“Won’t that leave us rather unguarded?” Lady Powlis asked hesitantly.
“Madam, you have me to defend you. And Butler.”
“Oh, dear.”
This was hardly the time for Harriet to expound upon her past career, so she curbed herself and said, “Think calmly. What are the chances that a criminal is going to break in to this house before the duke comes home?”
Lady Powlis looked unpersuaded. “I’d feel better if we brought Griffin’s brace of pistols to the drawing room while we wait.”
“Fine, madam. If that gives you comfort.”
“Oh, I have a pistol in my reticule, too. Fetch it for me, dear, with my cashmere shawl.”
“Yes, madam.”
Lady Powlis put her hand over Harriet’s. “While this is not the moment of happy celebration I have dreamed of, let me offer my congratulations. It was obvious to me that you and Griffin had fallen in love.”
Harriet paused. “You wouldn’t have given his grace a little nudge in my direction?”
“Of course I would. I told you that I’d do anything to make sure he didn’t marry the wrong woman.”
Which wasn’t exactly the same thing as being reassured that she was the right woman to become duchess. Still, Harriet decided it was good enough. And with any luck, she and her future aunt-in-law would celebrate the impending nuptials over a glass or two of sherry without firing a shot.
Chapter Thirty-four
The day is come, and thou wilt fly with me.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
Epipsychidion
It was amazing how love could energize a man. Griffin had been going night and day on raw nerves. Whenever his energy flagged, he had only to think of Harriet, warm and tousled, in her bed, and he found his strength bolstered. He was going to find Edlyn so that they could become a proper family. Or as close as a Boscastle could aspire to propriety when seeking that happy state.
Fortunately, the footman whom Harriet sent from the house had located Sir Daniel without delay. And one of the Runners who wrote down the name immediately remembered an actress called Rosie Porter, a comely lady who flashed her legs at the audience and assaulted her leading man. He thought she might have run off with another woman’s husband.
It was the best lead the private detective had been given. Still, no one had seen Mrs. Porter in years.
Griffin sat drinking hot coffee at the station with Sir Daniel as he interviewed dozens of past and former members of the King’s Theatre where Rosalie Porter had performed.
Harriet Gardner’s name came up a few times, too, with a fondness that irritated Griffin to no end. He listened in stony silence whenever an actor or agent digressed and wondered aloud what had happened to the pretty red-haired actress who’d made them laugh.
Still, in the end, hours of lengthy interviews and poring over musty records retrieved from the Fleet Street police station tendered no helpful clues to Mrs. Porter’s current whereabouts.
By late afternoon, a gang of would-be reward collectors had congregated at the station door in the hope of overhearing a helpful tip.
“Go back home,” Sir Daniel told Griffin, pulling on his coat. “I’ll walk in the opposite direction. The reward seekers are more liable to cause harm than help.”
“You’ll send for me if anything happens?”
Sir Daniel nodded. “I might visit your house in a short while. It should be time for Mrs. Porter to make her last appeal.”
“Or not,” Griffin said, suddenly realizing that a woman who had plotted a crime for years was capable of things he was afraid to contemplate.
Why had Edlyn not trusted him?
He knew the answer. The truth wouldn’t change. She blamed him for killing her father. She had never accused him, but, in fact, it was remarkable that during one of their countless quarrels, she had not thrown that suspicion in his face.
He walked home, heading north on Drury Lane, past the academy, to Oxford Street, and from there to Berkeley Square. His cousins had begun teaching him his way around London. He passed the Bruton Street brothel at which the Boscastle men had a standing invitation and laughed. Harriet would roast him over a spit if he mentioned a seraglio in her presence.
He slowed his pace as he approached Bedford Square. It only now occurred to him to wonder why Sir Daniel meant to come to the house. Had he been hinting that Lady Powlis and her companion could be in danger? Griffin had never once considered that Edlyn’s abductors might grow desperate and-
He turned on impulse and walked around the square to the back walk of his house. The sunken gate to the garden was closed. Or was it? He did not even remember if he had checked. But he had ordered the gates and doors to remain locked at all times, and someone had stuck a knife in the latch. His heart skipped a beat. It was five thirty. The street was still busy enough.
He pushed the gate open and heard footsteps on the pavement behind him. One of Sir Daniel’s men strolled by with a walking stick. Had the man noticed the knife?
“Out for an after-dinner stroll?” he called to the tall-hatted figure.
The detective’s man paused. He knew who Griffin was, and he knew they were not to acknowledge each other in public. “This isn’t your knife in the latch, is it, by any chance?” Griffin asked after a hopeful pause.
The man removed his hat. Griffin noticed three other gentleman pedestrians, one with a hound, advancing on the pavement.
“Your grace,” the agent said in a low voice. “This is a sign of criminal entry. I advise you to stay here until the house is searched.”
Griffin slowly shook his head. “I am going into my house through the servants’ entrance. In the event that I come upon any criminals, I shall deal with them as I must.”
“Your grace, if I may at least accompany you?”
“Yes. But you had best go to the front door. My aunt and her companion are not exactly what one would refer to as shrinking violets. And I must warn you that in all probability they are both armed.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the arrival of my father.
MARY SHELLEY
Frankenstein
Harriet trained her pistol on the gaunt figure that had appeared like a ghost in the doorway. Dear God. She could have shot him for a stranger. He had tied his unkempt blond hair back with a bit of string. His coat and trousers stank to heaven. She was a little stunned to realize that from a distance one might actually consider him to be handsome.
“Should I shoot him first, Harriet?” Lady Powlis asked in a quavering whisper from behind the sofa.
“Don’t shoot at all. In fact-” Harriet bit her cheek, stepping around the sofa to remove the dueling pistols from Primrose’s unsteady grasp. Her ladyship was liable to shoot Harriet or herself the way those guns were bobbing up and down. “If anyone shoots our nasty visitor, it’ll be me.”
Grim Jack held his battered hat to his heart. “Is that any way to talk to your beloved sire?”
Lady Powlis’s eyes widened. “What did he say?”
“Nothing,” Harriet snapped. “He’s just some confused street gent who wandered in here by mistake. And he’s going to leave-”
Grim Jack brushed around her. “Madam, you’ve naught to fear from ’arry’s dad. We’re all friends, ain’t we?”
“Your-” Lady Powlis sniffed the air like a pointer. “What is that unusually pungent odor?”
“That would be my father,” Harriet said, passing Lady Powlis a scented handkerchief. “You’ve met him. Now he’s getting out, or I’m calling the constable.”
“’ang on a minute,” Grim Jack said, eyeing the fine Japanese vase on the mantelpiece. “I’ve risked life imprisonment, transportation, maybe even ’anging to come ’ere.”