“I do not know,” answered the girl, her lip quivering.
MISS TEMPLE turned at a sound on the main stairs. A young man in a black coat with a yellow waxed moustache and blue eyes approached them, a sheaf of papers under one arm. In his Ministry topcoat, he could have been a lesser cousin of Roger Bascombe, but as he came nearer Miss Temple saw the pallor of his skin, and the bloodied nails on the hand that held the white papers.
“There you are.” He noted Miss Temple's presence with an irritated frown. “Who is this?”
“I am Miss Stearne.”
“What is she doing here?” the man asked Tackham.
“I am a friend of Lydia Vandaariff,” Miss Temple answered him. “What are you doing so freely in my friend's house?”
“This is Miss Stearne.” Captain Tackham smiled.
The Ministry man ignored her. “You are well behind schedule, Captain. There is no time—”
“If there's so little time, where in hell have you been?” Tackham snapped.
The other man's eyes shot wide at such language in front of the children, but he erupted in a wicked sneeze, and then two more in rapid succession, even as he shifted the papers to his other arm and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He finally wiped his nose but not before they had all seen the first smear of blood on the yellow waxed hair on his upper lip.
“I'll not have this impertinence. Mr. Phelps is waiting with the Duke.”
“Will you join us?” Captain Tackham asked Miss Temple.
“Yes, please,” said Francesca in a small voice.
“Of course she will not,” snapped the man from the Ministry.
“She has a case of hairbrushes,” announced Charles, as if this were especially significant. The Ministry man ignored him and folded his handkerchief away.
“Captain Tackham! The Duke!”
“What is your name?” Miss Temple asked the man.
“He is Mr. Harcourt,” replied Tackham.
“Mr. Harcourt has not answered my question about what he is doing with another man's children in my good friend's house.”
Harcourt fixed her with an unpleasant glare.
“Perhaps you'd like to come with us after all? Perhaps you'd care to explain—” He sniffed again, for the dark pearl of blood had reappeared “—to the Duke just where your good friend's father has gone off to!”
Harcourt wheeled toward the stairs. Tackham snapped his fingers for Francesca's hand without shifting his gaze from Miss Temple, who was shocked to see, as the girl extended her arm to the officer, the sleeve of the child's dress slide up to reveal a blot of cotton wool stuck to the hollow of her elbow with blood. As the unlikely party disappeared behind the balcony rail, all three children looked back to her, like lambs on a leash to market.
IT HAD been gratifying how easily her being disagreeable to Harcourt had resulted in his leaving her behind—but unless the Captain was a fool, there would be immediate inquiries about one Isobel Stearne, and soldiers sent to find her. That the children were being brought to the Duke—that the Duke was still in play—meant Mrs. Marchmoor had survived, and that the children were being brought to her. Yet the shock Miss Temple had felt in her mind as she fled the garden had been real. Something had hurt the glass woman dearly, but not dearly enough.
She smiled at Harcourt's slip revealing that they'd still no idea how Robert Vandaariff had disappeared, pleased with an opportunity to puzzle something out for herself—such puzzling being an excellent distraction from the distressing urges of her body (had it been necessary to so notice the delicate curve of Captain Tackham's throat?) and the foul taste that would not leave the back of her throat. Vandaariff's absence must be related to the fires at Harschmort—but had he been taken, or murdered?
Miss Temple paused on the landing, wondering why a Dragoon officer had been guarding children—and then what the Trapping children were doing here to begin with. Had they been taken hostage against their mother's cooperation? Why waste time kidnapping the children of a powerless woman? Thus, Charlotte Trapping was not powerless, but a person Mrs. Marchmoor needed to control… could she be the new adversary? With the death of her husband she surely had a motive.
On the carpet lay a crumble of chocolate biscuit, directly outside a door. Miss Temple walked to the door and opened it. On a spindle-legged side table next to a mirror-fronted cabinet sat an unfinished snifter of brandy and a half-smoked cheroot in a ceramic dish. Clearly Captain Tackham had found his own distractions. Farther into the room were two uncomfortable-looking armchairs with yellow cushions, and across from these (beneath a strange painting of an old man glaring oddly at two half-dressed young women) was a fancily carved camp bed, with a long, blue-striped bolster. Beneath it lay more chocolate crumbs.
Beyond the camp bed was another doorway. Through it came the sound of the scuffling of papers, and then a dry voice croaking with impatience.
“Are you back again, Tackham? What have you cocked up this time?”
Miss Temple clapped a hand across her mouth to stifle a gasp. In the mirrored cabinet, she could see, reflected from the far side of the doorway—disheveled, sickly, but still without question—of all people, Andrew Rawsbarthe, Roger Bascombe's aide. On his desk top lay an open leather case lined with orange felt and containing inset depressions for small glass-stoppered vials. Three of these spaces were empty. These vials, their ruby contents glowing darkly, lay before Rawsbarthe, who was in the midst of gluing to each, with shaking fingers (each ending in a ragged and split purpled nail) small labels. To the side lay jumbled wads of cotton wool, streaked with still-bright blood. He finished the last label, slipped the vials into the case, and snapped it closed.
“Captain Tackham! I am in no state for teasing.”
The chair scraped as Mr. Rawsbarthe stood. He would know her—they had been in each other's company a score of times. Had Roger taken him into his confidence? Or was he another of Mrs. Marchmoor's minions, to be occupied and consumed? Did he know of Miss Temple's actions against the Cabal? Ought she snatch up the brandy bottle and crack him on the head?
Rawsbarthe called, less certain, “Mr. Fochtmann?”
He appeared in the doorway, the leather case tucked under one arm. Miss Temple had not moved. They stared at one another.
“Hello, Mr. Rawsbarthe. I'm sure I did not expect to find you here.”
“Miss Temple! Nor I—of all people—you!”
Andrew Rawsbarthe had always been the servile functionary hovering at Roger's right arm, and as a young woman inured to servantry from an early age—and servantry of an especially abject status—Miss Temple had regarded him as merely a more animated, speaking species of footstool.
“Permit me to observe you do not look at all well.”
“A smithereen of fatigue,” offered Rawsbarthe, plucking at his shirt collar. “Extra duties with this recent unrest. It will pass.”
“You have lost a tooth.”
“But I have found you,” the man replied, his tongue reflexively sliding over the gap. “In Harschmort House.”
“I believe it is I have done the finding.”
Miss Temple noticed Mr. Rawsbarthe's eyes upon her bosom… and was shocked that instead of sparking her bitter ire, she sensed with a mocking pleasure what power his covetous desire granted her, and what she might now be able to do.
His eyes flicked to the open door behind her.
Sensing that Rawsbarthe sought to prevent her exit, she reached for the door herself and swung it closed, the clasp catching with a well-greased click to shut them in together.
“That is a new coat you wear,” said Miss Temple. “And of a finer cut. Do you know where Mr. Bascombe—your superior—is?”
Mr. Rawsbarthe cleared his throat and swallowed. “Do you?”
“Do you know why you molt to pieces like a dying parrot?”
“Roger Bascombe is dead!” blurted Rawsbarthe, openly gauging her reaction to this news.
“Is he?”