Page 60 of The Thorn and the Rose

There was a sharp rap on the door and Thorn hurried to it, snatching it open.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed when, instead of Gabriel Knight, he found his father.

“You crush me,” Montagu replied dryly.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Thorn said at once. “I thought you were Gabriel.”

“He’s not here yet?”

Thorn shook his head as his father looked about the room with interest. He had never set foot inside the club until now, and Thorn knew he would not have come without an invitation.

“Elegant and yet welcoming,” Montagu said contemplatively as he inspected the leather chairs and sat with his usual grace. His hand rested lightly on the silver-headed ebony cane he always carried, sharp eyes turning to Leo, and then to the cat.

Leo had shot to his feet when Montagu had entered, and Thorn allowed himself the faintest trace of a smirk. There wasn’t much that unsettled Leo, but he had the greatest of respect for the Marquess of Montagu. With good reason.

“Leo, that is an, err… remarkably large feline.”

“Yes, Uncle. This is Mau. He’s a particular friend of mine.”

Silver eyes met yellow, and to Thorn’s astonishment, the cat leapt nimbly down from the desk and sauntered over to Montagu. The marquess looked down at him and offered a languid hand. The cat deigned to lift its head, allowing a scratch behind the ears, before he began weaving back and forth around Montagu’s ankles.

“Well, I’m blowed,” Thorn remarked in disgust. “The blasted cat ignores me no matter what I do.”

“You try too hard, Thomas,” his father remarked. “Cats cannot be bought.”

“Exactly,” Leo said, looking pleased. “See? I told you. Mau is choosy.”

Thorn made a sound of frustration and then jumped as another brisk knock sounded and the door swung open again. Gabriel Knight strode in, throwing his hat down upon Leo’s desk and nodding a greeting.

“I’ve got it,” he said, taking a dozen folded sheets of paper from his inside pocket. “This is a list of all known asylums in England. It will take a bit longer to get Wales, Scotland and Ireland, but you’ve a deal here to get through,” he added with a grimace.

Thorn snatched the list from him and regarded it with dismay. “But there must be nearly a hundred addresses here, all over the country.” His jaw tightened. No matter what he had to do, he would find Marie, even if he had to dismantle every bloody asylum with his bare hands. “It will take me months to visit them all.”

“You will not visit them all,” his father said sharply. “For heaven’s sake, Thomas, be reasonable. We will write to each of the asylums asking for information concerning Rosemarie Fortesque or Miss Branagan, or anyone matching her precise description. One must assume her mother is with her, perhaps even a servant, or else surely one of them would have found their way to us. This must give us good odds of getting the correct response.”

“Write?” Thorn replied, incredulous. “You expect me to write to each in turn and then sit back in wait while she’s being held prisoner in some god-awful asylum? That could take weeks! Months, even.”

His father gave him a look that suggested he hold his tongue but for once Thorn struggled to do so, too desperate for action, to do something other than sit around and wait.

“No,” Montagu said, his voice brooking no argument. “I expect you to make use of my staff, all of whom are discreet and efficient, and get them to write the letters. It will take perhaps two days to get them all sent out. I would expect the first replies a few days later, especially once I make it known that I am looking to donate generously to the cause that helps me find her.”

“Your name will certainly generate a quick response, but it’s not as easy as that,” Gabriel protested. “Even if you find her, that doesn’t mean you can free her. There are laws, you know. Do you think just anyone can waltz in off the street and remove women who are not blood relations from their confinement when the head of their household has placed them there?”

“Of course not,” Montagu said placidly. “But I am not just anyone.”

His lips curved into one of his rare smiles, and Thorn felt a swell of pride in the arrogant devil.

“Thank you,” Thorn said with feeling.

His father inclined his head, acknowledging the tribute and looking just as smug as the damned cat.

13th July 1849, on the road to Winchelsea.

Inevitably, there were false starts and dashed hopes. Some letters confirming the existence of Rosmarie Fortesque or Miss Branagan were simply from those over-eager to be of use. Most were from the avaricious, hoping to profit by supplying a girl of Marie’s description, as if that would be enough. It took time to travel from one end of the country to the next, and with each week that passed, Thorn’s guilt and misery grew.

Those visits were horrifying. Having his hopes raised and then swiftly dashed left him heartsick and worried to death, especially once he saw how most of the asylums were run. They were little different from prisons, though the elegant facades of the buildings led one to believe the inmates might live like kings. This was far from reality, and some of the things he saw within those walls would haunt him for the rest of his days. The knowledge that Marie was trapped in a place like that, believing she had been forgotten, made him so wild with impotent fury and misery, that he was not fit company for anyone. Thank God for his father, who bore with him with far more patience that Thorn deserved. Only once did his legendary calm unravel, delivering a pointed comment to his son about how a gentleman behaved when under pressure.

Chastened, Thorn let out a ragged breath, his furious tirade seeming pointless in the light of Montagu’s cool silver gaze.