were two of them. One man’s feet are longer by a good two inches. Inside—they definitely climbed in through the window, but it looks as though they left by way of the kitchen.”
Melanie started. “But the scrap of fabric on the windowsill—”
“Doesn’t match Colin’s nightshirts. I compared it to one in his wardrobe. The scrap must have come from one of the thieves’ shirts. I found a faint scrape of dirt on the carpet in the corridor and more on the back stairs.”
“You mean they climbed in through Colin’s window and then carried him down to the kitchen?”
“I think it’s more likely Colin went downstairs on his own.”
“Of course,” she said. “Midnight hunger pangs.”
“Quite. When the thieves didn’t find him in his room, they guessed the kitchen was the likeliest place to look. They found him there and went out through the kitchen door into the garden.”
The image flickered before Melanie’s eyes with the blinding pain of sunlight striking snow-covered ground.
Berowne stirred on the coverlet, stretching a paw toward them. Charles reached down to give the cat an absent pet. “I told the Bow Street Runner—Roth is his name—that we’d be in the small salon.”
“Then we should go down.” Melanie rubbed at the smudge on his face. “I’ll ask Laura to sit with Jessica.”
He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. Melanie took a deep breath, gathering her forces for the interview with the Bow Street Runner. Questions had to be asked. God knew questions needed to be asked.
How they were to be answered was another matter entirely.
The Frasers were standing in front of the veined cream marble fireplace, flanked by matched silver candlesticks, the porcelain mantel clock between them. Melanie Fraser had her back to the door, her dark head held at a proud angle, the pin-tucked skirt of her pale blue gown falling in perfect folds round her. Charles Fraser had one hand on his wife’s shoulder, the other on the mantel, his claret-colored coat an unexpected jolt of color among the cool tones of the room.
They could have been posing for a portrait of a typical Mayfair couple, at home in their perfect jewel box of a world. Save that this was an hour when no fashionable couple would be awake. Unless, of course, they had failed to go to bed, in which case they would probably not be in each other’s company.
Charles Fraser lifted his gaze to the doorway. “Oh, Roth, good. Come in.” The rough Scottish lilt in his voice was more pronounced than it had been when Roth arrived. Otherwise he sounded perfectly in command of himself. Roth marveled, as he had on his arrival, at Fraser’s composure. The result of training from the cradle, no doubt. In his place, Roth would have been tearing his hair out and smashing things.
“You haven’t met my wife,” Fraser said, as Roth advanced into the room.
“Mrs. Fraser.” Roth inclined his head, then felt the breath catch unexpectedly in his throat. He had heard Melanie Fraser described as beautiful. He had seen an engraving of her once, in a print shop window. Neither the description nor the picture had done her justice. He had seen women with more perfect features, more flawless complexions, more voluptuous bodies, but there was a radiance about Melanie Fraser that made it impossible to look away. His inner defenses slammed into place. His own wife had taught him not to trust beauty.
“Please sit down, Mr. Roth.” Her voice was as well-modulated as her husband’s, but she had a slight accent that, while not obviously French or Spanish, betrayed that English was not her native tongue. She moved toward a green satin sofa, her gown rustling softly. The only sign that she had dressed hastily was the few strands of dark hair that had escaped about her face—that, and the absence of any jewelry. She looked like a woman who always wore earrings. “I’ve had coffee sent in,” she said. “I imagine you could use it as much as we can.”
Roth glanced at the sofa table, where a silver coffee service and an array of porcelain cups were set out on an intricately patterned blue-and-white tray that was probably Wedgwood. He wasn’t sure what startled him more, the fact that Melanie Fraser was composed enough to make such an offer or that she had been thoughtful enough to do so. In truth, the coffee would be welcome. He’d been questioning a trio of robbery suspects in the Brown Bear Tavern until past three in the morning. He had just returned to the Public Office to write up his notes when Charles Fraser’s message arrived.
He crossed to a chair opposite the sofa, a spindly thing upholstered in a shiny cream-colored fabric. He found himself wondering how they managed to keep the upholstery clean. Perhaps they simply had it recovered every year.
Charles Fraser dropped down on the sofa beside his wife. He moved with the loose-limbed elegance of one bred to command. “You saw the garden and Colin’s room?”
Roth nodded. “I was hoping there’d turn out to be some mistake. But I’m afraid there’s no doubt your son was taken.”
Melanie Fraser set down the coffeepot with a thud that echoed through the room. Coffee spattered onto the glossy surface of the table and the delicate folds of her gown. “We know that.” Her voice shook, cutting through the cinnamon and cloves of the potpourri-scented air. “We wouldn’t have sent for you otherwise.”
Charles Fraser put a hand on his wife’s arm. She drew a harsh breath, stirring the pleated muslin at the neck of her gown. “I’m sorry.” She jabbed the loose strands of hair behind her ear. “It’s just so bloody awful.”
The light from the branch of candles on the sofa table fell full on her face, revealing what Roth hadn’t been able to see from the doorway. Her posture might be perfect, her voice controlled, her manners impeccable—but her eyes held a raw anguish that Roth had seen in the eyes of Billingsgate fishwives and Oxford Street milliners and Covent Garden harlots. The sick terror of a mother who fears for her child was a universal language, whatever the woman’s accent. He felt a rush of cold shame. Melanie Fraser might not deserve more consideration than a woman of lower station, but neither did she deserve less.
“There’s no need to apologize, Mrs. Fraser. Bloody awful sums it up very well.” He leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. “You have a good eye, Mr. Fraser. It looks as if it happened just as you guessed. They came through the garden gate and probably tossed a rope up over the ledge of the window to your son’s room. I found a few strands of rope stuck to the wall.”
Melanie Fraser tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it over the spilled coffee. “You’re sure they
“I’m not sure of anything, Mrs. Fraser. But they entered the house through your son’s bedchamber window, a silly thing to do if they were bent on robbery. And as far as we can tell, nothing else is missing from the house. So yes, I’d say it’s likely your son was their target.”
She twisted the coffee-soaked handkerchief in her hands, as though she could knead answers out of the damp linen.
Fraser was looking at his wife. Lines were etched deep into the sharp Celtic planes of his face, but otherwise his control hadn’t faltered. “They didn’t go to all this trouble to take Colin in order to do him a mischief, Mel.”
It was not the sort of comfort most husbands would offer their wives, but Melanie Fraser nodded. “No. There is that.” She picked up the coffeepot again and poured out three cups with painstaking care. “Cream, Mr. Roth?”
“Black.” He leaned forward to accept the silver-rimmed cup she was holding out, close enough to catch the spicy floral scent of her skin and to see the smeared traces of blacking round her eyes.
Charles Fraser stared into his own cup. “London is full of boys it would be all too easy to snatch off the street. So whoever took Colin must want him to extract money from us or to use as leverage against one or both of us.”
Roth took a welcome sip of the strong, hot coffee. “That seems the likeliest explanation.” He balanced the fragile cup in his hand. “To own the truth, I’ve never come across a case like this nor heard tell of one. Young heiresses are sometimes abducted in the hope of forcing a marriage, but this is obviously something very different. As I said, the men were professionals, probably hired for the job. I don’t believe in false reassurance. But if they’ve taken your son for ransom or to use as a bargaining chip, they’ll keep him safe and healthy.”
