The concept and the question wreathed through her mind, and followed her into her dreams.
Chapter 17
“There you are, dear.” Audrey dropped a neatly written reference on the agency’s kitchen table before Phoebe. “Do you need any more?”
Phoebe picked up the letter, read it, then looked up and smiled. “Not at present. But thank you—this will be perfect.”
“Of course. Do let me know when you require another.” With a wave, Audrey drifted back up the corridor; they heard her taking her leave of Emmeline, behind the front counter, then the front door opened and shut.
Deverell glanced at Phoebe; they shared a smile, then he returned his attention to the account books. When appealed to over a forged reference for Miss Spry, Audrey had been delighted to oblige. She and Edith had seized on the provision of such references as one way they could contribute to the agency’s work; he suspected Audrey took great delight in inventing households, and with her artistic bent she had no difficulty disguising her hand so she could create references from multiple imaginary ladies.
“With this,” Phoebe murmured, setting aside the reference, “Dulcie should be able to secure that post with Lady Huntwell.”
And yet another of their “special clients” would be settled. But Phoebe had been speaking the unvarnished truth when she’d warned this was their busy time; they had three more rescues pending.
The front door opened and shut once more; Deverell lifted his head. With Phoebe, he listened to the voices in the front room; it was a woman who’d come in—her voice and Emmeline’s were too soft for him to make out their words.
The woman didn’t remain long; as soon as the front door shut again, Emmeline came down the corridor.
Halting in the archway, from where she could retreat to the front if anyone entered, she showed them a puzzled, frowning face. “Well—that’s a strange thing, to be sure.”
“What is?” Birtles came in from the lane, a sack of potatoes in his arms. “Where’d you want these?”
Emmeline pointed to the pantry, then answered his first question. “That was my sister, Rose. She popped in to tell me that that girl she’d mentioned, from her friend Mrs. Camber’s household that she and Camber thought needed our services—well, it seems the girl’s up and gone of her own accord.”
Deverell frowned.
“Run away?” Phoebe asked.
Emmeline nodded. “That’s what Camber said. She’d spoken to the girl—she was being pursued by her master’s nephew—and she, the girl, had seemed keen to have us help her, but this morning the girl was gone. Camber thought as perhaps she grew so desperate she didn’t want to wait and simply fled.”
They all thought of a young maid fleeing into the streets of London.
“Well,” Phoebe said, her expression grim but resigned, “we can only help those who come our way.”
Emmeline nodded and headed back to the front counter. Birtles humphed and went out to fetch the rest of his purchases.
Phoebe returned to sorting her lists; Deverell eyed her bent head and wondered. Had the maid run away or…?
Try as he might, he couldn’t guess what it was he sensed hovering just beyond perception’s reach.
On the opposite side of London, Malcolm Sinclair climbed the three steps to the recessed door of a tall, narrow building located off Threadneedle Street in the bustling heart of the city. Pushing open the outer door, he entered; without looking to right or left, he ascended to the first floor. The rooms at the end of the corridor overlooking the street housed the offices of Drayton and Company, Mr. Thomas Glendower’s business agent.
Malcolm tapped peremptorily on the office door and entered.
Less than a minute later, he was shown into Drayton’s sanctum. Drayton, average in every physical way, mild-mannered but yet a skilled and exceedingly thorough man-of-business, was already on his feet behind the desk, a smile wreathing his countenance. “Mr. Glendower—a pleasure as always, sir.”
Smiling faintly, aloof and distant, Malcolm shook Drayton’s hand. “I trust all goes well?”
“Indeed, sir.” Drayton waved Malcolm to the chair before the desk; he waited until Malcolm elegantly sat before sinking back into his own chair. “You’ll be pleased to know that the position we took in Bonnington and Company has already paid a substantial dividend.”
Drayton continued, giving Malcolm—Thomas Glendower—a detailed report on his considerable portfolio.
Malcolm listened intently, but while one part of his mind registered facts and figures, another part circled, as always, as ever, checking, considering, assessing and evaluating his options and his decisions, his moves in the game, on the chessboard of life, of which Drayton and Thomas Glendower were one.
Potentially a vital one.
Henry knew nothing of Thomas Glendower, and even less of Malcolm’s facility with finance, with business and the raising and profitable management of capital.