her heart. Aurora had Ned find a collar and lead for the monkey. She did not know what to do about the earl.
If she claimed to be someone else, some magnate’s mischance, he would be free. But what about Aurora’s honor, her mother’s memory? She could not do it, not even for Kenyon. She had to prove his theory wrong, that was all. So, while her maid, Judith, was packing for the Bath trip, again, and Windham was making a call at the War Office about his brother, again, she and Ned started looking for the truth.
A great many of Ned’s acquaintances knew someone who had a friend whose cousin had been in India two decades ago. The ragged, toothless, vacant-eyed individuals were not, necessarily, the type of clientele the Grand Hotel wished to welcome through its elegant front portals. A loose box in the livery stable out back was set aside for Lady Windham’s use, therefore, with a barrel for a desk and a bale of hay for a seat. The one-legged soldier stood guard, and Sweety checked the callers’ pockets for concealed weapons, pilfered goods, or treats. Those with seemingly valid information, or sad stories, went away with one of Windham’s coins. Others were sent off by Ned with a flea in their ear for bothering his lady.
No one knew anything of Elizabeth Halle or her child. That would have been too much to hope for. Two of the men had heard of Avisson Halle, though. Another had actually been a clerk at John Company before being charged with embezzlement, which he swore was a false charge. The picture of her father that emerged was even blacker than Lady Anstruther-Jones had painted. Not only was Halle lazy and incompetent, a gambler and a womanizer, but he grew violent when in his cups. Aurora was beginning to understand what her mother had done, the sacrifice Elizabeth had made to keep her daughter safe, knowing she would not be around to protect her in the future. She could not simply send a man’s child back to England, but a dead child was mourned and forgotten. Aurora’s mother had loved her enough to give her up when she had so little time remaining, like Andrew’s mother.
Aurora could not prove any of her suppositions, of course, but she felt better in her own heart and that, she felt, was a great accomplishment for one morning. Oh, and she hired the embezzler as Windham’s secretary.
*
The worst part of wearing his detested spectacles, the earl decided, was having to see the injured look in Aurora’s blue eyes. Might as well mow down a field of bluebells. The worst part of having a bride of uncertain antecedents was that none of it was her fault. Kenyon could not blame her for being born on the wrong side of the blanket, nor for being so innocent she tossed her cap over the windmill for Podell. Even the monkey was not her fault. Lady Anstruther-Jones’s Indian butler had confided that the shrewd old stick had been looking for a way to get rid of the plaguesome beast. Why clutter up the Thames when she could cause chaos in Windham’s household? Kenyon wondered what he could present the witch with in return. Perhaps Needles could find a viper for the viscountess.
The earl was having no luck finding anything. Whitehall still had no word of his brother’s release from the French prison hospital, so he went on to the Home Secretary and the Registrar of Records. The blasted government ran on paper, with everything recorded, filed, dated and initialed three times at least. Why, then, could no one find a death notice for Aurora Halle?
Perhaps because the child was not born in England and did not die there, a harried clerk complained. But Windham handed over another coin and told the lackey to keep looking.
The East India Company clerks worked for higher bribes. Baksheesh, they called it. He called it extortion. He could travel to India himself for half the cost of finding the information he wanted. Eventually one of the ink-stained underlings found the records of Avisson Halle’s brief
If she claimed to be someone else, some magnate’s mischance, he would be free. But what about Aurora’s honor, her mother’s memory? She could not do it, not even for Kenyon. She had to prove his theory wrong, that was all. So, while her maid, Judith, was packing for the Bath trip, again, and Windham was making a call at the War Office about his brother, again, she and Ned started looking for the truth.
A great many of Ned’s acquaintances knew someone who had a friend whose cousin had been in India two decades ago. The ragged, toothless, vacant-eyed individuals were not, necessarily, the type of clientele the Grand Hotel wished to welcome through its elegant front portals. A loose box in the livery stable out back was set aside for Lady Windham’s use, therefore, with a barrel for a desk and a bale of hay for a seat. The one-legged soldier stood guard, and Sweety checked the callers’ pockets for concealed weapons, pilfered goods, or treats. Those with seemingly valid information, or sad stories, went away with one of Windham’s coins. Others were sent off by Ned with a flea in their ear for bothering his lady.
No one knew anything of Elizabeth Halle or her child. That would have been too much to hope for. Two of the men had heard of Avisson Halle, though. Another had actually been a clerk at John Company before being charged with embezzlement, which he swore was a false charge. The picture of her father that emerged was even blacker than Lady Anstruther-Jones had painted. Not only was Halle lazy and incompetent, a gambler and a womanizer, but he grew violent when in his cups. Aurora was beginning to understand what her mother had done, the sacrifice Elizabeth had made to keep her daughter safe, knowing she would not be around to protect her in the future. She could not simply send a man’s child back to England, but a dead child was mourned and forgotten. Aurora’s mother had loved her enough to give her up when she had so little time remaining, like Andrew’s mother.
Aurora could not prove any of her suppositions, of course, but she felt better in her own heart and that, she felt, was a great accomplishment for one morning. Oh, and she hired the embezzler as Windham’s secretary.
*
The worst part of wearing his detested spectacles, the earl decided, was having to see the injured look in Aurora’s blue eyes. Might as well mow down a field of bluebells. The worst part of having a bride of uncertain antecedents was that none of it was her fault. Kenyon could not blame her for being born on the wrong side of the blanket, nor for being so innocent she tossed her cap over the windmill for Podell. Even the monkey was not her fault. Lady Anstruther-Jones’s Indian butler had confided that the shrewd old stick had been looking for a way to get rid of the plaguesome beast. Why clutter up the Thames when she could cause chaos in Windham’s household? Kenyon wondered what he could present the witch with in return. Perhaps Needles could find a viper for the viscountess.
The earl was having no luck finding anything. Whitehall still had no word of his brother’s release from the French prison hospital, so he went on to the Home Secretary and the Registrar of Records. The blasted government ran on paper, with everything recorded, filed, dated and initialed three times at least. Why, then, could no one find a death notice for Aurora Halle?
Perhaps because the child was not born in England and did not die there, a harried clerk complained. But Windham handed over another coin and told the lackey to keep looking.
The East India Company clerks worked for higher bribes. Baksheesh, they called it. He called it extortion. He could travel to India himself for half the cost of finding the information he wanted. Eventually one of the ink-stained underlings found the records of Avisson Halle’s brief
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