“Be that as it may, the next time you visit, you are to present yourself at the front door again. My orders.”
The old sailor grinned, displaying a set of teeth stained by age and tobacco, one of the canines missing. “Thank ye, Cap’n. Ye always was a right fine gentleman.”
Nick idly turned his glass in his hand. “As for Bell, he seems to rub along well with the staff, despite his being new to a life of service.”
“Aye, that’s Bell for ye. He gets on wit everyone. A good lad, and bright as they come, even if he can talk the hind end off a horse.”
This time Nick smiled. Raising his glass to his lips, he took another drink, then set the crystal onto his desk with a thump. “Well then, what progress have you made? Were you able to learn anything from your visit to Covent Gardens?”
Nick waited, hoping against hope that Goldfinch would have positive news. The chances weren’t good, he realized, and yet he couldn’t help but wish otherwise. His pulse beat a little faster, unwilling anticipation coursing through his veins.
Goldfinch shook his head, disappointment clear on his face. “Sorry, Cap’n. Cooper an’ me, we asked everyone we could think of, but ain’t nobody knows nothing. We was careful to be discreet about giving out her description, just like ye said ter be, but it’s as if she weren’t never there. No one remembers a pretty blond lady in the market—least not one who’s a real lady and not some fancy piece already fer sale in one of the local houses.”
Nick’s pulse resumed its usual pace. He’d known it was a gamble with poor odds. Even so, he’d had to try. Finding Emma had become an obsession of his in the weeks since she had left, however foolish and futile such a search might be.
“Yer sure there’s no other way to trace her?” the other man asked. “If ye think of summat, I’d be right happy to try again. Cooper too.”
He’d given Goldfinch and Cooper only the barest information about Emma, just enough to set them on the trail. But that trail was dead, apparently. And why would it be otherwise, he mused ruefully, when he’d already exhausted all the options, when he’d tried every way he could conceive of to locate her?
“No.” Nick sighed. “There’s nothing else. Thank you for the attempt, Finchie. Here, let me pay you for your time.” He reached for the coin purse in his coat, but the old boatswain stopped him with a sharp shake of his head.
“Put that away now, Cap’n. Ye’ve done plenty fer the pair o’ us. We don’t need yer blunt. Cooper an’ me ’ave both found work—not always steady yet, mind, but each of us is on our way. He and I, we’re both glad and proud to lend ye a hand. Jest sorry we came up short when it came to yer girl.”
My girl. Not anymore, he mused dolefully. Not ever really, in spite of the intimacy we shared.
“It’s of no moment,” Nick dissembled, lowering his clenched hand into his lap. “She left something here during her stay and I merely wished to return it to her.”
But when he looked up, he caught an expression of sympathy in the older man’s eyes. His former crewman might not know the details of his connection with Emma, but he wasn’t unintelligent. Anyone could tell he was desperate to locate her.
Could Goldfinch see how he was pining for her as well?
Did he realize that his old captain had finally met his match and fallen in love?
Looking away again, Nick silently cursed himself. If he had any self-respect he would do as Mrs. Brown-Jones had advised and forget Emma. But try as he might, he could not put her from his thoughts—or his heart.
At first he’d tried, assuring himself he would get over her. She was just a young woman—lovely, interesting, intelligent, and kind, but replaceable for all that. With some small effort, he would find another woman to take her place. It wasn’t conceit on his part to know he had his pick of females. He’d never had difficulty attracting members of the fairer sex, and he would have even less trouble now that he held the title of earl. If he wished, eligible, beautiful young ladies would be only too happy to toss themselves in his path, each one praying he would choose her and make her his bride.
But the sad truth was he didn’t want another girl. Neither did he want a wife unless she was Emma.
For nearly two weeks, he’d held out against the need to search for her before finally giving in and returning to Mrs. Brown-Jones’s town house. Instead of gaining another audience with Emma’s friend, however, he’d found the house closed, the knocker removed from the door. Clearly, the woman and her husband had fled.
Undeterred, he’d attempted to speak with the servants that remained, loitering in his carriage as he watched them come and go from the house. Finally, he’d cornered a middle-aged woman with soft features and careworn hands—the cook. But in spite of her obvious willingness to talk, she didn’t know anything. The master and mistress had gone away without a word, she told him, but she didn’t know where or when they might return.