Mr. Willmott turned. “You.” He grumbled, his wig slightly askew. “Thunder and turf, McGwen, do you always have to pester me just when I am taking in a bit of pleasure? I cannot speak with you. I am busy.”
“This is important.”
“It usually is.” Mr. Willmott shouted across the lawn at his girls, “Lydia, the nose!” When the twins had angled their heads to a satisfying degree, he flung a dismissing hand at Tom. “Come back tomorrow when I’m swearing in recruits or something or other. And if this concerns Miss Foxcroft’s unfortunate circumstances, I am afraid even I cannot do anything.”
“It’s not that.”
“Whatever it is can wait.”
“Nay. It can’t.”
“Tare and hounds.” Riled, Mr. Willmott turned back to the painter. “Keep these girls in position if you have to whack the basket over their little blonde heads. This shall only be a minute. That I can promise.” He motioned to Tom. “Over here, McGwen, and make it fast before I lose what little perseverance I have left.”
When he’d yanked and jerked Tom toward the secluded garden next to a lion-faced fountain, he pulled at the bottom of his waistcoat and lifted his chin. Scents from nearby wisteria vines drifted across the lawn. “Very well, McGwen. What is this dilemma you shall demand I resolve and that I shall conclude, per usual, I cannot?”
“I am looking for a man.”
“A ratcatcher again, perhaps?”
“Nay. A man with a wig.”
“See here—”
“I mean ye nae disrespect.” Tom rubbed the hair lock in his pocket, his nerves taut. “I think he may know something about Mr. Foxcroft … and the things that have happened.”
Mr. Willmott straightened his wig with defiant indignation. “Anyone with a good understanding of history and aristocracy comprehends the fact that wigs are representative of such. They should not be disparaged just because modern fashion declines.”
“He frequented a bawdyhouse on the east side of Juleshead.”
“Who?”
“The man I’m looking for.”
“Go on.”
“He visited … a woman named Elisabeth.”
“Why do you not ask her?”
“She is dead.”
“I see.” No hitch. No shift in his expression or tone. He sighed out his impatience. “Then it is my conjecture that you have bombarded me today simply because I have good taste.” Mr. Willmott cleared his throat. “And as usual, there is very little I can do to assist. It is hardly in my line of powers to administer a village-wide search for anyone not wearing their own hair.”
Disappointment sank like a rock in Tom’s stomach. He nodded. “I see.” He started to turn, but paused and tossed over the brown ringlet from his pocket.
Mr. Willmott caught it with a frown.
“In case ye find anything.” He left before his mind could process the truth. That his last lead had fizzled, smoked into nothingness, and was gone.
She missed him. Strange that she would. She remembered more days without him than days with him.
Her expelled breath was the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. She perched on the edge of the bed, staring from one wall to another as the mattress squeaked in time to her dangling feet.
His laugh resonated through her.
Stop.
He was careless, unruly, wild. Nothing about Tom should endear him to her, but everything did, mayhap all at once. The way he tempted her into the unexpected. The hardness of his arm beneath worn, man-scented fabric. The light in his eyes. The darkness in his eyes too.
