When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,37
no longer regard Matilda’s whereabouts as any of your affair.”
The damned tea cake had raspberry jam in the middle, and a seed lodged itself along Parker’s gum.
“Your request does you no credit as a loving father, Wakefield. What man wouldn’t accept any and all aid in locating his missing daughter?”
Another unhurried sip of tea. “What man would continue to tolerate the meddling of the very person whom that daughter obviously seeks to avoid? Make yourself scarce, by all means, and then perhaps Matilda will deign to send me a few lines. As long as you so publicly call upon me, as long as your uniformed buffoons are watching for her at the ports and turnpikes, she can’t contact me. You are doing more harm than good, to be blunt, though I have every sympathy for you.”
Wakefield, as always, made sense. “You suppose she’s somewhere in London, then, and able to keep watch on your doorstep?”
Wakefield sighed, the gentle long-suffering of a very patient man. “I have no idea where she is. I have corresponded with every friend, acquaintance, and business associate with whom I dare raise this matter. I have paid thief takers and runners and people you would not turn your back on in broad daylight. Matilda is intelligent enough to know exactly to whom I will turn. She’s a widow with means and she’s taken measures to remain hidden.”
A convincing hint of exasperation laced Wakefield’s words.
“We need to cast a wider net and go back further among your acquaintances,” Parker said. “Your closest business associations now are with the great families in Kent, Surrey, and Sussex, but what about those relationships you formed when Matilda was younger and you traveled less on the Continent?”
Wakefield rubbed his forehead. “You expect me to recall transactions from more than fifteen years ago?”
Doubtless Wakefield had them all documented in journals and ledgers, for his success among the British aristocracy depended on balancing unassuming friendship with a shrewd mercantile eye.
“I expect you to recall the houses where you bided for more than a week or so, the ones like Petworth, where visitors were a constant happy stream, and a young girl might have formed pleasant memories.”
Wakefield rose. “For God’s sake, Colonel, Matilda is not among Lord Egremont’s horde at Petworth.”
“You don’t know that for a certainty, and you sold the earl valuable art on many occasions. The place is huge and she could easily hire on as a maid or under-housekeeper.”
“With what references?” Wakefield asked, pacing before the hearth. “With what experience? From what agency? You have taken leave of your senses if you think Matilda has gone into service in the household of some duke or earl. Servants gossip like magpies, and a chambermaid who muttered in French or knew a Caravaggio from a Tintoretto would draw certain notice. Matilda’s hands are those of a lady, her table manners, her speech—she would have little success passing for a servant.”
This was true. Matilda was intelligent, but even a smart woman would have difficulty blending into the world of the English servant class when she’d spent few of her formative years in England. Her employers were unlikely to notice her differentness, but her fellow menials would.
“I don’t intend to stop looking for her,” Parker said, getting to his feet. “I understand your concern, and I promise I will be discreet, but I must ask you to provide me a list of those great houses and properties that would be known to Matilda or that she’d recall fondly.”
Wakefield braced a hand on the mantel. “Ask me? With what authority does a failed suitor ask me do to anything? Honestly, Colonel, I understand that defeat for a military man is a difficult pill to swallow, and I am of course worried for my daughter, but your searching for Matilda is likely the very reason she’s still in hiding.”
No, it was not. “We’ll talk more of this when I return from Melton, though I’ll send my direction that you might keep me apprised of any developments.”
This apparently amused Wakefield. “You demand an accounting from me of what goes on here in London, while you ride off for a month of drunkenness and chasing maids. Yet you expect me to believe concern for Matilda rather than male pride drives your pre-occupation with her whereabouts. Safe journey, Colonel.”
Parker respected Wakefield—one needn’t like a man to respect him—and he knew better than to trust him.
“I go only that I might expand my search for a woman I esteem greatly and