“He...Mrs. Price...she said...”
He couldn’t understand her between the sobs. “Belle.” He turned her head so she looked up at him. “Say it quick.”
“Mrs. Price said he’s been taken.” She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms about Hew’s chest. His bare chest. But he would not think about that now. Hew drew her back, despite his inclination to pull her closer, and looked her directly in the eye.
“Tell me exactly what was said.”
“She said—”
“No tears now. You won’t help him by blubbering.”
The look she gave him was full of venom, but his words had the intended effect. She stopped crying and took a breath. “I went to the shop, and he wasn’t there. I knew he’d been there because it was locked and the shelves had been restored to rights—mostly. But he wasn’t in the shop or in the flat. So I went to Mrs. Price’s flat and knocked on the door. She answered, and when she saw me, she burst into tears.” Belle’s own eyes began to water again, and Hew gave her a stern look.
“Go on.”
“She said, well, the short version is that they’d been watching the shop and noted no one suspicious. My father went back to clean up and didn’t return for supper. Mrs. Price went to fetch him, and the shop door was open, and he was not to be found.”
“Was there a note at the shop? Or some sort of communication?”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Then we don’t know if this is related to my stabbing.”
“Don’t we? He’s never disappeared before. Come to think of it, our shop has never been set on fire before. I would say all of this has to do with you.”
Hew winced. He was painfully aware that the Howards had taken him in, without even a real option to say no, and had done their best to tend him. All he had done was bring them pain and misfortune. He’d set things to right. He was a Royal Saboteur. He could sabotage the assassins’ plan—even if it involved his own demise. “I need to see the shop and speak to Mrs. Price.”
“I told you what she—oh!”
Hew had thrown the bedclothes back and walked across the room to the chair where he’d left his clothing. His mind on his mission, he’d forgotten he was naked. He glanced over his shoulder to find Belle staring at him, mouth open. He raised a brow, and she turned pink and looked away.
“I told you what she—what she—”
“Yes, you told me what she said.” Hew found his trousers and pulled them on, careful not to twist his side or move too sharply. “But I need to see for myself and ask a few questions.” He lifted his shirt and tried to put it over his head, but he couldn’t raise the arm on his wounded side far enough. “Help me with this shirt, will you?”
“Do you have your, er—trousers on?”
“Yes.”
She peeked over her shoulder, and when she saw him, nodded and went to help him with the shirt. “This seems rather improper,” she commented, helping him get his arm through.
“If you think this improper, you have no idea what I wanted to do to you last night. Which, might I remind you, I declined to do. Because it was improper.”
“You may not remind me,” she said pulling the sleeve down his arm rather fiercely. It was his uninjured side, thank God. “And you needn’t worry you will ever have the opportunity again. I just want to find my father and be rid of you.”
“Then we are in agreement.”
She glared at him then stomped away, stopping before an armoire and throwing the doors open. “Lady Keating said you might need a coat.” She tossed out several garments. “Let’s hurry and put these on.”
Hew reluctantly accepted her assistance. It would have been counterproductive to refuse. He did reject the waistcoat, though. He didn’t want anything pressing on his wound. He took the coat, allowed Belle to tie his neckcloth in a manner that would have appalled his friends and acquaintances, and then shoved his feet into boots she produced that were a bit too small but would have to do. Hew took one look in the mirror and turned away. Just days ago he’d been wearing a fine coat from Schweitzer and Davidson’s. Now he looked as though a blind valet had dressed him.
What had happened to that coat? It had probably been covered in blood and cut off by the surgeon. He should have had it sent to Mivart’s instead of wearing it out of the shop. What he wouldn’t give to stop by his room there now and dress in his own clothing. No time for that at present.
The charwoman came in and informed them it was almost six in the morning. Hew sent her to tell the footman they needed a hackney. Thus, by the time he’d managed to cram his feet in the boots, the hackney waited outside.
Lady Keating’s butler intercepted them on the way out the door. “Mr. Smith will return in just a few hours, sir. He did say to make sure you stayed in bed.”
“Tell him I’m feeling much better, thanks to him. Sorry to have missed him.”
“Will you return for dinner?” the butler asked.
“I wouldn’t count on it.” Hew had no idea what the day would bring, but the less the servants knew of his plans, the better. Obviously, the men seeking him either didn’t know where he was or couldn’t reach him, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t reach one of the servants.
Puddles still stood on the streets, indicating the rain hadn’t moved on completely. Hew stepped over a large puddle and handed Belle over it and into the waiting hackney. He climbed in behind her. “Fenchurch Street,” he told the jarvey. Then he closed the curtains and sat back, trying not to inhale too deeply the smells of wet straw and damp wool that lingered from recent customers.
Belle reached for the curtains, presumably to open them and look out, but Hew caught her hand. She tore her fingers from his then cradled her hand as though it were scorched. “Keep them closed,” he said. “If anyone is watching for us, I’d rather not be easy to spot.” He cocked his head. “How did you go to the shop this morning?”
“I walked,” she said.
Hew stifled a groan. She was fortunate she had not been the one abducted. She’d have been an easy target for the assassins or for any ruffian out and about in the early hours. “Don’t do that again,” he ordered. “A woman out alone in the wee hours of the morning is not safe.”
“I’ve been taking care of myself for almost twenty-six years. I don’t need your help.”
“If you insist on making idiotic choices, I beg to differ.”
She glared at him—he was becoming accustomed to her glares—and didn’t speak again until they turned onto Fenchurch Street and her shop came into view. Hew knocked on the roof of the hackney. Belle barely waited for the conveyance to stop before she was out and walking to her shop. Hew paid the driver then followed her. She called a greeting to another shopkeeper sweeping his front stoop, then pulled a key out of her skirts, and opened the door to the tea shop.
Hew stepped inside, feeling strangely comforted by the scents of tea and biscuits. And yet, the scent of smoke still lingered and made the hairs on the back of his neck rise in warning. Everything was as she’d described. The overturned shelves had been righted and the goods put back in their place. Glass and porcelain that had littered the floor had been swept up, and the burnt shades had been pulled down, the water mopped up, and the charred plaster scraped off the wall of the shop. Hew saw no sign of struggle. “Let me see the back room and the flat.”