“The point is,” Balthazar said, hopeful of bringing recriminations to an end, “I believe I know who has taken her. Somebody with connections to Shrimps.”
“Shrimps!” Van Doren said. “I knew I should not have taken in that boy and his dog. Beatrice was so insistent, though.”
“Yes, well, this person has got Shrimps too, though I am not altogether sure why,” Balthazar said.
“You think they’ve been taken to the address we recently became aware of?” Hamill said, handing out pistols and swords from a seemingly never-ending supply in a wood box at their feet.
“I do not think they will have gone there, actually,” Balthazar said. “But I am hopeful we can corner one of the boys in that room and wring another address out of him.”
Hamill nodded. Darden said, “Where are these addresses?”
“Nearby the Seven Dials,” Balthazar said, hoping they wouldn’t get too squeamish about it.
Van Doren leaned his head back. “Of course. Where else would we be going? Carlton House?”
“My own sister, in the neighborhood of the Seven Dials,” Darden said, quietly.
Van Doren patted Darden’s hand. “We’ll get her out,” he said. “We have to. I could hardly face Beatrice otherwise.”
“Wewillget her out,” Balthazar said. It was not even a question. They must get her out.
*
Mondrian leaned backand laced his hands behind his head. Everything was going according to plan. Lady Rosalind and the boy he was now certain was the young baron, Henry Conroy, had been spirited away as easy as you like. Of course, itwouldbe easy when the lady had actually paid to make it happen.
They were just now locked up in a room in his apartments. Mason had informed them that if they shouted for help, none would come. Some of the closer neighbors might yell back that they’d better shut their traps, though. They were guests of the Rat’s Castle now.
Two ransom notes had made their way to their destinations—one to the Earl of Westmont and one to the Duke of Conbatten. Of course, he could not be certain the duke would actually pay, but it was worth trying out. He had ears everywhere and it seemed Lady Rosalind was in some way favored by the great and powerful duke. As for the father, he was quite sure he’d come up with ten thousand to retrieve his daughter.
The boy could be dealt with after he’d returned Lady Rosalind to her own hearth.
If he were able to squeeze another ten thousand from the duke, and then yet another ten thousand from the Conroys, he would be a rich man. He could live on percents, just as a gentleman ought to do.
He’d thought of going to America, but then, could he not just take on another identity and set himself up somewhere far from London and the Conroys? He might go up north, Scotland even. He could buy himself some land and live as a merry English squire.
His sons would grow up as gentry. They would be handsome and marry into families placed higher. His line would be on the move, creeping up the rungs, and nobody would ever know how it all started.
Yes, that was feeling like the better idea. Hecouldgo to America, but was that really where a gentleman of the blood belonged? Was it an accomplishment to find oneself highly placed in a society such as that? His father was an English aristocrat.
He began to very much feel as if America should be beneath his notice.
Mondrian drained his ale. He was an English gentleman, and he was poised to take his rightful place.
*
Rosalind had watchedwith trepidation as the carriage drove into a neighborhood she had never traveled to before. It was a neighborhood she had not ever imagined possible.
Of course, she did not know so much about London as to know all of its locales, but this was of the type that Sandren would have never taken her into.
The stench coming in, though the windows were closed, was overwhelming. The houses leaned over the road as if they wished to swoop down and swallow it up. Or perhaps they would just give up attempting to stay upright and collapse in a heap.
The sounds drifting in were frightening—shouts here, laughter there, broken glass behind them, a scream somewhere else.
Where did all these sounds come from? All she saw out the window were shadows in doorways. A window up above might have a lone candle, but they were few. Most were dark. Who was behind those dark windows? Did they not light a candle because they did not wish to, or because they did not have one?
Shrimps had sunk into himself and Rosalind occasionally heard him mutter to himself. “I don’t like this neighborhood. I never did. Oyster will wonder where I’ve gone.”
The carriage had finally stopped, and she and Shrimps had been prodded down an alley and into a dingy building. Then, up three flights of stairs to a set of threadbare apartments.
