More than that, she wanted to cry the name of someone she loved, someone she knew, someone who would settle her confusion.
She just couldn’t remember a name to call.
“I want to see him.”
“I am eating breakfast.” The justice of the peace, Mr. Willmott, crunched into strawberry-lathered toast, sending a glare to his footman across the drawing room. “Who let this pup inside, anyway? I thought I made it expressively clear yesterday, Mr. McGwen, that evenmyposition has limitations.”
“The prisoner is no longer in the care of a nursing maid.”
“No.”
“Nor in the village lockup.”
“No again,” Mr. Willmott growled as he wiped jam from his multi-layered chin. His unmodish, brown periwig fumed a rancid floral scent. “And before you present me any other facts of which I am already aware, allow me to enlighten you further. I released him this morning.”
Tom blinked, brows knitting, as a slow fury wormed through him. “What?”
“He is a ratcatcher from the east side of Juleshead. He had already been summoned by Mr. Telfner to eliminate rodents the following morning, and having arrived early, decided to linger on the street until dawn.” Mr. Willmott scooted back his chair. “It was all very simple. He heard the intruder, realized the situation, and rushed in to assist.”
“With a knife?”
“Your imagination, I fear, has always been unduly ingenious.” Mr. Willmott rose. “Not that I cast any censure upon you. I admit, the situation was dire. You cannot be blamed for misinterpreting their actions—although I daresay, Mr. Foxcroft might have made it out alive had you not.”
Pressure swelled in Tom’s chest until it was harder to will in air. “He is lying.”
“And you are infuriating.” Mr. Willmott waddled back to the sideboard and flicked his hand at the footman. “Show McGwen out now, if you please, while I finish my breakfast in peace—”
“And Meg?” Tom shoved aside the servant and circled before the fat, wig-headed fool. He clenched his fists. The steaming scents of eggs, liver, and ginger plummeted his stomach with nausea. “What are we to do about Meg?”
“What I told you yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.” The man’s cheeks mottled. “If you wish to continue this wrathful search of the land, so be it. I shall not prevent you. If it were my wife missing, or one of my daughters, perhaps I would do the same.”
“We cannae do nothing.”
“Thunder and turf, we havenotdone nothing.” Mr. Willmott blew out air. “I have had the constable scouring for witnesses three days straight, a description of Miss Foxcroft is to be printed in the next evening newspaper, and I have sent letters to nearby parishes with requests they notify here if she is discovered.” He grabbed the navy lapels of his coat, frustration scraping at his voice. “The rest, I fear, is in the hands of God.”
Tom’s insides writhed. “I cannae accept that.”
“For which I pity you.”
“I want the name of the ratcatcher.”
“Were you of sounder mind of late, I would give it to you.” Mr. Willmott motioned to the door. “Go home, McGwen. I have heard enough accounts to know you have not slept, and I think even you shall agree the best you can do for Miss Foxcroft now is to prevent your own demise.”
Tom breathed a laugh. He wasn’t certain why. Maybe the exhaustion, the light fever at his brow, the restless jittering of his legs all seeped at his sanity and made Mr. Willmott right.
Perhaps he wasn’t of sound mind. Perhaps he never would be again until he found her.
And that was just what he was going to do.
He would not stop or eat or breathe or rest until he did.
She had to run.
The need to rip back the silk, rose-colored bed curtains, shove everyone away, and escape back to the elm tree was overpowering. Sometimes, the wrinkle-faced maid soothed a cool, damp cloth across her forehead.
Other times, a gangly young man—Dr. Bagot, they called him—poured reddish-brown liquid into honey and slipped it to her lips. The taste was bitter. Gagging. She attempted to push his hand away, but every time, someone stronger held her back.
The man from the elm.
