Tate’s expression darkened. “Langham has shown an interest of late.”
Val wasn’t surprised at hearing the man’s name again, but the admission still made him angry. The duke had lied to him without batting an eye. Val was regretting not throttling the man when he’d had only one reason to do so.
“Can you be more specific?” he asked Tate. “Did you learn of this interest at the theatre? Or elsewhere?”
Still frowning, Tate spat out, “I saw him leaving Miss Warrington’s townhouse. In Half Moon Street.”
Val’s head snapped up. “At her townhouse? How?”
“I wasn’t watching her if that’s what you’re thinking.” Tate scowled.
Since that was precisely what Val had been thinking, he kept silent.
“I have a friend a few houses down,” the earl said stiffly. “A mistress, if you must know.”
Val tried to comprehend how the man had enough time to juggle interests, however shallow, for three different women. He could barely manage one.
“I saw him leaving early one morning a few weeks ago.” Tate’s frown deepened. “It was clear because of the hour that he was leaving after a tryst. The smug satisfaction was written all over the scoundrel’s face.”
Val wasn’t sure he trusted Tate, who seemed to be a possessive, petulant sort of man, to have correctly interpreted the Duke of Langham’s expression. And while it was unusual for a man to pay an early morning call upon a woman to whom he was unrelated, the duke’s actions didn’t match what he’d learned of Miss Warrington. For Frank’s sake at the very least, he hoped there was an innocent explanation for what Tate had seen.
“Aside from the time you saw Langham,” he said, “have you seen anything else suspicious at or around Miss Warrington’s house?”
“No,” Tate said crossly. “No one but Langham.” The man may not consider Francis Thorn much competition, but he clearly did see the duke, who was twenty years younger and outranked him in both wealth and looks, as such.
To no one in particular, Tate continued, “I’m not worried. She’ll come around in the end.”
“We’ll have to find her first,” Val reminded him. Tate had become so wrapped up in his mental jousting with his rivals he must have forgotten the lady in question was missing.
Val’s words, however, seemed to snap him out of his reverie. “Yes,” he said, his expression clearing. “I apologize. Though I can assure you I’ve nothing to do with her disappearance, I do care about her welfare. Might I be of assistance in the search?”
Considering the possibility for a moment, Val quickly rejected the notion. For one, Tate was still a suspect in Miss Warrington’s disappearance. He claimed to be in Brighton at the time of the abduction, but as of now, that was unverified. Secondly, Frank would cut up rough at having a man who was so clearly fixated on Miss Warrington as a member of the search party.
“Many thanks, Tate,” he told the other man, “but I don’t believe it’s necessary. We also have the assistance of Lady Katherine and her husband, Detective Inspector Eversham of Scotland Yard.”
Tate’s eyes widened. “It’s as serious as that, then?”
For a man determined to win Miss Warrington over, he seemed remarkably oblivious to the danger she was in. “She was kidnapped, Tate,” he said flatly. “Only murder is more serious.”
* * *
Caro stared at the French doors through which Valentine and Lord Tate had just disappeared.
“Vexing creature,” she fumed, unsure to which man she referred.
Since she was now in Tate’s household, however, she had no intention of allowing this opportunity to go to waste.
Thus, when a housemaid entered the room with a tray laden with a tea service and cakes, Caro engaged the girl in conversation.
“Is there anything else I can fetch for you, miss?” the maid asked once she’d set out the teapot, cups, and several different dainty pastries on a side table.
“No, thank you. This all looks delicious,” Caro said in all sincerity. Her weakness was baked goods, and the scents of vanilla, lemon, and cinnamon wafting from the three-tiered server made her mouth water.
Still, she had a job to do, so after biting into one of the iced cakes, she gave the girl her most disarming smile. “I wonder if you might stay with me a moment. One does hate to sit alone in an unfamiliar house.”
The girl glanced at the door leading into the hall, but to Caro’s relief, she nodded. “I can do that, miss.”
Despite knowing that the maid likely wouldn’t accept the offer, Caro asked if she’d like some refreshments. Everyone deserved a treat from time to time, and Caro suspected her life in the Tate household wasn’t filled with unexpected diversions. When the girl refused, Caro pressed her to at least take a delicately scalloped madeleine. “No one will know,” she assured her. “And I won’t feel like such a beast for consuming these while you look on.”
The maid darted a glance at the lightly browned cakes. Caro gave her an encouraging nod.
“Perhaps just the one,” the maid said, taking a madeleine.
“What’s your name?” Caro asked conversationally as she bit into another pastry, a flaky lemon tart that burst into flavor on her tongue. Tate might be a boor, but his cook was unparalleled.
“Maisie,” the girl said, brushing crumbs from her hands.
“Maisie, I wonder if you would answer a few questions for me.”
At the girl’s guarded look, Caro set out to calm her. “There’ll be no harm in it. My betrothed and I came here to speak to Lord Tate about the disappearance of an actress friend of ours. We hope he might have seen something that will help us find her. Perhaps you did, too.”
When the maid’s face remained skeptical, Caro tried a different tack. “Do you read The Gazette, perchance?”
“Sometimes.” Maisie’s brow furrowed.
Either the Tate’s housekeeper ran an incredibly tight ship, or Maisie was far more cynical than her fresh-faced, open countenance implied.
“Perhaps you’ve read one of its columns? A Lady’s Guide to Mischief and Mayhem?”
“Oh aye. It’s not as shocking as some others I like, but it’s all right.”
“All right” wasn’t the most fulsome praise Caro had ever received for her writing, but it would have to do. “I’m Miss Caroline Hardcastle—one of the authors of the column,” she said. “Lady Katherine—the other author—and I are working to find the actress I spoke of.”
Maisie’s eyes widened, her mouth forming an O as she clasped her hands to her bosom. “Are you really her? Miss Caroline Hardcastle?” she asked breathlessly. “You ain’t shamming me?”
Caro bit back a sigh of relief. She’d been afraid the girl would prove impossible to impress. “I give you my word of honor.”
“Do you really think the person wot killed Mary Riley is one o’ her customers?” Maisie asked. The murder of an East End shopkeeper was the subject of one of Caro and Kate’s most popular editions of their column. The police still hadn’t managed to apprehend her killer. “I always thought it must be her man. You ask me, the first place to look when a gal turns up dead is the other side of her bed.”