Fancy had to giggle at Mr. Kent’s long-suffering look.
Lips twitching, Knight said, “The Charleys we located in Piccadilly didn’t recall anything useful either. On the bright side, my guards have been keeping a close watch, and they’ve seen nothing suspicious and no signs of threat to Fancy.”
“That is good news,” Mr. Kent said. “And I also spoke with my brother Ambrose. He’s consulting with his Bow Street Runner contacts, and I should hear back from him soon.”
“Maggie told us her gardener identified the flower on Fancy’s christening gown,” Tessa said. “He thinks it is a species of rhododendron, due to the shape of the petals and number of stamen.”
“Interesting, but not enough to lead us anywhere,” Mr. Garrity said. “We’ll keep interrogating the Charleys. At present, however, I believe I will claim my wife for this waltz.”
He held his arm out to Gabby, who gazed dreamily at him as they headed to the dance floor.
“Chérie?” Knight’s eyes smiled at Fancy, and he was so handsome that her heart hurt. “May I have the pleasure of a second waltz?”
She nodded mutely and took his arm.
Behind her, she heard Mr. Kent say, “Well, my dear, if you can’t beat them…”
“Let’s join them,” his wife replied with a laugh.
31
Leaving Maggie and Ransom’s ball that night, Fancy felt like she was floating on air. The waltz still played in her head, and she hummed along as they exited the gracious townhouse with Jonas, Cecily, and Aunt Esther.
“Did you enjoy the evening, sweeting?” Knight asked.
“I did,” she said. “Especially dancing with you.”
“The pleasure was mine.” His eyes soft as smoke, he said, “Wait here. I’ll see where our carriage is.”
Leaving her and their family in the care of guards, he headed out into the foggy cobblestone street crammed with vehicles.
“That went passably well I thought,” Aunt Esther remarked.
From Aunt Esther, that was praise indeed.
“Yes, it was—” Fancy began.
“Your Highness,” an urgent voice said. “I must speak to you.”
Confused, Fancy turned in the direction of the raspy female voice. A woman stood several yards away beneath a streetlamp. The yellow light limned her cloaked figure, her loose and scraggly hair, the deep fissures age had worn into her face. Her deep-set eyes had a wild glow.
Before Fancy could react, the guards closed ranks around her.
“Stay back, Your Grace. We’ll ’andle this,” one said.
Another addressed the woman. “Keep your distance, mort.”
“You must listen to me, Your Highness…” The woman advanced.
“Stay back,” one of the guards warned, drawing his pistol.
“I mean no harm—”
The woman never finished her sentence for a carriage stopped beside her, a group of men in dark coats alighting and descending upon her like a flock of vultures. They circled her, blocking her from Fancy’s view. The woman screamed and then…nothing.
“Fancy!” Knight’s voice, his pounding footsteps. He appeared at her side, his breaths harsh, his eyes blazing. “Are you all right?”
“I-I’m fine.” Numbly, Fancy realized that her teeth were chattering. “A w-woman came out of nowhere. The g-guards protected me.”
“Stay with Her Grace,” Knight told the guards grimly. “I’ll see what this is about.”
She grabbed his arm. “Be careful—”
“I’ll be right back, sweeting. Stay here.”
He strode off toward the huddle of dark coats. Fancy watched, pulse racing, as he spoke with the group’s leader, a short, thin man wearing a dark hat. After a few moments, the men stepped aside for Knight to have a look at the woman. Fancy’s chest clenched when she glimpsed the piteous figure slumped like a ragdoll against the lamppost.
Her thoughts whirled. Why would that woman want to hurt me? What is going on?
A wagon stopped next to Knight and the gathered group. The cabin was enclosed, with bars over the windows, the kind of conveyance used to transport criminals and madmen. The back of the cabin opened, more men in black coats descending. They hefted the unconscious woman into the wagon as if she were a sack of coal and shut the door.
Knight exchanged a few words with the leader before the latter joined the driver on the perch of the wagon, and the vehicle rattled off into the night.
“What was that about?” Fancy blurted the instant Knight returned.
“We’ll talk in the carriage,” he said.
They piled into their conveyance, ladies on one side, gentlemen on the other, and Knight shared what he learned. The man he’d been talking to was Dr. Karl Erlenmeyer, an Austrian physician specializing in mental disease. Dr. Erlenmeyer ran Brookfield Asylum, a private institute for the insane located in Highgate. The woman