The response had been unequivocal:Yes, of course. We would be delighted to share our archival images.
And now more than a hundred boys clad in frock coats and striped trousers gazed solemnly at her, from a decade and a half ago. “That was Jones,” said the headmaster sadly, pointing his finger at one particular boy. “I remember him, Archibald Jones. One of the best batsmen in the history of the school. A shame his father didn’t want to further educate him. He would have excelled on many a college team—perhaps even a university one.”
Charlotte was busy scanning the tiny print at the bottom of the photograph, listing the names of the boys. There it was,M. H. Finch. Fourth row, ninth from the left. But before she could find him in the throng, the headmaster thrust another picture at her.
“Here’s another one of Jones, the year he captained the school team.”
Eleven boys in the team photograph and one face immediately leaped out at Charlotte. There were no names at the bottom. She turned it around. On the back was written in pencil,Standing, L to R, T. J. Pearson, M. C. Curthoys, O. A. Murray, G. G. Barber, M. H. Finch.
Her stomach unknotted.
It would appear that her brother was alive and safe after all.
Lady Ingram exited the modiste’s shop, limping. The final fitting had been interminable. The seamstresses had used her as a dress dummy and now her lower back felt as if a spike had been driven deep under her skin.
She didn’t much care for fashion—and she disliked spending so much money on fripperies even more. Unfortunately, others expected her to be on display in a new gown, at least at her own birthday ball, so she must waste both time and money to satisfy the demands of Society when she would rather—
An envelope lay on the seat of the carriage. She glanced at her coachman. He stood with his eyes cast down respectfully, waiting for her to climb up. She did, grimacing—the muscles in her back tightened so much they yanked her backward.
Her second confinement had been both quicker and easier. She had expected to recover fully in no time, but the back pain never went away. Nearly a dozen doctors consulted and no one had been able to do anything for her except prescribe laudanum and morphine—as if she would ever be so weak as to indulge in those.
She didn’t even look at the envelope until the carriage had pulled away from the curb. And then only after she had lowered the shades on the windows.
An unsealed envelope, no addressee on the front, a typed sheet inside.
Could it be?
She pressed it to her heart. After all this time, he had at last contacted her. She pulled a pencil from her handbag and busied herself deciphering the message as the carriage turned and swayed.
Trust him to bring a smile to her face: He wanted to meet on the night of her birthday ball. Good thing she didn’t give a damn for that nuisance.
She only wanted to see him.
Twenty-one
THURSDAY
At one o’clock in the morning, during a rousing rendition of Strauss’sDu und du, Lady Ingram left her overcrowded house via the back service door. That exact moment, in the carriage alley behind the house, an unmarked brougham drew up, unmarked, that is, except for a piece of paper stuck to the inside of the window, with a drawing of a bird.
Not just any bird, a finch.
Her heart quickened. She got into the carriage, hoping to find him inside. But it was empty. Instead, there was an envelope on the seat, with a number on the front, and a key inside.
The carriage took her to a hotel that catered to country squires and their lady wives who wanted to stay in London for the Season but didn’t want the fuss of hiring a house. It offered large suites of rooms with front doors on the street, so that one could enter and leave as if from a private residence.
The carriage stopped right in front of the door the number of which was on the envelope. Her heart pounding, her bad backforgotten, she ran up the few steps that led up to the small porch and eagerly inserted the key into the lock.
All the lights in the suite seemed to be on, every room brightly illuminated—and every room, from the vestibule inward, empty. Alone in the drawing room, one hand braced on the mantel, the other against the spot in her back that was throbbing again, she frowned.
Just then the front door opened. She spun around and smiled at the man who entered.
Her smile froze.
Not him but her husband.
“What are you doing here?”
He, like her, was still in his evening finery. His expression made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end: She’d never seen such a look on him before, not vacant, not blank, only... empty.
