Anything.
He was weary of sitting on his hands, doing nothing, while whoever did this walked free. The ratcatcher was already dead. Mr. Foxcroft was already dead.
Tom had no intention of allowing Meg to die too.
“So it be true.”
Tom swiveled at the booming voice. He braced himself as Mr. Creagh stomped forward, rocking the wharf, with tufts of his unkempt hair ruffled by the wind.
“Caught me own daughter tryin’ to sneak out here. You might gallivant about at ungodly hours with that Foxcroft chit, but keep your bloody hands off my—”
“I’ll thank ye to say nothing more about Meg.” Too many emotions, too many furies, had been simmering in the bottom of Tom’s gut. His face heated as they flamed higher. “I came because yer daughter said she found something. In the dead man’s room.”
He scowled, dug into his pocket, and slapped paper against Tom’s chest. “Said she spotted it ’neath the bed. The man must have dropped it. We keep e’erything that gets left, in case a gent wants to come back for it. ’Tis a matter ofrespect.” He all but growled the last word, like a dog spitting out a bloody tooth. “Stay away from my daughter, McGwen.”
Tom managed a nod when his instincts wanted to pummel the man into the ground. He didn’t have time for that. Not now.
When Mr. Creagh tramped away, Tom squinted his eyes at the folded, black-edged paper. The writing was tiny, severe, and said only:
You are not doing a wicked deed. Even God would want them dead.
“I do not want to disturb—”
“Come.” Lord Cunningham took her hand, the fiber of his gloves itchy against her fingers. He tugged her through the doorway into a chamber that stole her breath.
She did not wish to behold death.
Pathetic.
She knew that as much as she knew the old Meg would have raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and marched toward any unpleasantness. Perhaps the former Meg Foxcroft had been stronger.
With a thud of finality, the door shut behind them.
Pink-globed oil lamps were lit across the room, each flickering with a soft, surreal glow. A dollhouse sat before the hearth. Books lined a floor-to-ceiling shelf. The walls were papered with pink-and-green floral patterns, and the multi-layered draperies were silk and tasseled and lovely.
But it was the bed, in the center of the room, that drew Meg’s eyes.
Surrounded by plush cushions and downy coverlets, the child blinked at Meg in dull curiosity. “Who have you brought, Father?”
“Allow me to introduce the charming Miss Margaret, our newest guest.” Lord Cunningham skirted around Meg, sank to the edge of the bed, and pressed a kiss to the child’s tight, white-blond curls. “How are you, darling?”
“I am very bored.”
“What might I do to alleviate such a state?”
“I want a new maid.” The girl sent a pouting glare at the older woman, seated across the room. “Jenny is horrid, and I hate her. Make her leave and get me a new one, please.”
“Violet.”
“But I do hate her.”
“We cannot simply replace a maid as easily as we might order a new miniature horse.” He sent an apologetic smile at poor Jenny, as if the conversation were amusing despite its absurdity. “Now, tell Miss Margaret how old you are.”
“I am seven, but shall likely never be eight.” Her serious, pale-blue eyes held Meg’s. Her skin was snowy and perfect, like an ivory doll dressed in bows and satin. Perfect ringlets stuck to her head, short and gleaming, with one falling across her temple.
She was beautiful.
Haunting.
