part?'
'Well
past two o'clock this afternoon.'
'Creech
told me that you dined in Holborn.'
'That
is so. He ate with us but left early.'
'In
which direction did Sir Ambrose go?'
'Towards
Newgate.'
'On
his horse?'
'No,
Henry. He was walking.'
'Did
he say where he was going?'
'Not
to me.'
Henry
came to a halt and stroked his moustache as he pondered. In the pool of light
thrown by the candles, Christopher could see that his brother was as immaculately
dressed as ever but the fact that his periwig was slightly askew showed how
distracted he was. Henry Redmayne was a rare visitor to the house even though
he was no stranger to Fetter Lane itself. Until it was destroyed by fire, there
was an establishment at the Fleet Street end of the lane which Henry had
visited regularly in his endless pursuit of carnal delights and one of the
gaming houses he also frequented was still standing. That he should appear on
the threshold at all was a surprise. To come at that hour and in such a state
of agitation revealed just how anxious he was.
'Might
he not have been led astray?' suggested Christopher.
'That
is my fear.'
'I
imply no danger.'
'Then
what is your meaning?'
'Sir
Ambrose strikes me as a man after your own heart, Henry. A dedicated sybarite.
Given to pleasure, acquainted with excess. I always assumed that that is how
the two of you first met. Across a gaming table or in some house of resort.'
'How
we met is a private matter,' said Henry testily.
'But
you take my point?'
'Of
course. And I have visited every one of his known haunts. It has taken me
hours. Sir Ambrose has not been near any of them. That is why I came to you to
see what light you can shed.'
'None,
I fear. You know him far better than I, Henry. Until today, for instance, I had
no idea that he owned a residence in Westminster.'
'Forget
that. It is not important.'
'I
just wonder why it was hidden from me.'
'It
was not hidden from anybody,' chided Henry. The only thing that we must address
at the moment is Sir Ambrose's disappearance. When he is in London, he is a man
of regular habits. Such people do not just vanish into thin air.' He bit his
lip in meditation. 'Did he give you no clue where he was going when he left you
this afternoon?'
'None
whatsoever.'
'But
he told you that he would be seeing me?'
'Yes,
Henry. This evening. You were destined for a reproof.'
'Was
I? On what grounds?'
'Indiscretion,'
said Christopher with gentle mockery. 'You are in disgrace, Henry. I chanced to
make reference to his daughter.'
'Penelope?'
'Yes.
Sir Ambrose took exception to my comment. I might as well warn you that he was
highly displeased with you.'
'Why?'
'For
revealing to me that he had a daughter.'
'In
confidence,' said Henry petulantly. 'In strictest confidence. You should have
kept it to yourself. Never touch on his family. I told you at the outset how
intensely private a man Sir Ambrose was. Your task was to design his house, not
to enquire into his background. You have put me in a most awkward position.'
'I
am sorry. It slipped out.'
'The
damage is not beyond repair, I suppose, but it is embarrassing all the same.
Well, that can wait,' he said dismissively, tossing his periwig. 'Our first job
is to find him.'
'Is
there nowhere else he might be?'
'Not
that I can think of, Christopher.'
'What
if he had some urgent summons from home?'
'He
would never have ridden off to Kent without leaving word for me and for his
lawyer.'
'Are
you sure?'
'Absolutely.
That is not the explanation.'
'Then
what is, Henry?'
The
question anguished his brother. He flopped down in a chair and stared glassily
ahead of him. His face was ashen with fatigue, his brow wrinkled with anxiety.
His hands played nervously in his lap. He went through all the possibilities
before turning to Christopher and giving a hopeless shrug.
'I
dread to think,' he said quietly. 'I fear the worst.'
The
night passed without incident. The old man had been replaced with a much
younger one, who
'Well
past two o'clock this afternoon.'
'Creech
told me that you dined in Holborn.'
'That
is so. He ate with us but left early.'
'In
which direction did Sir Ambrose go?'
'Towards
Newgate.'
'On
his horse?'
'No,
Henry. He was walking.'
'Did
he say where he was going?'
'Not
to me.'
Henry
came to a halt and stroked his moustache as he pondered. In the pool of light
thrown by the candles, Christopher could see that his brother was as immaculately
dressed as ever but the fact that his periwig was slightly askew showed how
distracted he was. Henry Redmayne was a rare visitor to the house even though
he was no stranger to Fetter Lane itself. Until it was destroyed by fire, there
was an establishment at the Fleet Street end of the lane which Henry had
visited regularly in his endless pursuit of carnal delights and one of the
gaming houses he also frequented was still standing. That he should appear on
the threshold at all was a surprise. To come at that hour and in such a state
of agitation revealed just how anxious he was.
'Might
he not have been led astray?' suggested Christopher.
'That
is my fear.'
'I
imply no danger.'
'Then
what is your meaning?'
'Sir
Ambrose strikes me as a man after your own heart, Henry. A dedicated sybarite.
Given to pleasure, acquainted with excess. I always assumed that that is how
the two of you first met. Across a gaming table or in some house of resort.'
'How
we met is a private matter,' said Henry testily.
'But
you take my point?'
'Of
course. And I have visited every one of his known haunts. It has taken me
hours. Sir Ambrose has not been near any of them. That is why I came to you to
see what light you can shed.'
'None,
I fear. You know him far better than I, Henry. Until today, for instance, I had
no idea that he owned a residence in Westminster.'
'Forget
that. It is not important.'
'I
just wonder why it was hidden from me.'
'It
was not hidden from anybody,' chided Henry. The only thing that we must address
at the moment is Sir Ambrose's disappearance. When he is in London, he is a man
of regular habits. Such people do not just vanish into thin air.' He bit his
lip in meditation. 'Did he give you no clue where he was going when he left you
this afternoon?'
'None
whatsoever.'
'But
he told you that he would be seeing me?'
'Yes,
Henry. This evening. You were destined for a reproof.'
'Was
I? On what grounds?'
'Indiscretion,'
said Christopher with gentle mockery. 'You are in disgrace, Henry. I chanced to
make reference to his daughter.'
'Penelope?'
'Yes.
Sir Ambrose took exception to my comment. I might as well warn you that he was
highly displeased with you.'
'Why?'
'For
revealing to me that he had a daughter.'
'In
confidence,' said Henry petulantly. 'In strictest confidence. You should have
kept it to yourself. Never touch on his family. I told you at the outset how
intensely private a man Sir Ambrose was. Your task was to design his house, not
to enquire into his background. You have put me in a most awkward position.'
'I
am sorry. It slipped out.'
'The
damage is not beyond repair, I suppose, but it is embarrassing all the same.
Well, that can wait,' he said dismissively, tossing his periwig. 'Our first job
is to find him.'
'Is
there nowhere else he might be?'
'Not
that I can think of, Christopher.'
'What
if he had some urgent summons from home?'
'He
would never have ridden off to Kent without leaving word for me and for his
lawyer.'
'Are
you sure?'
'Absolutely.
That is not the explanation.'
'Then
what is, Henry?'
The
question anguished his brother. He flopped down in a chair and stared glassily
ahead of him. His face was ashen with fatigue, his brow wrinkled with anxiety.
His hands played nervously in his lap. He went through all the possibilities
before turning to Christopher and giving a hopeless shrug.
'I
dread to think,' he said quietly. 'I fear the worst.'
The
night passed without incident. The old man had been replaced with a much
younger one, who
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