22 April 1894

Maximilian paced the floor of Lord Samuel Winthrop's parlour, unable to sit still after a restless night of what could barely be considered slumber. A crack of light slanted through the drawn curtains, signalling dawn.

The house was deadly silent. All but a few of the servants had been dismissed last night, after leaving the party.

Lord Winthrop had assured the host and guests that Rosalie had simply been sent home earlier in a carriage as she had been feeling unwell from all the excitement of her debut. It was a lie that made Maximilian's teeth clench, when he thought of how easily Rosalie's reputation might fall into ruin and scandal due to her mother's horrid actions.

After they had returned to the house, Lord Winthrop had retired to his study, but the candles had been burning all night. Maximilian had alternated between sleeping on the sitting room sofa–he felt it wrong to sleep on a bed, when who knew what sorts of conditions Rosalie might be kept in?–and both men had fruitlessly tried to find sleep and Rosalie.

Now, he stood to make himself and Lord Winthrop a slice of toast and a cup of tea. As the kettle whistled, he tucked his hands into the pocket of his waistcoat. It felt like a foreign garment still, like he was an actor, playing the role of a gentleman. Though he was the son of a gentleman–if his father, the duke, could be called that at all–Max still felt like he was an impostor among the finer things of life.

The tea and toast fixed, he set them on a tray. Just then, the housekeeper, Mrs. Jensen, bustled in, her eyes fixed on the tray of tea and toast he had picked up.

She looked scandalized. "A gentleman? Making his own breakfast, in this house? I won't have it. Out with you, Mr. Walker!"

"I..." he spluttered, unable to find the right words. There were no excuses anyway, not when this woman didn't know who he was, what he had been. That he was closer to any of the help than he was to being a noble lord. "Of course, ma'am. I apologize."

She harrumphed. "This is a fine house of good repute, and I won't have anyone saying we need to leave our guests to fend for ourselves."

He retreated to the dining room. Just then, Lord Winthrop made an appearance, his hair uncombed and his face unshaven, but clad in appropriate attire. Maximilian was simultaneously overdressed and under-groomed, his clothing suited to a ball but dishevelled from sleeping on the settee.

"Good morning, Maximilian," Lord Winthrop said, sitting down across from him. He was humming a hymn, Amazing Grace from the sounds of it. "Did you sleep well?"

"Poorly, sir," he said. "And you?"

How could Lord Winthrop seem so cheerful at a time like this - when his only daughter was missing? And not only missing, but possibly one's own former wife–well, possibly former; Maximilian hadn't inquired into the man's marital affairs before–had absconded with her? It bewildered Maximilian.

"About the same," he responded evenly as he buttered the toast that Mrs. Jensen had set down moments prior. "What do you say we pay a visit to Mr. Redmond Flynn this morning?"

"I..." He swallowed a gulp of tea; it was scorching. "I supposed that would be wise, sir. He is a man in whom I have the utmost confidence, as I am sure you do as well, to find your daughter."

"Oh, not only that," Lord Winthrop said, stirring sugar into his tea. "He is also excellent at ministering to wounded souls, something I fear we may both need at this hour."

"Wounded?" Maximilian repeated. He felt rather foolish this morning, parroting every other word from the man's mouth, but he could not help himself. "I... I am far from that, I can assure you."

"As you say, then," Samuel Winthrop said in a way that suggested he didn't really believe him at all. His blue eyes, though dimmed with sorrow, still bore a sparkle.

Wounded. Darkened, perhaps, by the stains of his past. The sins of his birth. But wounded?

"What time shall we see him?" Max glanced toward the clock, which was by now striking seven.

"One should give the man time to eat his breakfast and get settled before paying a call, don't you think?"

"But, sir, your daughter is missing, and you hardly seem to... well, one would think you were in more of a rush, that is," he said, hardly able to swallow his toast, though it was far from dry.

At that, Lord Winthrop sighed. "I have spent all night praying for her safe return. She is in God's hands, and I shall let Him do His work. I shall do mine. I have every port authority on the Continent watching out for her, thanks to the telegrams I sent from my study. If any of them see someone fitting Rosalie–or her mother's–description, they shall alert me immediately."

That did make Maximilian uncoil slightly from his tense position. "I am glad to hear that, sir."

He drummed his fingers on the linen tablecloth. Mrs. Jensen entered to pour more tea, and shot a chastising look at him. He straightened, shoulders hunching.

"Maximilian," Lord Winthrop said, scanning Max's stiff posture and pinched frown. "Please, I am as concerned for my daughter's safety as you are, but worrying oneself into a tizzy is hardly a productive manner of expressing that anxiety."
"I am afraid I lack your faith, sir," he admitted. "I have spent too long relying on my own strength."

"Hardly," Lord Winthrop said. "For wherever you were, He was with you, watching over you. Have you not felt that providence brought you here? To this very moment? Do not fault yourself for my daughter's kidnapping. For all that you know, God might have placed you here for a higher purpose than either of us can ascertain. After all, He has allowed our paths to cross so many times before."

***

The brisk winter air was soon replaced by the smells of potpourri and the sound of a crackling fire as Maximilian dusted the snow off of his boots, stepping into the foyer of Redmond Flynn's house. It was the same as ever, just as welcoming, just as grand, but today, it felt cold. There could be no refuge for him, no home, as long as Rosalie was missing.

Perhaps his soul had wandered too long, had sought rest and love for too long, to feel properly at peace anywhere. But perhaps, he could find it in One greater than him.

The butler welcomed them inside before bringing them to Redmond's study.

"Redmond," Lord Winthrop greeted. "It has been too long, though I'm afraid we meet under less happy circumstances than either would like."

"It is always a joy to see the two of you," Redmond said, a smile on his face, but worry brewed in his brown eyes. "However, the sudden nature of your visit tells me that something horrid has happened. Please, take a seat. I'll have the housekeeper bring some tea to warm you up."

The study was warm, brown- and amber-toned, with mahogany wainscoting and heavy oak furniture. Their chairs were forest-green, the carpet deep burgundy beneath his feet. Golden tassels pulled back the forest-green drapes to reveal a bustling city view. A fire roared in the corner behind a brazier, across from an ornately carved bookcase holding leather-bound spines.

"My daughter, Rosalie, is missing," Lord Winthrop said once the study door had been firmly closed behind them.

Redmond blanched and pulled out a pad of paper along with a quill and inkpot. "How did this happen? Since when?"

"Last night, at her debut, a woman claiming to be her mother took her," Lord Winthrop said. "We believe she may have been drugged."

"Drugged, you say?" Redmond frowned. "Were there any intoxicants present?"

"It was in the lemonade," Maximilian said, clearing his throat.

"The lemonade?" He scribbled down frantic notes. "Have you asked the staff of the house for any clues? I'll require a full guest list of all who attended the party as well as an interrogation of the hosts."

"We are doing our best to keep this a private matter, Redmond, and your discretion would be appreciated." Lord Winthrop tugged his cravat away from his throat, the room growing hot.

"I understand, and the scandal is great... But your daughter could be in danger, Samuel." Redmond sighed. "You could tell them that your daughter's sudden illness may have been brought on by the lemonade and ask the staff who prepared it."

"Surely others might have been poisoned if the entire pitcher were bad?" Maximilian said.

"An excellent point. What if a maid was the one who did it? The entire household may need to be cross-examined." Redmond made a note. "This is a delicate matter, yes, but we also have no way of knowing if the woman was Cornelia, Eliza, or whoever she is calling herself these days... And even if she were, I find it difficult to trust a woman who could abandon her family so easily."

"As do I," Lord Winthrop said, rubbing his temples. "I have every port authority on this side of the Channel–and in France–looking for her. They'll send me a wire if they hear anything."

"And I suppose you haven't got one of those–what are they called? A telephone?" asked Redmond.

"No. I'm afraid not."

"A shame, I always wanted to try one of those newfangled inventions..." Redmond made more notes. "But of course, I believe that concludes the information I need for the investigation. Do remind me, please, whose house this party was at."

"Lady Dunbury's," said Maximilian.

Redmond's face fell. "The widow?"

"The very one," Lord Winthrop said. "And why do you wear such a look, old friend?"

"I suppose you do not keep abreast of social gossip very much, do you?" Redmond said. "I do so reluctantly, as befits my occupation, and I have recently been made aware of some disturbing revelations about the widow Dunbury... She has some alarming ties to a certain duke."

"Which one?" But Maximilian feared he already knew the answer.

His father.

"Oliver Dennings, the Duke of Marlborough," said Redmond, confirming his suspicions. "It's been rumoured that he was bribing her to keep quiet about his smuggling activities, as she owns a house by Dover."

Smuggling?

"What does that have to do with Cornelia?" asked Lord Winthrop.

"Her true name–her given name–is Eliza Wright. The younger sister of Edgar Wakefield, whose Christian name is Edwin Wright." Redmond gestured toward Maximilian. "He has read the dossier, I presume; and can tell you the rest. Edgar Wakefield and Oliver Dennings are accomplices in a variety of criminal enterprises."

"Is this true?" Lord Winthrop turned to him.

"I know it is." He straightened. "Lord Dennings is my father."