Page 36 of Charity

“The ducal estate?”

“No, the village. My father was already out of favor with the duke, for having the bad form of producing too many healthy children, I believe. The ducal line produced few offspring that survived infancy, whereas mine produced many more. We lived in a small house on the edge of the estate.”

Oscar stood and pulled his Burke’s Peerage from his bookshelf. The Duke of Romsey’s entry was easy to find without Randall’s assistance. What he said was true. The current duke had no uncles remaining. The only distant relations were of Leopold Randall’s line.

“My brother and I had been returned to school a full month before we heard of our parents’ deaths. A carriage accident, I was told. My youngest brother and sister were not mentioned at the time, but my parents were uncommonly doting and always traveled with their children. I’ve not heard of their whereabouts since the Christmas of ’03. Then, a few weeks after our parents’ deaths, Oliver, my younger brother by two years, ran away from school during the night.”

Oscar frowned. The tale was quite fantastical, but if the brother had run away of his own accord, there was no mystery there at all. “Was your brother unhappy at school?”

Randall’s expression grew darker, if that was possible. “No, Oliver was happiest when surrounded by his books. We were to meet that morning before class. He said he had a secret to tell. He never arrived at the appointed time, and then I was called into the headmaster’s office and informed he’d taken off.”

Quite fantastical. Oscar didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

“I can see you doubt me,” Randall said quietly.

Oscar decided to be blunt. “I’m not sure what to believe, but it is clear you fear the worst. Why do you think they were disappeared?”

“Because the Duke of Romsey had the gall to promise them harm if I flinched at doing any of his dirty work in later years. He gave me no cause to disbelieve that they were alive. My family were no real danger to his power, or to Edwin, his heir, but he wouldn’t loosen his control over me. I was his son’s heir until the current duchess gave birth to a son.”

“If what you say is true then I’m surprised he left you alive after that.”

“I had my uses.” Randall laughed, a bitter sound that chilled him through to his toes. “I am no danger to the child. The old bastard made sure I would never pose any threat.”

Oscar wanted to ask how, but by the fierce expression on the face of the man before him, Randall wouldn’t confide what obviously was an unpleasant memory. He scratched down the date of the accident and the interval till Oliver’s disappearance. “Do you remember what your siblings look like?”

Randall reached into his inner coat pocket and threw a pile of drawings across the table. “These are a fair likeness, but they are over ten years old and may not be of much use now.”

Oscar flicked through three sketches. The images were of children, but he could see a strong resemblance to Leopold Randall. Oliver, Rose, and Tobias Randall. An experienced runner should be able to make use of them. “They are a start. May I keep these?”

Randall sank back into his chair, weariness dragging the animation from his face. “Of course. I have made other copies.”

Randall’s flat tones brought Oscar’s own fears rushing back. While Randall had talked, he’d quite forgotten his own problems. If he kept his mind focused on investigations for Leopold Randall, maybe his own concerns would disappear. He tucked the drawings into his inner pocket along with his notebook, just as luncheon was announced.

Once Randall was on his way back to wherever he was staying, Oscar would visit with Lord Daventry and the rector of St. George and see what they advised him to do. The holy man and the former sinner might be able to shed some light on the fate and potential location of three children the Duke of Romsey had deemed expendable.

Agatha inched the window in her bedroom open, a light breeze wafting across her thighs through her nightgown. She shouldn’t open the window, but her day had been haunted by images of Oscar’s distress. Despite the knowledge that he was forever beyond her reach, she wanted to talk to him.

She’d caught a glimpse of his expression as he’d sat in church that morning. The strain was so clear her heart had raced, raced so badly she had almost run to him, despite the numerous members of society sitting between them. But that very action would have ruined the rest of her life.

Then he had followed them home, casting a stern eye on the children so they behaved properly for a change. The fact that Oscar had a calming effect on the children had surprised her. He was, quite simply, the most casual of men. But not anymore, it seemed. His silent disapproval of their high spirits had quieted them faster than any words she’d uttered that morning.

Once returned to the orphanage, the boys had peppered her with questions about the viscount. They wanted to know everything: who his tailor was, did he ride a great hunter, drive a phaeton, and was he Whig or Tory? Agatha had tried her best to appear less knowledgeable than she actually was. She wasn’t quite sure she achieved it, because her maid, mending the children’s clothes by the window, kept casting her odd looks. Agatha was very glad when Manning had arrived to distract them all and they’d gone outside for tea.

Agatha popped her head out her bedroom window and let her gaze rest on the adjacent balcony. Oscar wasn’t there. Not yet. She let her head fall, disappointed, and noticed a bag of sweets waiting. The sign of his constancy made her heart ache. She had thought he would stop leaving her little gifts by now.

She hefted the bag, and tossed it between her hands. By rights she should not accept them. She should return them and tell him again to stop being so kind. His constancy in this one small thing was a sharp pain that never truly left her.

The rattle of a door handle reached her ears. Agatha drew back, knowing the sound came from Oscar’s home. The sharp rap of boots rang on the tile, then a slither of sound and a heavy thump.

When she peeked out the window again, Oscar sat with his back to her on the terrace. Glass clinked to the tile and she heard his heavy sigh. She laid her arms on the windowsill and dropped her head to rest there, staring at the back of Oscar’s head.

He stubbornly stayed facing the other way, drinking slowly from his glass. When the glass was empty, he stood and brushed off his clothes. His head turned fractionally, finally acknowledging her presence. “I still miss you.”

Then he disappeared inside his townhouse.

Agatha lifted her hands to the window frame, slid it shut, and then wiped the tears from her eyes.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN