When Roslyn told Fanny about the message, her friend’s expression turned sympathetic again. “Do you want me to accompany you this afternoon?”
Roslyn was very tempted to say yes. It would be much easier to face Drew in Fanny’s company. In fact, it would be far easier if she never had to lay eyes on Drew again. But she wanted to solve the mystery of Winifred’s thief.
“Thank you, no,” Roslyn responded. “I don’t know what we will find, but I would rather keep our visit as private as possible, for Winifred’s sake.” Then she pasted a smile on her lips. “So Fanny, now that you are here, will you stay for luncheon?”
A trill of musical laughter rang out. “I thought you would never ask. I am famished, since I came as soon as I awakened. Only for you, my dear, would I disturb my beauty sleep. So let me tell you about Lily’s enterprise…”
When Drew’s carriage arrived for her at one o’clock, Roslyn was startled to see that his grooms and footmen were armed with pistols and blunderbusses. But she began to understand the precaution as the vehicle wended its way through London’s East End toward the docks, for the streets grew meaner and the signs of squalor were rampant.
Finding it unpleasant to breathe for the rankness, Roslyn viewed the grim conditions with increasing consternation. If Constance Baines lived here in the stews, then her fortunes had indeed fallen desperately.
The carriage turned into a slop-covered cobblestone lane and came to a halt before a dilapidated building. Drew was waiting in front to hand Roslyn down, his expression sober as he gave her a terse greeting.
She responded with a question as he guided her up the entrance steps. “So Bow Street discovered her location?”
“Yes, from her former neighbors. According to the proprietress of these lodgings, Constance has apartments on the third floor, but I haven’t approached her yet.”
He ushered Roslyn inside to the first door, which was partway open. The proprietress was a heavyset woman with the coarse manners of a Billingsgate fishwife. When Drew handed her a shilling, she grinned widely, showing her rotting teeth.
“’Tis peculiar ye’ve come, guv’nor. Missus Baines don’t ’ave many visitors. Puts on fancy airs like she was a real lady, she does. But she won’t be welcome ’ere much longer if she can’t pay ’er rent. It’s past due by a fortnight.”
The woman climbed the rackety stairs ahead of them and stopped halfway down the dim corridor to bang on the door. Upon receiving no answer, she shouted through the thin wood panel.
“Missus Baines, ye ’ave a fancy toff and his lady ’ere to see you. Unlock this ’ere door or I’ll do it meself.”
It was another moment before the sound of a key turning in the lock could be heard. When the door cracked open an inch, Drew glanced at the proprietress.
“That will be all,” he said dismissively.
Frowning, she spun her bulky body around and stalked away as the door opened another few inches.
Roslyn was taken aback to see a wide-eyed young girl peering out. Perhaps ten years of age, she wore a patched frock that was too small for her thin frame, and she looked wary and frightened. Yet her speech was clearly upper-class when she managed to choke out, “M-May I help you, sir?”
“Yes, child,” Drew responded, his tone softening. “I would like to speak to your mother, Constance Baines.”
Her expression turned distressed. “My m-mother is ill, sir. She cannot be disturbed.”
Drew handed the girl a gilt-embossed calling card. “Then will you give her this and tell her I have questions about her son?”
Appearing indecisive, she looked over her shoulder as if she might bolt for safe refuge. But at last she opened the door fully and beckoned them to enter.
When Roslyn preceded Drew inside, she was surprised to see that, unlike the surrounding squalor of the neighborhood, the room was neat and clean, and held a kitchen of sorts, as well as a sitting area with some threadbare furniture that once had been of good quality.
“If you will please wait here, sir,” the girl murmured before she scurried toward the closed door behind her and slipped inside.
Roslyn met Drew’s gaze silently as they waited for the child’s return but knew her own distress was showing.
Several long moments passed before the girl reappeared. “My mother is too ill to leave her bed, your grace, but if you do not mind, she can receive you there.”
The rear room was a bedchamber, Roslyn saw when they followed the girl. Crowded with three beds, it was just as tidy as the outer room but less welcoming, since the windows were open against the warm summer day and foul air reeked in from the lane below.
The woman lying in the largest bed looked gaunt and feverish. There was also another child sitting silently in one corner, a girl of about six who eyed them nervously.
The elder girl went straight to her mother’s bed and took her hand. “Mama?” she whispered. “Can you talk now, Mama?”
Constance’s eyes fluttered open, and she gazed blankly at her daughter. Then she gave a start as if coming to her senses, and her worried gaze found Drew. She wet her cracked lips before speaking in a rasping, barely audible voice, “Your grace? My son…has something happened to Benjamin?”
“Your son’s name is Benjamin?” Drew asked quietly.
“Yes…” She tried to sit up, but she was too weak to manage, and at the effort, she fell into a paroxysm of coughing.
Constance was gravely ill, Roslyn realized, hearing the rattle in her chest that was symptomatic of a deadly inflammation of the lungs.
Drew stepped forward with alacrity. “Pray, don’t exert yourself, Mrs. Baines. Nothing has happened to your son to my knowledge.”
Her daughter leaned closer, obviously distraught to see her mother in such distress, but Constance waved her away. When her coughing fit subsided, she collapsed back on the pillow. “I…don’t understand…what you want with my son, then.”
“We have some questions about him that I hope you can answer,” Drew said, offering his handkerchief to the ill woman, who took it with a strange mixture of reluctance and gratitude.
“What…did you wish…to know?”
He started to answer, but Roslyn forestalled him, concerned that the girls were too young to hear about their brother’s attempted thievery. “Mrs. Baines, I am Miss Loring. The duke and I are friends of Lady Freemantle. Perhaps it would be best if we spoke in private.”
Her expression suddenly growing more apprehensive, Constance nodded weakly and glanced at the eldest girl. “Sarah…please take Daisy to the parlor. Don’t be alarmed, my love…I will be fine with our guests.”
“Yes, Mama.”
When the girls had left, shutting the bedchamber door behind them, Roslyn moved to stand beside the invalid’s bed. “Mrs. Baines,” she said gently. “Your children’s father was Sir Rupert Freemantle, is that so?”
Constance’s fingers plucked at the coverlet. “Yes.”
“And your son Benjamin is about sixteen years of age now and has ginger hair?”
“Yes, Carrot-Top is what we call him.”
“Tell us, was he wounded recently? In the arm or shoulder, perhaps?”
Constance looked confused. “Yes. A fortnight ago he was helping…to harness a team to a carriage…when the shaft slipped and gouged his arm. Why do you ask? Is Benjamin in…some kind of trouble?”
Roslyn avoided answering directly. “We wish to speak to him, but we’ve had difficulty locating him-and you as well, Mrs. Baines. We know that you lived in a house in St. John’s Wood, but you left with your children several years ago.”
“Who told you so?”
“A solicitor named Farnaby.”
Constance’s eyes darkened. “That evil man…”
