Gervase nodded.
Finishing her tea, she set the cup down. She felt fully restored, ready to face the world and any villain in her quest to rescue Ben. She glanced at the men.
As usual Gervase, sipping his coffee, seemed to read her mind. “I’ve already told Christian the whole story.” At his words, somberness settled about them, upon them. “We need to decide how best to search for Ben. Christian agrees he’s unlikely to be released until the afternoon.”
Christian leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. He met Madeline’s gaze. “I’ve been thinking, evaluating the ways—the best ways—to locate Ben.” He glanced at Gervase, then looked again at Madeline and went on. “It’s likely that when they release Ben, they’ll set him free in a slum, in the stews. They won’t want him found too quickly—the villain wants you to stay in London for a few days at least. So we should assu
me that Ben will suddenly find himself alone on the street in a dangerous part of town.”
Again Christian paused, then said, “I have contacts, numerous acquaintances, in London’s underworld. What I propose is that I contact those who are essentially the overlords of each of the slums, and alert them to the situation—send them a description of Ben, and tell them we want him back unharmed. They’ll put the word out, and their people will all be on the lookout for Ben. The chances of them finding him quickly, and unharmed, are high.”
Madeline studied the gray eyes fixed unwaveringly on hers. “What’s the drawback? Obviously there is one.”
Christian’s lips quirked; he inclined his head. “Indeed. I won’t send out that message unless you approve. The drawback is that, to be rescued by the overlords of London’s underworld, Ben would, necessarily, come into contact with them and their minions—and I wouldn’t be truthful if I didn’t say that some of them are more than revolting enough to make any lady swoon.”
She studied him for a moment, then said, “A delicate lady, perhaps. Even me, perhaps. But what of an innocent but insatiably curious, country-bred ten-year-old boy?” When Christian raised his brows, surprised by her tack, she glanced at Gervase. “You know what you’re talking about, have experience of it—I don’t. But you should be able to remember being a ten-year-old—would you at ten have been shocked and horrifed, or would you have thought it a grand lark to be consorting with villainous underworld figures?”
Gervase grimaced. He looked at Christian. “I don’t know about you, but it would have been a lark to me.”
Christian pulled a face. “Me, too.”
“And what’s the alternative?” Madeline asked. “Trust to chance that someone kind and honorable happens to find him first? I’ve never been in any slums or stews, but I don’t think I’d be happy taking that approach.” She pushed back from the table. “How do we go about sending these messages? Perhaps I can help write them?”
Christian glanced at Gervase. “So we do it?”
Rising, Gervase waved to the door. “So the lady decrees. Let’s adjourn to the library.”
They did. They spent some time drafting their message, then Christian and Madeline, seated on opposing sides of the desk, started copying it in neat, legible script.
Gervase paced and looked over their shoulders. There was no place for him to sit to help them, and his scrawl wasn’t all that neat.
“We’ve plenty of time,” Christian said without looking up. “Those areas don’t stir until noon—as long as we send out these notes by then, they’ll have plenty of time to spread the word before Ben is let loose in their domain.”
Gervase humphed and kept pacing. He and Christian had agreed that it would most likely be later in the afternoon rather than earlier that Ben would be released. Which meant there would be hours yet to wait….
The distant sound of the front door knocker had him turning expectantly to the door.
Christian glanced that way, too, then, as the sound of firm footsteps on the stairs reached them, he set down his pen.
Her concentration absolute, Madeline continued transcribing.
She heard the door open, heard Gasthorpe announce, “Mr. Dalziel, my lords.”
Blinking, she glanced up as a deep, dark voice drawled, “Dearne. Crowhurst. I understand there’s something you believe I should know about.”
Primitive precognition sent a frisson arcing through her. Madeline stared at the tall gentleman who strolled with unutterable grace into the room. He was outwardly similar to Gervase and Christian, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, the long, austere planes of his face a testimony to his heritage. Yet beneath the urbane, sophisticated veneer, there was an element of something else—something harder, sharper, altogether more subconsciously alarming. She felt unexpectedly glad that Gervase stood, at least metaphorically, between her and his ex-commander.
There were dangerous men, and then there were the impossibly dangerous; Dalziel belonged in the latter category.
Whoever he was; she could now see the evidence on which Gervase and his colleagues based their belief that Dalziel was no mere mister.
Gervase moved forward to shake his hand. “Glad we caught you—I was afraid you might have left town.”
A faint smile flirted about Dalziel’s mobile lips. “Not quite yet.” He turned to shake hands with Christian, then glanced briefly at her before looking, inquiringly, at Gervase.
With a smile for her, Gervase turned to Dalziel. “Allow me to present the Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne.” To Madeline he added, “Dalziel, who you’ve heard me mention.”
Madeline remained seated; they were all towering over her but even if she stood they would still be taller, and there was a certain statement to be made by remaining where she was—queens remained seated—so she faced him, head high, smiled graciously and, consciously imperious, offered her hand. “Good day, sir.”