Acceptable Loss - Anne Perry [84]
It was confusing. Was that Hattie or not? With a woman? Who? It was the best lead he had. Standing in the traffic, people passing him by, the rattle of wheels and clip of hooves on the road, the spray of dirty water from the gutters soaking his legs, he was overwhelmed with the uselessness of it. It might have been Hattie, or equally easily it might not. And she could have been going anywhere in London.
There was no point in waiting here. He might as well see if anyone else had seen them. He could think as he walked. He might realize something that had eluded him so far.
But he did not, and in the late afternoon as it was growing dusk, he knew nothing more than half a dozen sightings, which might have been Hattie or any other fair-haired young woman. He decided to take a hansom and go out to Chiswick. At least there she was known, and any sighting would be real. It was just possible she had become homesick and gone back to the one place where she had friends, and which was familiar to her. She might feel safer there, even if in fact she was not.
The ride seemed interminable. Every dark street looked like every other. Lamps were lit, glaring eyes in the increasing gloom. Everything was full of shadows. The moving carriage lamps were yellow, and there was the hiss of wheels on the wet cobbles even though the rain had stopped.
Finally Monk reached the Chiswick mall on the edge of the river opposite the Eyot. He leaped out of the hansom, paid the driver, and strode over toward the lights moving down by the stretch of mud and stones left by the low tide. He could hear voices. If it was the police, he would ask for their help.
As he reached the steps, his stomach was churning, his breath tight in his chest, throat aching.
One of the men held his lantern higher, and Monk could see that there were four of them, grim, wet, feet and ankles caked with river mud. There was a woman’s body on the stones, and the yellow light shone on her face, and on the pale blond hair that was almost silver.
Monk knew it was Hattie, even before he was close enough to see her features.
CHAPTER
9
RATHBONE WAS AT HIS parents-in-law’s for dinner again when the butler announced that a Mr. Monk had called to see Mr. Ballinger and was waiting for him in the morning room.
“What an inconvenient time to call!” Mrs. Ballinger said stiffly, her eyes wide. She looked at the butler. “Tell him to wait. In fact, better than that, tell him to come back tomorrow morning, at a reasonable hour.” She turned to Rathbone. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I know he is a friend of yours, more or less, but this is too much. The man has no breeding at all.”
The butler had not moved.
“What is it, Withers?” Ballinger said tartly. “Tell Monk, if he wants to wait, I’ll see him when I’ve had dinner. And when the evening is over and my visitors have gone home.”
The butler, acutely embarrassed, moved from one foot to the other, his face a dull pink.
Rathbone stood up. “I’ll go and see what he wants,” he offered, going toward the door as he spoke.
“For heaven’s sake, Oliver, let the man wait!” George snapped. “You’re not his lackey to go jumping up and down after him simply because he arrives at the door.”
Rathbone felt Margaret’s eyes on him as he left, but he did not turn back. He realized, as he closed the drawing room door behind him and walked across the wide hall with its sweeping staircase, that he was afraid. He knew Monk too well to imagine that he had called at this hour without a very compelling reason.
Rathbone had seen the pride and the pain in Monk when Rathbone had beaten him in court over Jericho Phillips. He knew Monk would not let that happen again.
He opened the morning room door and came face-to-face with him.
“Why are you here?” Rathbone asked, closing the door behind him and remaining standing in front of it.
“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized. “I thought this better than at his place of business. This affords him a less public exhibition, at least for the time being.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Rathbone demanded, although he felt