Mr. Kent’s steps moved closer. “If you wish to continue treating this friend of his, I will continue the search as I have until you’re ready to join me.”
I couldn’t meet his eye, electing for the floor instead. “I don’t know where else to search.”
His head popped into view, looking up at me from a kneeling position. “Fortunately, as the world’s greatest and all that, I have plenty of ideas, I promise you.” He rose back up and, with the slightest touch, raised my chin along with him. “We should rest. It’s been a long day, and you’ve done some kind and admirable work, regardless of the solicitor. Don’t regret that. Miss Rosamund will be proud when she hears of it.”
“. . . Thank you.”
He broke away and called for the footman, who brought his coat and cane for the brisk London night. “Call on me when you are ready,” he said, gently taking my hand. It was reassuring to have someone tell me the truth after such a day. I squeezed it back, not quite wanting him to leave.
The remainder of the restless night was spent composing angry tirades to Mr. Braddock in my head, but when the servants woke early the next morning, I only had a simple message to send: I no longer required his assistance. Two hours later, Tuffins warily brought me an unexpected rebuttal. A Mr. Sebastian Wyndham, my cousin, was waiting for me in the parlor. The nerve.
Fortunately, Lady Kent had left to make her morning rounds, so I didn’t need to explain the incredibly improper visit to her. I asked Tuffins to put him in the garden, bring tea, and make sure no one disturbed us. I couldn’t keep him inside when I planned on shouting the roof down.
When I came down, Mr. Braddock was already seated at a small table, staring at the mysteries of tea things, and appearing extremely out of place among the bright, flowery surroundings. He looked up in relief as I entered, greeting my frostiness with an insuppressible smile and a giddiness that could barely be contained in his bow.
“Mr. Wyndham?” I asked caustically.
“There’s always a distant cousin.”
“And distant is how they should remain. Why are you here?”
“Your message. I apologize for calling on you like this, but I want to assure you, I will find your sister. Though I doubt even that would suffice to convey my gratitude for your help,” he said, striding up to me. I had the oddest thought that he was about to embrace me in a hug. “Thank you, truly.”
I backed away. Was he being satirical? “What do you mean?” I asked, entirely off guard.
“For Miss Lodge . . .” he said. Taking in my confused look, he asked, “Do you not know?”
I shook my head. “No, what’s happened?”
“You restored her to full health, Miss Wyndham,” he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets as though he needed to contain them somehow. “I visited her last night, and she couldn’t wait to see the sky and grass again.” He practically leaped about the blooming paths, unable to keep to one place, his hands out of his pockets already and balled into fists. I imagined it’s how Atlas would have looked after a comfortable nap. “I cannot thank you enough. Your powers are truly remarkable.”
Was he serious? Or was he distracting me from his lack of a search yesterday by trying to convince me of these stupid “powers”? He must have made up her recovery—I just served her tea! “I would like to see her,” I said firmly, testing him.
“This evening, perhaps,” he replied. “She is extremely fond of you. And, of course, she wants to thank you, as well.”
“That is impossible! I did nothing!” I choked.
His eyes seemed lighter, freer as he looked me over. “I don’t think you truly understand the extent of your powers.”
“Apparently not.” I began to roll my eyes, but they caught on a decanter of wine that Tuffins had helpfully added to the tea things on the patio table. Too early? Too early.
“If she is feeling better, it is not due to anything I have done. And if you are hoping to deter me from asking after your progress, you are mistaken. Tell me, was my sister hiding away in any of the public houses you patronized last night? Was she in the gambling den? Or the brothel?” There was no keeping my voice as steady as I had hoped, and the final word emerged at a screechy, glass-breaking pitch. Also, loud.
Mr. Braddock’s eyes gratifyingly bulged, though he swiftly composed himself, folded his arms protectively across his chest, and scowled at me as though I were the villain. “You had me followed. This Mr. Kent, I presume? You don’t have the best taste in suitors, it would seem.”
“So you admit it.”
“I was meeting acquaintances. For information about your sister.”
“And do you usually attack your acquaintances?”
He shook his head. “No, but I help when they are attacked by an angry patron caught cheating. Do you usually yell at the people helping you?”
“When they lie about being helpful, yes. What could you have possibly learned about my sister at a brothel?”
“It is a dancing room, not a brothel.”
“I have it on good authority that it is a brothel.”