The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

Mr Wild offered no objection to the demands made. Yet the hint of disdain about his countenance mirrored the look Oliver had cast his father many times in the past.

A pang of remorse for his high-handed approa

ch hit him squarely in the chest. “Had my father’s man of business not disappeared along with half the silver, I would have had him attend to this sorry task.”

“Mr Burrows did not disappear,” Mr Wild said, brushing the dust from his hands. “Your father dismissed him some time before his death. Burrows had not been paid for six months, and no doubt thought to take the cutlery to pay his rent.”

“Why? My father was not short of funds.” On the contrary, Oliver had inherited a substantial income. Regardless of his father’s disapproval and their subsequent estrangement, continuing the Darby bloodline was paramount — the only thing that mattered.

But it took more than money to produce offspring worthy of a life of privilege and title. It took marriage to a simpering debutante from good stock. It meant conforming to the rigid rules Oliver had fought long and hard to avoid. Witnessing his parents’ constant battles were enough to convince any man of the merits of bachelorhood. Indeed, the only promise he’d made was that the Darby line ended with him.

“From what I gather, they were at odds over business.” Mr Wild sat in the chair behind the desk and opened the first file. “The refusal to pay Burrows was simply an act of defiance.”

Oliver gave a snort of contempt as he dropped into the seat opposite. “My father liked to make a point.”

Mr Wild’s resigned nod spoke of personal experience. “So, other than Stanton House and Bridewell, there’s the shooting lodge on Loch Broom.” He turned to his clerk. “Are you writing this down, Andrews?”

The clerk nodded from the small desk in the corner of the room.

“There’s the house on St James’ Street,” Wild continued, flicking through the documents, “one on Mount Street and the house bequeathed to your late mother in Acton, Shropshire.”

Scotland! Shropshire! The list went on.

Bloody hell!

He’d been the earl for almost a week, missed the funeral but had made it home for the reading of the will. In light of Rose’s disappearance, the finer details had seemed unimportant. Hearing the vast extent of his father’s estate filled Oliver with dread. Despite searching Bridewell — their family seat in Sussex — and finding nothing, the accompanying eight thousand acres would take months to search.

The more the list grew, the more Oliver’s temple throbbed. All the other houses mentioned were leased to tenants. It would mean investigating every one — a mammoth task for a man on his own. And while he plodded about from one county to the next, heaven knows what predicament Rose found herself in.

“What about derelict buildings?” Oliver said, his tone more subdued now.

Various images flashed into his mind. A damp rat-infested cellar. A crumbling shelter, home to stray dogs and vagabonds.

Mr Wild frowned. “Your father would not have sent Lady Rose to a place unbefitting her station.”

Oh, his father would have sent them both to the devil.

Thankfully, Oliver possessed the Darby family traits: slightly crooked little fingers, a V-shaped hairline and a Roman nose with an aristocratic bump on the bridge. The Darbys were ugly men. However, Oliver had been fortunate enough to inherit his mother’s striking blue eyes, full lips and evenly spaced features. The old earl’s obsession with his wife’s beauty led to suspicions of infidelity and was the cause of his distant relationship with Rose. While Oliver had hair as black as his father’s soul, Rose was the only Darby ever to possess honey-gold tresses.

But to send her away, to ignore her absence and pretend she’d never existed.

“My father would go to any lengths necessary to achieve his goal.” Numerous times he had demanded Oliver return home. Had Oliver known Rose was to be a pawn in their game, he would have employed different tactics.

“The list is extensive,” Mr Wild said as he tied the string around the last file and placed it with the others. “Perhaps an enquiry agent might help you to investigate those properties further afield. If you plan to search the length and breadth of the country yourself, may I suggest you start at Gretna Green.”

“I shall consider my options.” Oliver wouldn’t rest until he’d checked every property, although hiring an agent in Scotland might save him weeks of unnecessary hours on the road.

“A gentleman of your status and position requires someone to manage his investments. Should you need such a man, I am happy to make a recommendation.”

Deception was rife, it appeared. Oliver trusted no one. “I prefer to keep my own accounts for the time being.”

“As you wish.” Wild pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. “And does that conclude our business for today, my lord?”

“It does,” Oliver replied as the clerk approached the desk and handed him the written list of assets. His stomach churned at the thought of the monumental task ahead. “And you’re certain that’s everything?”

“Indeed.” Wild gripped the arms of his chair and edged forward, a manoeuvre to encourage Oliver to stand.

While sitting in the confines of the small, musty office, the job of finding his sister seemed achievable. Everything he needed was on the single piece of paper in his hand. Hope blossomed in his chest if only for a fleeting moment.