And my wish was granted, but my anxiety was not much abated by the sight of Mr. Kent riding toward me. I had picked possibly the worst spot in England to stop for a rest. Nowhere to hide in this open field. I debated the effectiveness of squeezing inside my trunk, but before I knew it, he was dismounting his horse before me.
“Miss Wyndham, I was just coming to call on you because I did not like the way our last conversation ended, or the fact that it ended at all. How do you do?”
“Very poorly,” I spit out.
“I can see that. I almost mistook you for a packhorse. Why exactly are you doing poorly?”
“Because my sister is missing, in all likelihood kidnapped, and my parents refuse to believe me.” Fine. Let’s see what the man thinks of the truth.
Mr. Kent’s face turned darkly serious. “When did you last see her?”
I am quite sure my eyebrows shot to my hairline. “Last night. You believe me?”
“I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t.”
I sat down hard on my trunk. He smiled slightly before frowning again. “I gather there was nothing strange about the last time you saw her. . . .”
“We said good night and she went to bed. I—well, I had an odd nightmare. And then her room was in shambles this morning, plenty of clothes missing, and—I know this sounds odd—but there’s a very strange man in town whom Mr. Braddock seems to know named Mr. Cheval who had snuck into the ball to get Rose’s help in London, which is what this good-bye letter Rose wrote also says, but I know it’s false—”
Fortunately, Mr. Kent cut me off before I babbled myself into the highest register man had yet to know. “I’m sorry . . . which man is this?”
I took a moment, trying to coherently arrange my thoughts.
“My sister was seen boarding a train to London with a strange man. And I know he forced her. So I am going to bring her back.”
“I see. I imagine that trunk has become burdensome. It is still a mile or two away.”
“My mother all but threw me out of the house and refused me a carriage. I have no other choice.”
Mr. Kent furrowed his brow and tapped his riding crop meditatively against his leg. “And what do you plan to do when you arrive in London?”
“Explain my presence to my aunt and uncle before my mother’s letter arrives. Though they will never stand up to her and let me stay if they know that my parents do not wish it.”
He paced back and forth in contemplation, the grass swishing against his leather boots. “You believe your sister is in harm’s way?”
“Yes.”
“And she left a false letter?”
“Yes.”
“And your family will not believe you or help you?”
“No, they refuse to bring more attention to it. You know, you are beginning to sound rather like a detective, Mr. Kent.”
He turned sharply and exhaled. His eyes were wide as he carefully took my hand. “Not just any detective, my dear Miss Wyndham. I am the greatest detective the world has ever seen. And I will be escorting you to London to find your sister.”
THE TRAIN SQUEALED into Victoria Station with a deafening, bouncing finality, an excess of steam hissing out as the bells signaled our arrival. Coughing our way through the smog, we descended the train, found porters to retrieve our luggage, and shoved past the hordes to the exit.
Outside, the greasy London afternoon activity was even more overwhelming. A tall man bumped my shoulder as he rushed by, talking to himself like a madman without diverting his gaze from his gilded pocket watch. A young flower girl wove through the heavy traffic on the sidewalk, singing about the violets for sale in her basket. A fruit seller, looking like a shipwrecked sailor, growled at passing pedestrians. With three and a half million people in London, I could never just happen upon an acquaintance as I did in Bramhurst. That would help me avoid detection, to be sure, but what did it do for my chances of finding Rose?
Ignoring the crowds, Mr. Kent led the way down the sidewalk to fetch a cab. The driver loaded up our trunks, and Mr. Kent provided him the address of his parents’ home, while squeezing next to me into the cramped two-seater. It wasn’t the most appealing prospect for lodgings, as his stepmother had disliked me from the moment we met and his more amiable merchant father had set sail on one of his vessels, but it was a much simpler solution than my aunt and uncle’s. All it took was one message to Mr. Kent’s adoring little stepsister, Laura, telling her to pretend that my visit had been long planned, and everything was arranged without arousing suspicion.
Our cab set off down the crowded Victoria Street toward the heart of the city, trundling past drab buildings and gray street corners at an agonizingly slow speed rivaling that of a dying cow. To make the trip even more enjoyable, pungent city scents seeped through the hansom doors—strangely enough also reminding me of a dying cow. Nothing could be done but to put all bovine thoughts out of my mind, ignore the immodestly close proximity of my travel companion, and pray the house was not far.