The Spinster Bride (28 page)

“If I find out you had anything to do with George's disappearance, I will do everything in my power to make sure you hang.”

Jeffrey smiled, though it was a bit shaky. “They don't hang a man for going to a pub, last I knew.”

Charles took a step toward the other man, gaining slight satisfaction when he saw a glimmer of fear in his eyes. “You'd better pray we find him, Mr. Penwhistle—hale and hearty.”

Charles left the room, only to nearly run head on into Mr. Stavers, who was clearly upset. “It's Lady Summerfield and Lady Marjorie. They just arrived, sir.”

 

Marjorie tried to stop thinking of all the terrible things that could have befallen George, but it was impossible. Dorothea was silent; the only indication that she was upset was the way she held her hands in her lap, a tight ball of worry.

“I shall be very angry with George for causing us such worry,” Marjorie said, trying desperately to remain optimistic. Dorothea didn't respond.

“He must be here. Where else could he be? I shall have to speak to both boys about this. How foolish we shall feel for being so worried when we find the two of them.”

“He'll be here,” Dorothea said with certainty. “Where else could he be?”

Marjorie didn't want to answer, didn't want to think of the possibilities. And when, instead of Jeffrey, she saw a grim-faced Charles coming toward them, she clutched at her mother's arm. Dorothea had gone quite pale and Marjorie could feel her trembling beneath her hand.

“George?” Dorothea said, her voice cracking slightly.

“Let's find a comfortable place, my lady. Mr. Stavers, if you would?”

The butler turned to lead them deeper into the home, but Dorothea didn't move. “Tell me now, Mr. Norris.”

Charles looked at Marjorie, then back at Dorothea. “I'm afraid I have no news, Lady Summerfield.” Dorothea let out a sound of anguish. “Here, let's sit.” He pulled a chair from against the wall and thrust it behind Dorothea, who collapsed into it, still clutching Marjorie's hand.

“Tell us,” Marjorie said.

“We know little more than we did last evening. Your cousin says he last saw Lord Summerfield at a pub called the Lamb & Flag near Covent Garden, but there are worse places they could have gone. It's a rough place, to be certain, and not one I would have taken George to. Somehow, the two got separated. Mr. Penwhistle says he looked for him, but was unable to find him. He says he didn't know George was still missing.”

Marjorie narrowed her eyes. “But you don't believe him.”

“Forgive me, but I do not.”

“Why ever would Jeffrey lie?” Dorothea said, affronted by the suggestion. “If he knew where George was, he would tell us.”

Dorothea stood and walked farther into the house, followed by a rattled Mr. Stavers. “Jeffrey, come here at once,” she called out. “This is beyond ridiculous.”

“Wait, wait. Mother, please. Stop. For goodness' sake, listen to Mr. Norris. What do you mean, you don't believe him. Why don't you?”

Charles hesitated, and Marjorie had the urge to shake him.

“It's just a feeling.”

“Your
feeling
is disparaging my nephew. As I said, if Jeffrey knew where George was, he would tell us. I'm certain of it.”

Charles gently pulled Marjorie away from her mother, breaking his promise not to touch her. His strong hand on her arm was immeasurably comforting. “I think Jeffrey knows more than he is saying. Perhaps he is trying to protect George.”

“Protect him from what? And take your hands off my daughter,” Dorothea spit out.

Doing as Dorothea asked, Charles said, “I don't know.”.

“The constable was here and questioned him. Of course, Mr. Summerfield denied any knowledge of George's whereabouts. The constable indicated this was not a matter for Scotland Yard.”

“I see,” Marjorie said. “Then we shall have to find him ourselves. No doubt the police are not taking a missing young man seriously because they don't understand George. But we do. I know we can find him. And he'll have a very big apology for us when we do.”

Marjorie turned back toward the home's entrance, needing to do more than debate whether her cousin knew where George was. She wanted only to find George, to make certain he was well. Charles moved with her toward the door, and Marjorie smiled when she felt his hand on the small of her back. What a brave man to risk the wrath of her mother.

“I'll look for him,” Charles said softly. “I don't think you should—”

Marjorie stopped and gave him a level look. “I shall go to the Lamb & Flag myself. You can either accompany me or not.”

“Not,” Dorothea bit out. “I cannot have the two of you traipsing about London unaccompanied, and I am too weary to go gamboling about London looking for George.”

Marjorie suppressed a sigh. “I'll stop at home and bring Alice with me. Will that suffice, Mother?”

Dorothea looked from one to the other, then nodded, and Marjorie relaxed slightly. “London is a very large city, Marjorie, and I think this is a fool's errand. But I do understand your need to not sit at home awaiting news. I'd go if I were up to it.”

“Of course you would, Mother.”

 

After stopping at the house to pick up Alice, the three headed out to the Lamb & Flag, an old pub tucked away on a narrow little lane called Rose Street.

“You should wait here,” Charles said when their carriage stopped.

“He's my brother,” Marjorie responded, pushing her way past Charles to step down from the carriage with the assistance of a footman. The pub looked empty, the street deserted but for a young boy polishing a pair of shoes. The boy looked up, his eyes wide in surprise at seeing such a grand lady. When she stepped onto the stone pavers outside the pub, the boy stood and grabbed the cap from his head, the shoe forgotten in his hand.

Charles followed her, his face grim. He tried the pub door, smiling in satisfaction when it swung open. Inside, a man wearing an apron was sweeping broken glass from the floor, no doubt a mess created by yet another bout of fisticuffs.

“Ain't open,” the man said without looking up.

“I'm here for information, not drink,” Charles said.

“We're looking for my brother.”

At the sound of a cultured female voice, the barkeep's head snapped up and he straightened.

“Lord Summerfield was here two nights ago. This is the last place he was seen. We were wondering if you could tell us anything about that night that could help us find him. He's a tall, thin lad with bright red hair.”

The barkeep furrowed his brow in thought, then shook his head. “Two nights ago? That was a bruisin' night. Can't recall seeing the man you describe. It were a real crush that night an' when the fight started, it cleared out pretty quick.”

“I saw 'im. An' I know wha' 'appened to 'im.”

The three adults in the room turned to the young lad who'd been outside polishing shoes. He stood in the doorway, eyes wide. When the three looked at him, he snatched the hat from his head and shuffled his feet, looking for all the world as if he'd wished he'd remained silent.

“Tell 'em what you know, Mickey, there's a good lad,” the barkeep said, his voice gentle.

“I remember 'im 'cause I ain't never seen hair that color before. An' he was tall, too. Acted a mite odd.”

Marjorie smiled. “You are a very observant young man,” she said, hoping to encourage him even as her heart stuttered hearing “and I know what happened to him.”

“He was with another toff.” He screwed up his face. “Don't remember what he looked like, only that they was together. Once the fight started, they left. I thought maybe I could shine their shoes, so I grabbed me kit and followed 'em out. That's when I saw three toughs. They hit the red-headed man with a pipe.”

Marjorie gasped and the boy stopped.

“Go on, tell the rest,” Charles said, coming over to her and grabbing one hand.

“Then another man punched the red-headed man in the 'ead.” Mickey darted a look at Marjorie as if gauging whether he should tell the rest. “He fell and didn't move and the other men all run off. Didn't take nuffink from 'im. I thought his friend had gone to get help, so I waited for the red-headed man to wake up.”

“Where is he now?”

The boy shook his head. “He got up and stumbled around a bit. I followed 'im, thinkin' I could let the other gent know where 'is friend went. 'e fell again on New Row and I run back to where it 'appened so I can tell the gent, but 'e never came back. 'e was really in 'is cups so maybe 'e forgot it even 'appened.”

“Anything else, Mickey?”

“I went back to where the gent fell, and 'e was gone. I reckoned 'e just went 'ome.”

Marjorie felt as if she might vomit. Her brother was injured and alone and missing. She could hardly stand, never mind speak, and it was only the strength of Charles's hand in hers that kept her on her feet.

“You're a good lad, Mickey,” Charles said, and handed the boy a guinea.

Mickey looked to the barkeep for permission to keep the coin and pocketed it when the man gave him a nod.

They left the darkened pub, the morning sun nearly blinding them. “Where could he be?” Marjorie asked, feeling more desperate every moment.

“He could have wandered off, senseless. Or he could have been found and brought to a hospital.”

Marjorie nodded, though she knew he was omitting another possibility—that her brother could very well be dead.

“Let's go to New Row. It's across Garrick. Perhaps someone there saw something.”

“Charles,” Marjorie said as he held out his hand to assist her into the carriage. “Why didn't Jeffrey tell us what happened?”

His eyes softened. “The lad was probably right. He was likely so drunk he doesn't remember what happened.”

“It seems like a rather momentous thing to forget,” she said.

“Indeed.”

 

New Row gave them nothing. The few people they found claimed to have seen nothing, though Marjorie got the distinct impression that at least two of the people they spoke to were lying. It was all so strange and upsetting.

“What's next?” Marjorie asked, feeling more weary than she ever had in her life.

“I'm bringing you and Alice home and then I'm going to check the hospitals,” Charles said. Next to her, Alice perked up.

“No. I want to go,” Marjorie said, ignoring her maid's obvious disappointment. “Someone that he loves and who loves him should be the one who finds him. Do you understand? I know you're not quite a stranger, but if he's in a hospital or worse, I want to be the one who claims him.” Thick tears fell down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with her gloved hands. Charles handed her his handkerchief, and she blew her nose. “I'm not giving up yet,” she said fiercely.

They began their search at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, the oldest hospital in London. It was located in the heart of St. Giles, and so was the logical place to begin their search. Charles sat across from Marjorie in the Summerfield carriage, looking at her for any signs of shock. After her bout of tears, she became eerily calm, her face frightfully pale.

“I do wish you'd stay in the carriage,” he said, but she simply shook her head.

She had no idea what she was about to face. St. Bart's and other volunteer hospitals were institutions that serviced the poorest of London. The rich could afford to have physicians travel to them; many believed a hospital was a place one went only as a last resort. It was generally known that once you were admitted into a hospital, your next stop was the graveyard.

As the carriage moved around Springfield Circle, Marjorie moved the curtain aside and looked out, her eyes wide. St. Bart's was a series of four imposing buildings that took up an entire square. At the center of the square was a small park with a fountain bubbling cheerfully, though it did little to soften the stark architecture of the buildings that surrounded it.

“Where do we begin?” she asked, and Charles's heart broke to hear the quiet desperation in those four words.

“We should start with the north wing.”

The north wing welcomed visitors with a grand archway. Indeed, entering the building was more like entering a wealthy estate than a place that treated the poor of London. The hospital was a monument to good deeds, a demonstration to all that Londoners took care of their poor in great style. The Grand Hall was dominated by a mural of Christ at the Pool of Bethesda, healing the lame. The floors gleamed and the air was filled with the smell of beeswax, which gave Charles a strange comfort. He'd been in battlefield hospitals filled with smells and sounds that would stay with him a lifetime. This place, with its soaring ceilings and tasteful paintings, seemed built to impress. Or fool.

“This looks like an estate, not an institution,” Marjorie said, her brows furrowed with worry. “I've never been in a hospital, but this is not what I was expecting.”

“Nor I. And I've been in plenty of hospitals, just not here in London.”

As they entered, a woman wearing a dark dress with a gray apron approached them. She took in their fine dress, and curtsied a greeting.

“How may I help you?”

“We're looking for someone of our acquaintance who might have been brought here,” Charles said. “Lord Summerfield. He would have been brought here two nights ago.”

“An earl? Here?” She shook her head.

“He might have been injured or . . .” Marjorie couldn't bring herself to say the word aloud, so Charles softly completed her sentence. “Dead.” Next to him, Marjorie flinched.