The Firstborn

Chapter Twenty

He shook his head. "Not unless you want to ride about London, scouring every inch of pavement and questioning every bystander to discover if they've recently seen a tow-headed infant in the vicinity."

"And that's if Lucy or George are even anywhere near London." Sophia shut her eyes and tried not to allow panic to overwhelm her. They could be anywhere in the country, she realized. And that was if they had even left Northumberland and hadn't simply sat back while she ran off to London in search of Haughton's aid.

"The one reply I mentioned receiving?"

Sophia opened her eyes and found Haughton gazing down at her, closer than she remembered him being only a moment before.

"It was from Mr. Winstone, the man I keep on my payroll for incidents just such as this. He said David is in London. He returned to town yesterday, from somewhere in the north," he said, placing a heavy accent on that final word.

Sophia drew in a breath. "Do you think...?"

"At this point, I won't allow myself to think anything without more facts. But if my brother is indeed involved with this..." He raised her chin with a crooked finger when she started to look away. "We will get him back. Do you understand?"

"Are we going about this the wrong way? I mean, we could be attempting to rescue George from his own parents."

"Can you honestly tell me that you haven't met men and women and thought that they should never be in the care of children? I wouldn't entrust David to the care of a flea-infested cat, let alone a healthy young boy."

"But Lucy..."

"I do not know your sister. Only you do, so I cannot make any decisions for you on that score."

They stood there for a moment, her fingers still clutching the loose fabric of his sleeve, her head still throbbing in time with the beating of her heart.

"If you'll excuse me for a few minutes," Haughton said, and took her hand in order to remove it from his shirt. "I'll retire to my room in order to make myself more presentable." He raised his arm, the one with the ink-stained sleeve. "I'll have breakfast sent in to you, and I'll join you in here. That is, if you don't mind eating among the detritus of my work."

The tray arrived a few minutes after Haughton left her. Sophia helped herself to a piece of toast and was spreading a thin layer of butter on the crusty bread as he returned to the study, his clothes changed, his hair combed, and his face cleanly shaven. He still looked tired however, and a bit paler than usual as he took the seat across from her and helped himself to a cup of coffee from the pot.

"I doubt either of us is in possession of anything resembling an appetite this morning," Haughton began, between swallows of coffee. "But we should do our best to eat our fill and fortify ourselves for whatever the day may bring."

Sophia could not argue with the wisdom of his words. She could not imagine where she may be by the time night fell, and after too many days of travelling and poor fare at poorer inns, she should do everything in her power to sustain herself.

After the toast, they each helped themselves to eggs and sausage and ham. They ate with perfunctory movements, neither of them seeming to take much enjoyment from the meal. But they both cleared their plates, and as Sophia wiped the last of the crumbs from her lips with the corner of her napkin, a knock sounded on the study door.

Sophia looked at Haughton, and neither of them breathed for a moment. Then Haughton pushed himself out of his seat and crossed quickly to the door. She had expected to see the butler or one of the maids come to retrieve the breakfast tray, but instead a small, undistinguished man with short brown hair and grey eyes that seemed to carry a touch of resignation.