Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens

quietly asked, “Your instructions were—still are—that you want this kept quiet, with no dust raised whatsoever.” Curtis met Richard Percival’s dark blue eyes. “Has that changed?” He let a moment elapse before adding, “Because, yes, I can go much harder. I could raise a hue and cry, the next best thing to a manhunt, if that’s what you want.”
    Richard Percival blew out a breath. “No. No.” After a moment, he drew in a deep breath and said, “Whatever reason she had for taking them and fleeing that night . . . until I have them back and can learn what that reason was . . .” Eyes narrowing, he stared into space, then murmured, “If at all possible, I want this kept entirely confidential.”
    Curtis nodded. “In that case, I’ll send more men down tomorrow. We’ll need to move slowly and carefully, but our information is that they left Exeter and headed west. Into Cornwall.”
    Richard Percival sat silently for several seconds, then he rose and crisply nodded. “Send in your hounds—and keep me apprised of anything they find.” Turning, he strode for the door.
    Curtis watched him go. Even after the door had closed, Curtis continued to stare at the panels, then he sighed, shook his head, and got on with his work.

 
     
    Chapter
    4
     
    T he days rolled on, and with no summons from Fate eventuating, Thomas found himself looking for things to do, for activities to occupy his body and mind.
    Recalling the Gattings, who had watched over the house since he’d bought it early in 1816, and who had always made his infrequent stays there comfortable and serene—comforting in truth—he decided that he should call on them and thank them for their years of exemplary service.
    The following morning, over the breakfast table, he asked Rose—he and she had, by degrees, slid onto a first-name basis—where the old couple lived.
    “In Porthleven, in a little cottage in Shute Lane. That’s just off the harbor, before you start up the hill to the east. Their cottage is Number four.”
    He nodded, envisioning the town as he’d last seen it; it wouldn’t have changed. “I’m going to ride that way this morning once I check over the news sheets. I’d like to call and wish them well.”
    Rose’s expression as she set down her teacup was approving. “I’m sure they would like to see you . . .” Her words trailed off, then she recovered and shrugged lightly. “To know you’re alive, if nothing else.”
    She’d realized that the Gattings would remember him as he’d once been, not as he now was. He smiled with wry understanding. “Indeed.”
    Rose colored faintly and reached for the teapot. “It’s not as if you’re incapacitated. Whatever your accident was, you’ve survived and continue to live. Continue to make something of your life.”
    He studied her, trying to decide which part of her view of him most confounded him—her apparent blindness to the scars that disfigured the left side of his face, to his habitual gimping gait, or her confident assertion that he was actively living and forging a life, by implication a life worth living.
    To his mind, he was in stasis, not living so much as existing, waiting to make his final payment in retribution for his past sins.
    Which of them was correct—her or him?
    Or could they both be right?
    Shaking aside the distraction, he glanced to his left, at Homer’s bright head, then looked at Rose and caught her eye. “I was wondering if I might take Homer for a ride, too. An excursion for the day.” He’d noticed the boy was growing physically restless; a day of exercise would do him good.
    Homer’s head shot up, his expression beyond eager. He fixed his blue eyes on Rose. “Please. I’ll do my chores, too—I won’t forget.”
    Rose hesitated. She wasn’t immune to the plea in Homer’s eyes; she understood, indeed, shared his longing to venture beyond the confines of the manor. More, she accepted that boys of his age needed to be out and about