Miss Charlotte might have a plan. She’d spent all that time with her father, learning historical things and who knew what else. Her head was chock-full of ideas, and surely some of them must come in handy now. Lucy curled up under the coverlet and tried to relax.
Mr. Rutherford had been an odd duck. Lucy knew he’d loved his wife and daughter, but sometimes it was hard to see. He’d go off into his library and just… forget about everything and everybody else—dinner, appointments, outings, birthdays. He’d caused a load of disappointments he never even noticed. If somebody—Miss Charlotte, say, when she was small—complained, he truly didn’t understand at first. The promise, or whatever it was, had just slipped away, no unkindness meant. And the worst of it was, when he was put in mind of it again, he was crushed. He took it so hard that you felt miles worse for having mentioned it. It got so the household just ignored his forgetfulness right along with him. It was easier.
Which hadn’t served Miss Charlotte well with her poor excuse for a husband, Lucy thought. If she’d complained… but no. He wouldn’t have listened; he’d just have made life even more dreary, though Lord knows how it could have been. The trouble with husbands was you were stuck with them, with the law all on their side, as she understood it. Lucy sighed and turned over, careful not to wake Miss Charlotte, whose breathing had evened out into sleep. At least he hadn’t been a lecher. Lucy didn’t know what she would have done if he’d laid his dry old fingers on her charge. The very idea made her shudder.
The minutes ticked past, and Lucy lay awake in the silence. Tonight’s disturbance had unsettled her, but these days, if she woke in the middle of the night, she found it hard to go back to sleep. All her life, she’d shared a room, first with her sisters and then with another maid; she didn’t like falling asleep and waking alone. Houses were meant to be full of people. Of course, empty was better than full of nasty people like Holcombe—wasn’t it? Lucy realized she wasn’t sure. Maybe any people were better than this awful emptiness. They had to get in new staff soon as may be.
Lucy wasn’t completely clear on the state of their finances. She knew they couldn’t go back to Hampshire. The estate was sold and gone. She thought there was money to hire some new servants, but how did you do that in this huge dirty city? At home, families knew each other, and vouched for you. Her grandmother had been a friend of Mr. Rutherford’s cook, and had recommended her for a position. Everybody knew Gran would skin her if she misbehaved. Back home, you understood who you could trust and who was likely to let you down.
Did people in London even have families? Well, they must, o’ course. But how did you find them? Who could you ask if there were good people looking for posts? She had no idea, and she didn’t think Miss Charlotte did either. Maybe London servants were all like the lot who’d left. Why, the very robbers who’d crept about downstairs could apply, and they’d never be the wiser.
Lucy had a moment of sheer fear. What were they going to do? Then she remembered. They were going to see Mr. Wycliffe tomorrow, and she’d bet money that he would tell Sir Alexander what had happened. If he didn’t, she would—somehow. Between the two men, they’d know what to do and, more importantly, how to do it. With that thought, Lucy settled into sleep more happily than she had for quite a while.
***
At first light, they went downstairs together. Lucy carried a heavy candlestick like a club. They found one display case pried open, with an empty space where some object had been taken. A piece of pottery lay on the floor, but not broken. The flimsy lock on the French doors leading to the tiny back garden had been forced.
Having no one to send, they took a cab to Wycliffe’s office themselves.
And so it was that Alec found himself facing Charlotte in her drawing room little more than a week after their first meeting. He’d been called away from some particularly urgent letters—dire even—about conditions in Derbyshire; a sense of emergency, of looming disaster, gripped his consciousness. And now there was this. “The house is empty but for you and