Page 64 of About a Rogue
Max nodded once. “She’s gone to the shop in Cheapside? Or did she have plans with Lady Dalway?”
“The shop, sir.”
Damn. He wouldn’t have worried as much if she were sitting in some elegant drawing room or millinery shop with Serafina and other ladies. Max nodded again. “I want you to go there and escort her home. Not until she’s ready, but make certain she arrives home safely.”
“Won’t Mr. Cooke be there, sir?”
Max didn’t trust his wife’s safety to any letting agent. Cooke wanted to lease her a shop, nothing more. “I don’t give a bloody damn if Cooke is there. Go, and see that she returns home without trouble.”
He had hired Lawrence because the man was available, let go by Percy Willoughby without much warning. The man had a sharp eye for fashion, didn’t shirk his duties, and knew when to keep his mouth closed, all of which were essential in a manservant. But Lawrence had three other attributes Max prized: he was intelligent, he was observant, and he had a fondness for boxing. Max had seen him lay out men bigger and broader than himself with one punch.
Max had learned the hard way how beneficial it could be to have a strong, loyal fellow at his back.
“I have some urgent business to attend to,” he went on. “If I can, I’ll go to Cheapside myself and bring madam home. But if not, I want you there.”
Lawrence nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll go now.”
Max dug a few shillings out of his purse. “Find a hackney.”
“Sir... What shall I tell her? She’ll be astonished to see me.”
Max hesitated. He didn’t want to alarm Bianca, not until he could explain things to her himself. “Blame it on my eagerness to see her,” he said reluctantly. He didn’t like to lie to his wife. “Explain that she may finish her business there, but I desire her to come home as soon as she may.”
Lawrence nodded and darted back into the house for his cap and coat. Max strode off, south, toward the river, too tightly wound to ride or take a carriage.
He found his man in Whitehall, near the Privy Gardens. William Leake was lounging against a lamppost, looking dissolute and drunk. At the sight of Max, he unfolded himself from his slump and ambled off toward the nearest tavern, where they met at a back table.
“Any word?” asked Max without preamble.
Leake shook his head. “Not yet. ’Tis a sensitive question, you understand.”
Max sighed. He knew that, all too well. “I want you to find someone else now.”
“All right,” said Leake without hesitation. “Another lady? Or are we done looking for her?”
Max hated to take Leake off that task. The man had made little progress, even though it had been a few months. Max had engaged him with the windfall from the Duchess of Carlyle, and had hoped Leake would succeed by now. “No, not done. I’m never done until I find her. But now I need to know the whereabouts of a man.”
“Gentleman?” Leake rested his elbows on the table, his gaze moving restlessly about the tavern.
“Not in any true sense of the word,” muttered Max. “But I suppose he thinks of himself as such. He certainly prefers to live like one.”
“Don’t we all, mate.” Leake grinned. “What’s he done?” Max glared and Leake shrugged. “Just curious. What’s his name?”
“I have reason to believe he might be in London,” said Max, ignoring the question. “He is originally from Bristol, and recently resided in Reading.”
“What makes you think he’s in London?”
“I received a letter from him today, delivered by messenger. He spoke of things only someone in London could have witnessed. It might have been someone else who reported back to him, but the timing makes it unlikely. If he’s not in London, he’s near.”
“What’s his name?” asked Leake again.
The very taste of it was foul in his mouth. “Silas Croach.”
Leake paused, his roving gaze arrested.
Grimly Max nodded. “It’s her husband.”
Bianca wasn’t sure when it happened, but she had grown rather enamored of Max’s idea to create a new brand of dinnerware.
