As he set out the morning room lamps, Alfred was deeply troubled. If Kitty had left her clothes, she must have meant to come back. His heart wrenched within him. Something must have happened to prevent her from returning, and he couldn’t for the life of him imagine what it might be. Did it have something to do with the red-bearded man she’d met at the Black Prince? Was he a relative, a friend, a lover?
With a sharp stab of disloyalty, Alfred pushed that last thought away. He and Kitty might not be promised, but he knew in his heart that she loved him-if she didn’t love him just yet, he was special to her. Maybe the man was connected to the Syndicate. He hadn’t met any red-bearded men, but then, he hadn’t been working for the Syndicate long, and he didn’t know who was who, except for Kitty and Bulls-eye. Bulls-eye hadn’t seen her, though, at least that’s what he’d said, so Alfred was at a loss.
And it wasn’t just his romantic hopes and dreams about Kitty that were threatened by her mysterious disappearance. Kitty was the one with the experience, the one who knew the general scheme, the signals, the arrangements for getting the things out of the house. And while he had a general idea what they were supposed to find out before the rest of the crew arrived, Kitty was the one who knew the details.
Alfred finished his task, went out of the room, and shut the door behind him, feeling bleak and abandoned. Without Kitty, he had no way of doing his job the way it was supposed to be done, and he knew enough about the Syndicate to know what happened to people who didn’t do their jobs. But his chief thought was for Kitty-beautiful, sensual Kitty, whose lovemaking warmed him still-and his chief worry was that something dreadful might have happened to her.
The pub in Brighton, and the family of little Alfreds and Kittys, seemed suddenly very far away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Restless-almost intolerably so, without capacity for sustained and unexciting labor-egotistical, bumptious, shallow-minded and reactionary, but with a certain personal magnetism… [Winston Churchill’s] pluck, courage, resourcefulness and great tradition may carry him far, unless he knocks himself to pieces like his father.
Winston had begun working on his father’s Life the summer before, and was already nearing the end of what he planned as the first of a two-volume work. He knew, though, that he was going to have to spend quite a bit more time polishing the text than he would like. His task was to redeem Lord Randolph from the portrayals of his more malicious peers, as a conniving, capricious politician who had thrown up a promising career on a crazy whim. While others might suggest that Lord Randolph had been an angry, spendthrift, syphilitic husband and a cold and uncaring father, Winston saw him as a great statesman who was too busy about the affairs of the Empire to squander his energies on his family, and especially his undeserving eldest son. Lord Randolph was a Churchill, cast in the same mold as that noble duke, the first Marlborough, and it was Winston’s job to guard that memory and the Churchill name, and to do all he could to enhance it.
This morning, Winston was scribbling away at a paragraph about his father’s abrupt breach with his party. But he put down his pen when Consuelo came into the room, not stopping to knock. She was followed by Kate Sheridan. Both were breathless, and the Duchess wore an almost distracted look.
“Why, my dear Connie!” he exclaimed, rising and holding out his hands. “Whatever is wrong?”
“It’s Gladys,” Consuelo said wretchedly, “and the Duke. They’re gone!”
“Gone?” Winston echoed stupidly. Her hands in his were very cold, and her fingers were trembling. “Gone? Both of them?” His thoughts immediately went to the gesture he had seen the night before, the public touch, the open declaration. What a wretched business! And where the devil was Marlborough? He hadn’t gone off with that foolish girl, had he? By Jove, if he had But that was unthinkable. Marlborough might fancy himself in love, but he could never bring himself to drag the family name through the dirt, or risk a break with the Vanderbilts-and the Vanderbilt money.
Kate Sheridan put a steadying hand on Consuelo’s shoulder. “What Consuelo means,” she said in a calm, quiet voice, “is that Gladys did not sleep in her bed last night, nor change clothes.”
“Did not sleep in her bed!” Winston exclaimed in agitation.
Kate nodded. “And since her absence struck us as a rather serious matter, we thought that the Duke ought to be informed-except that we’ve not been able to locate him.” She paused. “We spoke to Mr. Meloy, who has not seen him. Mallory, his valet, did not see him this morning, either. It doesn’t seem helpful to alarm the servants, so we thought that perhaps you might have a look for the Duke and-”
“Yes, of course,” Winston interrupted. “I should be glad to, very glad.” He kissed Consuelo’s hands and let them go. “You can count on me,” he said comfortingly, suppressing his own rising alarm. “I’ll find Sunny, and then we can sit down together and discuss what should be done about Gladys.” By heaven, he would force Sunny to come to terms on this business, and make a final break with Gladys. Marlborough had to be made to see the danger the woman posed. “She can’t have wandered far,” he added, putting on a reassuring smile, “not dressed as she was. In fact, she may have already returned to her room.”
From the beginning of his acquaintance with Sunny’s wife, Winston had gone out of his way to cultivate a strong friendship with her. That had not been difficult, for Consuelo was shy and lacking in confidence and had accepted him happily as an ally who helped her face her husband’s family. He wanted her to see him in all matters as her advocate and champion, as well as her representative among the Churchills, who were quite a formidable lot, all in all, extremely judgmental and critical.
Of course, Winston realized that this advocacy position was not an entirely unselfish one. It was sometimes hard to know what was going on in the Duke’s mind, but Consuelo was much more artless and transparent, and she confided in him things-private family matters-that her husband would have concealed. If Consuelo saw him as her confidant, Winston would always know what was going on at Blenheim, which, after all, was his home, too.
“Oh, thank you, Winston,” Consuelo said, her voice lightened with relief, some of the strain in her face easing. “What do you… what are you going to do? And what do you think Kate and I should do?”
“Well, for a start,” Winston said, with more careless confidence than he felt, “you and Lady Sheridan could take your little electric car and go for a drive around the Park. You might run into Sunny, he’s probably just gone out for a morning ride. And you might even catch a glimpse of Gladys.” Although as to why Miss Deacon would be wandering around the Park in her evening dress and slippers, Winston couldn’t hazard a guess. But he had to say something, and apparently Consuelo was satisfied.
“Yes, of course,” she said, sounding relieved. “The car. What a very good idea, Winston. Kate and I will go immediately.” She paused, frowning. “But what will you do?”
“I? Why, I’m off to the stables,” Winston replied easily. “Sunny may have mentioned to the groom which way he intended to ride.” He bent over to kiss Consuelo’s pale cheek. “Don’t fret, my dear. I’m sure we’ll find each of them, safe and sound.”
And pray God, he thought fervently, we don’t find them together. He had put the best face on things for Consuelo, but he was deeply troubled, and by the time he had reached the stables, Winston had worked himself into a fine frenzy. If it were just Gladys who had gone missing, it was probably just one of her madcap escapades. The girl was prone to pranks and high jinks and had little regard for proper conduct or for the feelings of others, although he had to admit that it was rather odd that she had disappeared in her dinner dress. The Duke’s absence raised another urgent question, though, one that he hoped very much would be answered at the stables.