equivalent to the way Melanie’s insides were behaving. “I didn’t think we’d pull it off. I forgot you could throw like that, Charles.”
“I’ve had a fair amount of practice of late.” Tossing a ball to Colin, but Charles didn’t add this last.
The cracked leather of the squabs creaked as Edgar turned his head. “I had no idea you had a talent for portraits of people you’d never met, Melanie.”
“Parlor tricks.” Melanie folded her hands round her reticule. The drawing was tucked safely inside along with her pistol. “Someone showed me once, a long time ago.” She felt Charles looking at her. He would realize, as clearly as if she had said the name, that she was referring to Raoul O’Roarke.
“So we go to Brighton,” Edgar said into the silence.
“As soon as we can pack.” Charles’s voice was matter-of-fact, conversational even, as though they hadn’t just been pulled back from the yawning precipice of failure.
“Four years since Miss Trevennen wrote the letter to Moore.” Edgar drew a breath. “You sound so confident.”
Charles turned his head. “My dear Edgar.” Melanie could feel the force of the gaze her husband turned on his brother. “We can’t afford to be anything else.”
“I’m coming to Brighton with you. You need at least one person who isn’t a member of the walking wounded.”
Charles was silent for a moment. “You certainly won your spurs in that brawl tonight.”
“Look, Charles, if you don’t want me—”
“On the contrary.” Charles’s tone was warmer, the vocal equivalent of a hand clapped on the shoulder. “We’ll be glad of your help. Addison can go to Surrey and talk to Mrs. Jennings.”
They pulled up in Berkeley Square, paid off the hackney, and climbed the steps. “Nothing definite,” Melanie told Michael, who greeted them at the door, “but we have a promising lead. We’re leaving for Brighton as soon as possible.” She unfastened her cloak. “Ask Randall to ready the traveling chaise.”
“I’ll send word to the stable at once, madam.” Michael lifted her cloak from her shoulders. “There’s a parcel on the table that came for you while you were out.” He gestured toward the console table beneath the hall mirror. A paper-wrapped parcel lay on its polished surface, beside the silver filigree basket for calling cards.
“Who brought it?” Charles asked.
“Scruffy-looking lad of no more than ten.” Michael took Charles’s hat and greatcoat. “He said a gentleman paid him a shilling to deliver it.”
Melanie walked to the table. Nothing was written on the parcel. It looked innocuous enough, yet she hesitated. Charles moved to her side, leaning on his stick. “Want me to open it?”
“No, I will.” She tugged at the string wrapping. It got tangled, perhaps because her fingers weren’t steady. Edgar gave her his penknife. She sliced through the string and it fell away. The paper rustled as she unwrapped it. Inside was a box, a plain wooden box, about four inches high and six deep.
A chill seemed to rise up from the marble floor and seep beneath the folds of her gown. She was vaguely conscious that Charles had moved closer to her. She opened the lid of the box, hands trembling.
Inside was her son’s severed finger.
Charles gripped his wife’s shoulders. A sour taste clogged his own throat. He held Melanie, one hand on her shoulder, the other wrapped round her waist, until the retching stopped. In his years in the Peninsula he had seen shattered skulls, entrails spilling onto the ground, heads cut from the body with the mouths still twitching and grimacing. Melanie had seen as much. He had never known her to react like this, nor had he reacted so himself.
“My God.” Edgar’s voice came from behind him. “Are you sure—”
Melanie wrenched herself away from Charles, wiped her hand across her mouth, turned back to the open box. “It’s Colin’s.”
Charles forced himself to follow her gaze. The branch of candles on the table cast all too much light on the contents of the box. It was a child’s pinkie finger, severed just below the second knuckle. Beneath the smears of blood, the skin was pale and creamy. Like Melanie’s. Like Colin’s. But—“Are you certain?” he said. His voice didn’t sound like his own.
“It’s the little finger of his right hand.” Melanie’s voice was without expression. “There’s a scratch by the second knuckle from where he fell down playing knights with Jessica yes—” Her voice caught as though she suddenly couldn’t breathe. “Yesterday.”
A cloud of rage darkened his vision. He ran his gaze over the box with deliberation. For the first time he noticed a white card tucked into the side. He picked it up by the corner. The writing on the card matched Carevalo’s letter this morning.
He dropped the card on the table and snapped the lid of the box shut. “Michael. Go round to Mr. Roth at number Forty-two Wardour Street. If he’s not at home, try the Bow Street Public Office. Ask him to come to Berkeley Square as soon as possible. Tell Randall to ready the traveling chaise. We’ll leave for Brighton as soon as we’ve seen Roth. Is Addison back? Good. Have him and Blanca pack valises for Mrs. Fraser and me. Enough for a day or two. And tell Addison to pack some things for Captain Fraser as well.” He put his hand on the back of Melanie’s neck. “Library.”
“We’d better bring the box,” she said in the same expressionless voice. “And the note. Roth should see them. Edgar, perhaps you could—”
“Yes, of course.” Edgar reached for the box, paused for a moment, then gathered up both it and the card.
They walked the few steps to the library without speaking, Charles still with his hand on the back of Melanie’s neck. Inside the room, she pulled away from him and dropped down on the sofa, hugging her arms round her.
Edgar set the box and card on the table nearest the door and began to pace the carpet. “The bastard. The goddamned lily-livered, spineless, immoral—”
“Edgar.” Charles tugged his handkerchief from his pocket and splashed it with water from the pitcher on the drinks table. “That’s not helping.”
“I don’t think—” Melanie spoke in a low, rough voice, her gaze on the carpet. “Part of me didn’t believe he’d go through with it until now.”
“Yes.” Charles dropped down in front of her and wiped her face with the damp handkerchief.
She jerked away from him. “Charles, we can’t—we don’t have time to wait for Roth,” she said, as though his words in the hall had only just registered with her.
“We can afford an hour.” He sat back on his heels, ignoring the twinge in his leg. “Roth should know about this. It may affect the search for the people who are holding Colin. And we should tell him we’re going to Brighton and what we’ve learned and how to reach us.”
She retched again. She was shuddering, hunched over, as if fighting some private war with herself.
“Do you want some tea?” Charles said. “Or—”
“I’m all right, Charles.” The words slapped against his skin. “I don’t need cosseting. Colin does.”
In two swift motions he was off the floor and on the sofa beside her. “Christ, Mel. You don’t have to do this alone.” He gathered her against him.
“Goddamnit, Charles, what are we doing?” She flung his arms off her and sprang to her feet. “We’ve been running round London all day sipping tea and swilling brandy and all the time Colin was—”
“Colin’s alive. We’re doing what we have to do to get him back. That’s all that matters.”
“We’re not doing a very good job of it, are we?” She paced the length of the room, her hands pressed against her sides, as though she would either shatter from the force of her feelings or break her bones in the effort to contain them. “You can’t control this, Charles. You can’t think your way out of it.
“He needs you, Mel.”
