She followed Callie and Major Hayes into the parlor, which thankfully she had already dusted. In fact, the dust cloth was still in her hand, and she hastily dropped it on her chair and sat on it, trying to calm her thundering pulse. Perhaps she should have told him to just take the horses the other day…
“I have come at the request of Colonel Lord Augustus Hastings,” said the major when he had taken a seat. “I believe you wrote to him inquiring after your father.” Callie shot a worried look at Cressida, but slowly nodded. Major Hayes smiled a little, a kind, reassuring smile. Not at all like a vulture. “He has asked me to look into your father’s disappearance, and to see if I might be of assistance to your family.”
“Why didn’t you say this earlier?” Cressida said before she could stop herself. He had come to help them, not to beggar them—oh, if only she had known that yesterday! She had pointed the pistol at him before he could explain anything, it was true, but if he had mentioned his connection to Hastings or his intentions, she certainly wouldn’t have kept pointing it at him.
He turned those deep blue eyes on her, and she wished she hadn’t spoken. “I was somewhat discomposed when we met previously, Miss Turner. Forgive me.”
“Of course,” she muttered. If he had been discomposed, what would describe her feeling now? Regret, that she had almost shot a man who came in response to her letter? She could hardly apologize for that now, with Callie glancing curiously between the two of them. Cressida dug her fingernails into her palms. No, it wasn’t regret; more like red-faced embarrassment. Had she really called him a vulture, even if only in her mind? She resolved to let Callie, the more temperate sister, speak from now on.
“That is very good of you, sir,” her sister said when Cressida sat in resolute silence. “Lord Hastings sent us only a brief note that he knew nothing of what my father might have done after their meeting, and that he would make inquiries.”
Major Hayes nodded. “I was informed of your situation and asked to make those inquiries. I know only the bare facts, though, and anything you can tell me would be a great help.”
Callie cleared her throat and looked down. “Yes. Thank you. I—We—That is, my father left four months ago. He had gone to meet Lord Hastings in London, and we expected him to return within a fortnight.”
“Did he send any word after his meeting with Lord Hastings that he would be delayed or planned to stay longer?”
“No.”
The major’s piercing eyes flashed toward Cressida for just a second. “And you did not write to Lord Hastings until a fortnight ago.”
This time Callie turned toward Cressida, silently appealing for help. She wet her lips and reminded herself to be calm and polite. “Our father is not in the habit of telling us his every plan. We did expect him home sooner, but it would not be unusual for him to do…other things.”
“Might those other things delay him three months?”
“Yes,” she said. It didn’t reflect very well on Papa, and she hated telling this stranger that he regularly took off on unexplained larks, but there was no point in hiding it, and she was beginning to run out of patience with her father anyway. “Sometimes.”
“Ah.” He was still looking at her. “And do you usually worry?”
Cressida felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Did they often write to senior military officers and ask for helping finding him, was what the major meant. “Not normally, no.”
“If I may be so bold, what has alarmed you this time?”
He knew, she thought; he knew it was because they were running out of money. “He has never been gone this long,” said Callie, diplomatically stepping into the breach. “We’ve had no word from him, and he did say he would return soon. We wrote to Lord Hastings in the hope Papa might have mentioned something to indicate where he had gone.”
“Of course. I hope I may be of assistance in locating him soon. As I’ve no acquaintance with your father, it would be most helpful if you could describe him, sketch his character for me, to give me an idea where to begin.”
Cressida bristled, although she tried to hide it. How was this man going to find Papa when he didn’t know the first thing about him? “He’s my height,” she began in a flat voice. “Dark, like my sister, and very fit. If there is a gathering in the pub sharing ale, my father will be in the center of it, laughing and talking with everyone. He’s clever and very amiable, the sort of fellow everyone likes.”
Alec listened closely as she spoke, absorbing every detail available. The two sisters were nervous, although the taller one, whom he had met the other day across her pistol, was also angry—at whom, he wasn’t certain, although from the way her eyes flashed when she looked his way, he was sure her opinion of him had not improved overnight. The other lady, Mrs. Phillips, was the prettier sister, with wide dark eyes and a delicate face. Her hands were slender and graceful, and the pile of curls atop her head gave her the appearance of a willowy flower.
Miss Turner, though, was more interesting. From her clenched hands to her rigid posture, he saw more of interest in her than in anything about her sister. Aside from the fact that she was not pleased to see him—perhaps out of instinctive dislike, perhaps out of embarrassment for her behavior the previous day—he could tell she was
