Melanie took a step away from Morningham as the door closed. Edgar released his breath. “Glad you finally saw sense, Moore. I half expected you to try to bolt again—Oh, I see.” He noted the pistol in Melanie’s hand. “Wise man. She’s a capital shot.”
James Morningham—or, rather, Jemmy Moore—stood stock-still in the middle of the room, Melanie’s handkerchief pressed to his bleeding nose. His gaze darted from Edgar to Melanie to Charles, who was leaning against the door panels. “Who the hell are you working for?” he said in a hoarse voice.
Melanie lowered the pistol. “Mr. Morningham—Mr. Moore—we owe you an apology. Had I realized how my question would distress you I’d have phrased it differently and we all might have been spared a great deal of bother. Please sit down.”
When he continued to stand motionless, she took him by the arm and steered him to a chintz-covered armchair. “No, don’t tilt your head back, lean it forward, that stops a nose-bleed faster.” She set the pistol down on the table. “Trust me, I have cause to know, I have two children.”
Jemmy Moore dropped his head in his hands, then winced as he touched his forehead. “Which one of you hit me? With what?”
“I did.” Charles moved away from the door. “With a dice box. It was the nearest thing to hand. Sorry for the bruises. We weren’t prepared for you to run.” He walked to the table, leaned his hand on it, and stood looking down at Moore in the glow of the single lamp. “Miss Trevennen told you she’d be in danger if anyone knew where she was. Caring for her as you do, you took that very seriously.”
“Yes, I—” Moore dropped his head forward as his nose started to drip blood again. “Don’t suppose it would do much good now to say I’ve never heard of a Helen Trevennen?”
“None at all.” Charles walked to the fireplace, took a brimstone match from a jasperware jar on the mantel, and held it to the fire. “I don’t know what this lady told you, but her name is Melanie Fraser, and she’s my wife.” He lit the tapers in the brass candlesticks on the mantel. “Our six-year-old son was taken from our house last night and we think Miss Trevennen may—quite unwittingly—hold the key to getting him back.”
Moore gave a bark of laughter. “You expect me to believe a story like that?”
“Not really,” Melanie said. “That’s why I didn’t try it to begin with. But it happens to be the truth.”
Moore looked at her for a moment, from an awkward angle, his head still tilted down. “It’s mad.”
“It most certainly is.” Charles tossed the match into the fire and turned to face Moore. “And this madness could cost our son’s life.”
Moore swallowed. “But—”
He was interrupted by a scratching at the door, followed by the entrance of one of the waiters with a decanter of brandy, glasses, a champagne bucket full of ice, and plentiful towels. Charles poured the brandy. Melanie supplied Edgar and Moore with ice wrapped in towels to apply to their various bruises.
“How do you know my name?” Moore asked, as Melanie handed him the towel.
“Helen’s sister Susan told us.”
His mouth quirked. “Susy. I haven’t seen her in years.” He pressed the ice-filled towel to his forehead. “What do you really want with Nelly?”
Melanie sank into one of the painted beech chairs clustered round the table. “What we’ve told you is true. We’d never invent something so fantastic.” As quickly as possible, she sketched the story of the ring and why they believed it was in Helen Trevennen’s possession.
Moore listened in patent disbelief, which changed to amazement and then, just possibly, to the faintest stirrings of acceptance. By the time she finished, he was slumped back in his chair. His nose had stopped bleeding, but he looked as if he had just received another blow to the face. “If that’s true,” he said at last, “it’s monstrous. But—”
Melanie leaned forward, hands spread palms-down on the table to still their trembling. “Mr. Moore, you’re our last hope.”
Moore sloshed the brandy in his glass. “I knew when I brought Nelly to London that I wouldn’t be able to keep her to myself for long. Still, I thought there’d always be something between us…”
Charles had moved to a chair beside Melanie. “Susan said her sister kept coming back to you.”
“Every now and again.”
“I can’t believe she’d have left London without saying good-bye to you.”
“Oh, she said good-bye. Nelly was good at saying good-bye. She came to see me the night before she left London. She said she had to go away, she was going to be all right—more than all right—but she couldn’t come back. It wouldn’t be safe. I didn’t really believe her.” He shook his head. “She’d always come back before.”
“Did she say why she had to go away?” Charles asked.
“I assumed she was going off with a man. I didn’t want to humiliate myself by asking. I half thought the secrecy was just Nelly giving herself airs. But there was a note in her voice—She was afraid of something, and Nelly didn’t frighten easily. When the months went by and I didn’t hear a word from her, I—I worried. It would take a lot to keep Nelly away from London.”
Charles held Moore with the steadiness of his gaze. “And then you did hear?”
Moore released his breath in a long sigh of capitulation. “Four years ago. I had a letter. She said she was well and I mustn’t worry about her, but that it still wasn’t safe to tell me more.”
Melanie heard a gasp of relief and realized it came from Edgar. She drew a breath. Her necklace felt cold and hard round her throat. “Did she say where she was?”
“No. Nothing so specific.”
“Did she mention friends?” Charles asked. “Landlords, employers?”
Moore shook his head. “She didn’t mention anyone, by name or by implication.”
“Activities?” Charles drilled him with his gaze. “The climate, the surroundings—”
Something flashed in Moore’s eyes. He hesitated, then spoke in a rush. “She said she was growing to like the sea air. And then she added that the Prince Regent’s taste in architecture was as garish as one heard.”
Melanie looked at Charles. She felt as though a crushing weight had just been lifted from her chest. “The Pavilion. Brighton.”
“Very likely.” Moore took another swallow of brandy. “If Nelly did leave London, it’s like her to pick somewhere stylish.”
Melanie took a piece of paper and a pencil from her reticule and began to sketch in quick, broad strokes. “Did she say anything else?”
Moore screwed up his face as though in an effort to remember. “That she might not be able to write again, but I should know she’d be thinking of me. That she”—he turned his head toward the fire—“that she treasured her memories of our time together.” This last seemed to be a quote committed to memory. “Damned sentimental language for Nelly.”
Charles picked up the decanter and refilled the glasses. “What sort of paper was the letter written on?”
“Paper?”
“Was it foolscap, pressed paper, scented—”
“Oh, I see what you mean.” Moore closed his eyes. “Nice cream laid paper. Smelled like lavender. Not the sort of scent Nelly wore when I knew her. I suppose—that sounds as though she’s doing rather well for herself, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Charles said. “It does.”
Melanie set down her pencil and pushed her sketch across the table to him. “Does that resemble Miss Trevennen at all?”
“Good lord.” Moore stared at the sketch. “I thought you said you’d never met Nelly.”
“I haven’t. I based it on Susan Trevennen. Does it look like her?”
“Quite a bit. Her eyes are a trifle wider set and her mouth curls up a bit more. And—” His fingers drifted over the drawing. “Her brows arch more,” he said, as though only just realizing it.
Melanie pulled the paper back, smudged out some lines, redrew them, and returned the sketch to Moore.
He studied it for a long moment. “Yes, that’s Nelly. To the life.” His eyes misted. He put an impatient hand to his face. “Sorry. But it’s rather nice to look upon her face again.”
Edgar rested his head against the greasy squabs of the hackney. “Christ.” His voice trembled, roughly
