“Have some coffee,” Hamill said. “You’d be better served if Henri was bringing you coffee instead of champagne in that bath of yours.”
Balthazar poured himself a cup of coffee, which now always reminded him of the shade of Lady Rosalind’s hair. “Better served, but not quite as comfortable. Now, what have you heard?” he asked.
Something very strange,” the marquess said. “Crosby has been having some long conversations with the boy I told you about. He’s taken him to his estate and made certain he is secure, but he’s also been plying him with plentiful food and hinting that the boy might be able to continue on there as a stable hand if he spills everything he knows.”
“Slay him with kindness,” Balthazar said. “It is a good strategy, especially for a boy like that, as he’s likely known little of it.”
Hamill nodded. “Crosby means to keep his promise as long as he’s convinced the boy, Jimmy is his name, has really said all he knows. The information seems to be coming out in dribs and drabs.”
“What is the latest?”
Hamill leaned forward and said quietly, “This Jimmy says that months ago he was sent to a tavern with a note. The note was not even sealed as nobody imagines he can read, but he was raised for a few years by a vicar and he can.”
“He read the note.”
Hamill nodded and said, “It was addressed to Mondrian.”
“Mondrian?” Balthazar said. “You do not think it is Harold Mondrian?”
“I think it just might be. The boy was given a description of who he looked for—he was told to seek out black hair, black eyes, pale skin. He would ask for the password before handing over the note, which was M.”
Balthazar sat back. Harold Mondrian was presumed dead. He’d presented himself as the heir to the Dedmont barony and its estates, claiming he was a cousin.
He’d been unmasked when the dowager grew suspicious and began testing him on the family tree.
It was then revealed that it had been Mondrian who had supplied the estate’s lawyers with the forged passenger list for theLouisa—a ship that sank on its way to America. That was how everyone had been led to believe that the real heir, James Conroy, and the bride he’d run off to Gretna Green with, Lady Edna Edenborough, had perished.
Now, nobody was certain what had happened to them. Though, it had been eight or nine years with no word and Balthazar presumed them to be dead. The two families would not believe it of course, and were ever hopeful that the couple would turn up some day.
The whole fiasco could have been avoided in the first place, had those two families had a lick of sense between them. They were longstanding neighbors and a feud had raged for fifty years over a property line. When the couple announced their wish to marry, both sides dug in their heels and refused to sanction it. Now both sides had been left bereft on account of their own stubbornness.
“So, you think perhaps Mondrian was never on that sailboat?” Balthazar asked.
When Mondrian had been unmasked, he’d fled the neighborhood. The next anybody knew of him was when his overturned sailboat had been found in the channel.
“The boy, Jimmy, said the note he delivered to this man was long and about combing through birth records. There were several parishes listed and a set of years to be examined.”
“Aside from the physical description, that is why you think it might be Mondrian,” Balthazar said. “He has a habit of impersonation and birth records come in handy. In the meantime, he runs his housebreaking operation to finance whatever new project he has in mind.”
Hamill nodded. “It is possible. Though, without getting hold of the villain, I cannot see how we discover who his new victims are to be.”
Balthazar tented his fingers. “Perhaps we take it step by step. We take down the housebreaking operation, then worry about what else he has going on.”
*
One by one,Rosalind and her sisters had fallen asleep on the floor, all of them curled around Bess and her lovely new family. They were roused very early in the morning by Meg, the kitchen maid, who’d hurried in to light the kitchen fires ahead of Mr. James. Charlie had come in not long after and they discovered that he regularly rose early to help Meg get the kitchen set up.
They’d all had a merry cup of tea together and Juliet and Cordelia attempted to help Meg in her duties until Charlie very kindly pointed out that they were mostly just creating more work. It seemed there was a system to the whole thing and pouring flour into a bowl would not magically make bread.
The sisters had finally given Bess a kiss on the head, admired her babies taking full advantage of the milk supply they’d found so nearby, and taken their blankets above stairs.
As they found themselves quite exhausted from little sleep on a hard floor, they all went to bed and did not rise until noon. Since then, they’d taken a walk up and down Portland Place and lounged round the drawing room. Juliet had composed an ode to Bess, and Viola had begun painting a portrait of that canine matriarch and her brood. All the while, they’d kept an eye out for Beatrice arriving.
So far, they had not seen her and now they’d gone up to change for dinner. Rosalind knew her papa had sent a note over the road to invite Beatrice and Van Doren to dine, but it was getting so late that nobody could say what would happen. She was beginning to think they must be delayed and would not arrive until the morrow.
Lynette arranged her hair into order and once more, Rosalind heard carriage wheels rumbling down Portland Place.
She’d already driven Lynette mad with leaping up a half dozen times before to see if it were Beatrice, but she could not help it.
