Secrets of Sloane House(29)

“What about the Sloanes? What do they say?”

Looking even more distressed, she stared hard at him. Then, as if she’d suddenly made a momentous decision, she whispered, “My sister was working for the Sloanes, sir. I fear that someone in the house had something to do with her disappearance.”



Without a word, they both sat down again.

“You can’t be serious,” Reid finally scoffed.

And she knew at once that telling Mr. Armstrong had been the absolute worst thing to do. As his statement rang in her ears, Rosalind could practically feel her sister’s exasperation. From the time she’d been old enough to be embroiled in any sort of conflict, Rosalind had been miserable at keeping secrets. Time and again, Miranda would glare at her, whisper that if she could ever be trusted, it wouldn’t be too soon. Rosalind would promise to do better in the future.

But yet, here she was again, sharing the most important secret she’d ever kept in her life . . . to one of the people she should be treating as a suspect, not a confidant.

She kept her eyes trained on her injured hand, but couldn’t resist taking a peek at him through the corner of her eye.

As one might have expected, he looked flummoxed.

After taking a long moment—she assumed to gather his thoughts—he turned slightly so that he was more or less facing her on the cool iron bench.

“Who accompanied you? Who has been sharing your burden here?”

The question couldn’t have been more surprising. “My family knows, of course. But I am here by myself.”

“Have you talked to the Sloanes? Asked them for their help?”

“No, sir. When my father came here to find answers, he went to the Sloanes first. They wouldn’t give him the time of day. So if none of the servants are to blame . . . I fear that someone in the Sloane family might have had something to do with her disappearance.”

“Nonsense. They’re one of the oldest families in the area. Very respected.”

“I fail to see how that means anything at the moment.” She made a move to rise and leave him. This had been a mistake, a terrible one, and one that she sincerely hoped wouldn’t cause further difficulties in her investigation. “I had best go back now, sir,” she said stiffly.

He whipped out a hand and held her in place. “Not yet.”

“Sir?”

“Why would you think the Sloanes would be suspects?”

She debated saying any more, but she realized that only the truth, not further evasiveness, was going to bring her sister’s fate to light. And she had a feeling that the search wasn’t meant to be easy. Not the things she learned and not the pain and worry she was going to subject herself to.

Slowly, she said, “My sister wrote the family letters. In them, she talked about everyone she came in contact with. At first, it was only because her experiences were so exciting and so different from anything we’d ever known.”

“That makes sense.”

“Later, though, she told us things that made us worry for her. She said some of the Sloane family seemed . . . ruthless. And secretive.” She gazed at him, not trusting him entirely, but needing for someone to know the truth of what she was saying. “Mr. Armstrong, she began to fear the family, that she would lose her job. I think she may have discovered some of their secrets. But she needed the job, needed the recommendation that only staying—no matter what—could bring her. But she was not terribly happy.”

“Chicago is a dangerous city, Rosalind. Especially now, with so many foreigners and tourists here. The police are overwhelmed and underpaid. Anything could have happened to a young woman on her own.”

“Yes, sir. I am aware of that.” Feeling more frustrated and confused than ever before, she made to stand up again. “I must go. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d be very grateful if you kept this between the two of us.”

He closed his eyes, obviously striving for patience. “Rosalind, I want to talk to you about this some more. I want to help you.”

“There is nothing you can do.”

“I disagree. By the very nature of your job, you have limited access.” Lifting his chin a little, as if he were daring her to disagree, he said, “I can speak to people you cannot. I can speak to the men and women of my society, see if they have heard of any tales about a missing housemaid.”

“Don’t you imagine that they’d find your sudden preoccupation with missing housemaids peculiar?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Perhaps not.” He turned his head so that he was looking at her directly. “I think, at the very least, it is worth a try.”