“Oh, really, must we?”
“Not we, my lord. I believe someone requested my nose on this job.”
Biffy nodded with only a slight roll of his eyes.
Later, as they all parted ways in the hallway, Lyall turned away from the others to return to his quarters to strip and change shape. His nose was good in both forms, but better as a wolf.
Biffy stopped him with a gentle touch to his neck above his collar. “Pity. I put so much care into this knot.”
Lyall let himself love, for one brief moment, the soft caress, and then fled upstairs. He almost welcomed the pain of the shift, for it might distract from the pain of his memories.
*
Lyall sniffed the swaddling clothes of both infants. Nothing particularly unique stood out from the expected scent of human nursling, except that they were not at all similar. Wherever the children had originated, it wasn’t the same household, or workhouse, or orphanage.
So, Lyall took a deep breath of Robin’s blanket, stuck his nose to the cold wet street, and ran out into the night.
He had absolutely no luck with that trail – it stopped close to the pack house at a nearby street corner in a mess of horse and leather. No doubt the infant had arrived by carriage.
That in and of itself was interesting, as it meant whoever brought him had more money than one might expect from someone bent on abandoning a child. Robin had not, therefore, been abandoned, but instead intentionally delivered.
The redheaded toddler, whom, for lack of another option, they were calling Rosie, had a longer scent trail. Hers went well towards the main village of Blackheath, which was a good sign, as it meant she might be local. If she’d originated in London central, finding her relations could be well-nigh impossible.
Lyall spent the next few hours in fur. He was small for a wolf, lean and vulpine. He faded easily into the background shadows, dismissed more often as a stray dog or very large fox than a fearsome werewolf.
He paced the streets of the middle classes first, sniffing for anything that might remind him of the scent of either child. Then he went to the poorer alleys and waysides.
He thought, at one point, that he caught a whiff of Rosie at an abandoned warehouse, but there was no one there and nobody inside. Still, he made note of the location, as it might be worth setting a claviger to watch the place come daylight.
CHAPTER SIX
A Crisis of Nasal Proportions
Biffy really wished he had Riehard in residence. No doubt that particular werewolf would have nipped down to the Crown and Sceptre and returned a few hours later with all their questions answered. Biffy and Riehard had always gotten along well. Riehard had a gift for gathering information and Biffy had a gift for loving it. Some might call Biffy a gossip, but only lesser intellects.
Without Riehard, Biffy had to put his faith in Rafe – a shaky proposition. Oh, he knew why Lyall had chosen Rafe and Hemming for pub detail. Hemming was for jocularity and show. And Rafe was for appearances. Rafe was their most (frankly) common-looking pack mate. He had a rough-and-tumble air not helped by the fact that he’d been metamorphosed with two days’ worth of beard and no inclination to fix it. It gave him, Biffy felt, a sadly plebeian aura. Rafe wasn’t as good as Riehard at extracting information, because he tended to come over friendly and start singing bawdy tunes and lose track of things. But he was better than nothing, so Biffy waved him off to the pub, resigned to the fact that at least it wasn’t Channing. Channing never did anyone any favors at pubs.
Then Biffy’s own trials must commence.
Visiting the gentry was a necessary evil that he’d already conducted the day after moving. Biffy was no slouch where the observation of proper etiquette was concerned. The rules were very strict on the matter of a lord taking up residence in a new neighborhood. The fact that said lordling came complete with a pack of werewolves was neither here nor there to the necessity of paying calls. So, calls he had paid. All of them.
The gentry of Blackheath proved itself by and large to be the type to have opted for Greenwich over North London. Which is to say, more relaxed and also a great deal less fashionable than was Biffy’s routine society. They had a great deal more concern for the state of the whitebait fisheries than for the arrangement of their hair. Biffy tried not to hold this against them. Although, really, how hard is it to find yourself a decent barber once a month? One must forgive both the sins of the fish and flesh, I suppose, when living in Greenwich. Needless to say, he did not relish the idea of having to pay another round of calls again so soon.
Nevertheless, he did as Lyall bid – making polite inquiries that might lead the various mildly confused ladies and gentlemen (or better, their staff) to mention the unexpected absence of a child from their household.
Nothing.
He returned to the house for midnight dinner to find the others equally fruitless and the babies in question abed. Thank heavens Mrs Whybrew seemed to feel it best to keep them to a daylight schedule, despite being fostered by a pack of werewolves.
Dinner was eaten in ravenous silence and then filled with reports on what had not been found. After this, the pack split again and went back on the hunt.
Visiting hours had ended and there were no balls or parties Biffy might attend. So, he and Lyall joined forces to amble about the town, not really hoping for anything, just as something to do.
“That warehouse where you think you caught the scent, will you show me?”
Lyall nodded.
It was a quiet, companionable walk. This was something Biffy had always liked about Lyall. He could make civilized conversation with the best of them, but when he had nothing to say, he said nothing.
Biffy couldn’t help but notice, however, that the good professor wore his greatcoat buttoned all the way up to the throat. Which meant it was likely he wore nothing underneath. Biffy tried to be more worried than intrigued. As a rule, if a werewolf had limited control over his wolf form, he might opt for less clothing over more on any given evening, in case of shift. But Professor Lyall was noted for his control, so the greatcoat meant that Lyall was anticipating trouble.
This was something to which it had taken Biffy nearly a decade to acclimate. Knowing that the gentleman next to you was, essentially, naked could play hell with the sensibilities of any dandy, let alone one who rather fancied the nude male form. Biffy had learned to manage it with equanimity. But now he realized he was not yet there when it came to Professor Lyall’s nude male form.
They arrived at the warehouse in question, and Lyall proved himself unexpectedly adept with a lock pick. Inside, the place was entirely empty and cleaner than one might expect, with a raised platform at one end, like a small stage of some kind.
They sniffed about, but the scents were muddled and the place too plain to offer much beyond smells in the way of information. Although Professor Lyall had a good eye.
“It does appear that a group is assembling here regularly. See there, the mark of a door recently and frequently pushed open?” Lyall gestured to scrape marks on the dirt floor.
Biffy investigated the small stage. It smelled heavily of vinegar, obvious even to his inferior human olfactory sense. Perhaps this place was previously used for pickling operations? Or a cider press? “After-hours bawdy theater?” he suggested.
“Perhaps a political gathering place?” Lyall stood back and watched while Biffy took to the stage.
Biffy grinned. “As if there’s a difference.”
Professor Lyall gave a quiet chuckle.
Finding nothing of interest, Biffy jumped down and rejoined his Beta. “I can’t really spare anyone right now, but I’ll set someone to watch the place during the day tomorrow.”
Lyall frowned. “What do you mean, can’t spare anyone?”