selfish women who had cut their teeth on the deviousness and cut-throat scheming that went on every day in the ton. He and Evleen had parted only a few days ago, yet he thought of her constantly, not only with that strange longing he could not seem to shake, but with a feeling of unease.
The moment Pierce opened the door, Thomas noted the expression of distress that covered the butler’s usually impassive face and knew something was amiss. Inside, there appeared to be some kind of controlled chaos going on, what with servants scurrying about and the raised voice of Lord Trevlyn clearly audible. When Thomas was ushered into the drawing room, he noted the whole family gathered there, all solemn faced, the ladies not their usual simpering selves, shy Amanda excepted, of course. Lord Trevlyn, standing by the fireplace in a great state of agitation, greeted him precipitously.
“Ah, my boy, glad you’re here. My word, what a fix we’re in. You must help with the search.”
“What search, sir?”
“My grandson and Evleen have gone missing. Left early this morning. Haven’t heard a word.” Forehead furrowed with concern, Lord Trevlyn started pacing the drawing room. To Lydia he said, “Tell me again, what did they say to Pierce when they left this morning?”
“Something about wanting to see London,” Lydia replied with a shrug, looking more annoyed than concerned.
“To see London indeed. Where is my grandson?” In desperation, Lord Trevlyn addressed Thomas. “I’ve sent two footmen out to search. If they don’t come home soon, I’ll turn out this entire household to join the search, servants and family both.”
“Surely not us, Uncle,” protested Charlotte, who sat primly next to her mother on a settee. “It’s nearly time for tea, and after that we must get ready for the routs we are attending this evening. Lord and Lady Beckford’s in particular—”
“Confound it,” burst Lord Trevlyn, “here I am beset with worry and you talk of routs? They’ve been gone all day. Thieves swarm the streets of London. Cutthroats! Murderers! God only knows what dire fate has befallen my grandson.”
“But why did they go out so early?” asked Bettina who sat quietly embroidering. “Everyone knows it’s not fashionable to go out before three o’clock.”
“God’s blood.” Lord Trevlyn turned beet red. He started to sputter, groped for a chair and sank into its depths. I... I...”
“I shall go look for them, sir,” Thomas said quickly. “Chances are they’re only out ‘exploring’ as Patrick would put it.” He placed a comforting hand on Lord Trevlyn’s tense shoulder. “Do relax. Have some tea, or better yet, a splash of brandy.”
“There’s the Irish for you.” Lydia picked up her petit-point and stabbed it vehemently with her needle. “Not here a day and already causing trouble.”
Thomas would have liked to reply in kind to such vitriol, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut, and besides, he had no time. After a hasty good-bye, he was out the door and into his curricle, urging his two matching bays into a trot down Arlington Street.
Now where would they go first? His head craned this way and that. Ah. Chances were, they would have been attracted to all the hustle and bustle of Saint James Street.
Thomas turned into Saint James Street. Slowly, continually searching, he drove to Pall Mall, over to Regent Street, then Haymarket, and surely, if they’d been out to see the sights of London, they would have strolled along here. “Have you seen a boy of eleven with red hair?” he occasionally called to vendors and passers-by, using the most identifiable mark of the two. “He would be with his sister who’s tall, and both of them Irish.”
At last a fish peddler called, “Seen ‘em this morning, sir, a pretty young lass and a bright little lad with red hair. Kept asking questions.”
Patrick, indeed. “Which way did they go?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
Dammit, where were they? It would be dark soon. Lord Trevlyn was right to be concerned. What if they wandered into those pitch black, narrow streets where thieves roamed, carrying knives and bludgeons loaded with lead?
He must keep searching.
Back to Saint James Square...
Over to Piccadilly Circus...
Traffic was getting heavier. Now the streets were full of well-dressed gentlemen on the backs of fine blooded horses; dashing, beautifully dressed ladies driving their own vis-a-vis; elegant equipages pulled by horses matched with precision and groomed to a high gloss. All seemed to be heading toward Hyde Park, and suddenly it struck him. Of course. This was the fashionable hour of