Chapter 126

Talking of time, how long it took Kendall to walk home along the gleaming rain- slicked streets he'd neither the idea nor the inclination to find out. Of course she'd left him, three months ago now. He wanted to believe all sorts of things. That he was better off without her, that she was with the runt-these damn ones were at the top of the list. Nothing gave him any rest though. There was a hole in his chest where his heart should have sat. Nothing sat there now. The awful knowledge that he had fallen for her, and she was what he needed to complete him, was an albatross he'd never wanted around his neck. These were the streets he'd often walked along with her. The memories haunted every corner, ghosts in the lamp-lit air. There was nothing he could do.
He had made inquiries, of course. The blank they drew was as frightening as the black corridors of his mind. The ones only his footsteps dogged.
Now, here he was back at his rooms. Another evening, nursing a glass of brandy, cursing that damned Langley bitch to hell. Damning himself for not leaving Lady Kertouche's immediately that night instead of worrying about the fool he might have looked. Jesus Christ on a coal barge coming up the Thames, how could she have run off like that? It would be nice to think, now that he'd confronted that bitch, that some good would come out of all this. But when had that ever happened to him?
He strode up the steps, knocked and waited for Chasens to answer. It took an age, of course. A whole proliferation of sahs balled in his face too as he removed his coat and set his cane down on the hall table. But, eventually, divested of these things, he prepared to go to the study, pour himself a nightcap.
An envelope lay on the table, a small, square blue one. "What's that?"
"What it looks like, sir."
"I can see it's a bloody envelope. What I'm meaning is what's it doing there?"
"Well, where else would you like me to put it... sir?"
Apart from the bloody obvious, which the man was obviously too polite to say out loud.
"You can put it in the scullery bin for all I care. What I'm meaning is what is it doing here when that's Mrs. Ferret's name on it?"
"Well, she is at Catterton, sir. But perhaps you desire I grow wings and fly it there?"
"I don't anything of the sort."
Which was what he was out of-sorts. He dragged in a breath. Why couldn't it have been her waiting for him here, instead of this envelope for Mrs. Ferret?
"I just don't see why you couldn't have put it in the kitchen for the post boy to take on to Catterton in the morning."
"I feared it would have become lost with the pots and pans there, sir."
He picked it up. Actually, who knew Ferret was here? In all the time she'd been here, there hadn't been any letters for her.
Chasens cleared his throat. "But, if you wish I will take it there now."
He had a better idea. One that certainly didn't involve putting any letter in any scullery with any pot or pan. Or sending it on with any post boy either. An idea that involved him opening the table drawer where the letter opener was kept. He grasped it, slit the thin vellum. Four one-pound notes fluttered to the floor. Who had sent this money? If he'd seen Splendor's writing, he'd know.
He snatched the piece of paper from the envelope.
"Sir ... "
"Do I really think I should open a letter addressed to Mrs. Ferret? Yes, I do. Do I really think you should stand there as I do? No, I do not. Be assured I will see she gets her four pounds if that's your worry. Now go."
He would see that Ferret did, unless he found out that damn woman had given Splendor money to aid her escape, unless he found out that same damn woman knew where she was all this time and had let him sweat, in which case he would think about it.
He tossed the envelope aside, held the thin, almost translucent piece of paper to the light.
'Farnborough Workhouse.'
A shiver ran up his spine. Who the hell did Ferret have in Farnborough Workhouse, and why hadn't she said anything if she had? He knew she had an older sister and a nephew, but that was all.
'I am hoping this finds you as well as I am. That I'm here doesn't mean things aren't going well. On the contrary. Although it would be fair to say they could go better.'
He almost couldn't read on. Ferret had kept this to herself? No wonder the woman was as cantankerous as an aged donkey. He held the letter higher, peered harder.
'However, for a while they were going very well indeed, which is why I am able to at least repay you the money you so kindly lent me the evening we left in such a hurry. I will always be your grateful servant and in your debt. The only thing I beg is that you keep the secret of my whereabouts. You seemed to know me, so I know you will know why. It may even be you found out more. That thing makes it all the more imperative you never say anything to anyone. Ever.'
There was no signature. He fought to calm his hammering heart. This wasn't from a relative. Did he need to see the spidery scrawl crawling across the paper, setting the fine hairs on the back of his neck on edge, to know exactly who this was from?
He flicked the paper back over, looking for the date. Not long enough ago for her to be anywhere else. Get stuck in these damnable places, and you weren't able to leave in a hurry. They got you and they kept you. What the hell was she doing there?
Benefiting the poor? And why the hell had she no money? The answer stared him in the face. Because whoever she was, she wasn't who she said.
He must leave at once. Whatever it took, he must find her.