Aubrey woke to a room flooded with early morning light. She lay there for several minutes watching sunlight move across a beamed ceiling of uneven planks, touching on nail heads and spider-webs. Dust motes floated in the air.
She wasn’t home. She wasn’t in Kev’s lair. She was in a police station; the police had sent for her family. Her family would want her back, whatever Dmitri said.
She’d ripped Dmitri’s face for his malice.
She tensed against a flux of savage satisfaction, remembering Dmitri’s pained shock. She wasn’t that type of person. She could be caustic; she was never violent.
Aubrey pushed up against the four-poster’s pillows. A few feet away, Charles Stowe sat in a plain wooden chair, one ankle balanced on the opposite knee as he perused a sheaf of papers. She took in his details, the light-brown hair, the faint web of lines at the corners of his eyes, the thin, mobile mouth.
He glanced up, said, “Ah, Miss St. Clair. Your family is in Braesmouth near Rostand—Minister Michaels saw them there a week ago. One of our men, Col Roberts, is on his way to Braesmouth now.”
Without me.
But then she had to give the police a description of Kev’s residence. Except she could have done that yesterday. The police could question her anywhere. Why keep me here?
She wantedto trust Mr. Stowe—she was so tired of having to be wary, alert, questioning. But she had trusted Kev (however temporarily). And look where that got me.
After she gave her deposition, she would send a message to Minister Michaels herself. He would know a society family who might take Aubrey to Braesmouth or let her stay in their home until someone—Richard probably—was able to collect her.
She said, “Did my family give me to Dmitri and Kev?”
Mr. Stowe rearranged his papers, faced her fully, and blinked. “You cut your hair.”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” He studied her, a faint crease along his brow. “No. I suspect Kev and Dmitri stole you from your family’s residence in Sommerville.”
“For ransom?”
“Not as far as we know. They—your family believed that you, your cat self, ran off.”
“Lord Simon thought the cat that my family had wasn’t even me.”
“There was some debate on the subject. Many guests at the ball believed you’d gone to the country to recover.”
That rumor would be Mother’s doing. Aubrey even understood why she would spread such a story. A family ghosted by tragedy would hardly be invited to more festivities. Better to have an ailing daughter in the country than a lost daughter whose absence embarrassed fellow guests.
She said, “But you looked for me. You had your police look for me.”
“You weren’t in the country,” Mr. Stowe said and stood up.
He collected his papers, peered behind the folding screen, and looked again at Aubrey, his gaze lingering on her shortened locks. She was struck once more by the tinge of slow amusement in his eyes, the wry twist of his mouth.
“You’re a resourceful young lady,” he said. “We found you a new getup,” he added and pointed towards the screen’s nearest panel where hung a long gray governess dress with buttons from toe to collar.
He jogged down the stairs, and Aubrey crossed to the panel to finger the light, smooth material. She wondered if Mr. Stowe had picked the dress out.
