44. A Missive Has Arrived For You

24 April 1894

A fire roared in the library's brazier, the faint smell of meerschaums and old books clinging to him as he rubbed his thumb over the surface of the paper between his fingers. Minerva, Rosalie's lapdog, curled up at his feet, one of her paws resting on his boot as she waited for his mistress's return.

Maximilian stared at the telegram in his hands once more. Could it really say what he thought it did?

IN PARIS STOP. WILL SEND FOR YOU STOP. REGARDS, LORD D STOP.

Why would his father want to see him? And why would he want to see him now?

After his revelation to Lord Winthrop and Redmond, they'd come to a tentative agreement on what to do with the news. It was uncovered that Oliver Dennings, duke of Marlborough, not only had ties to Lady Dunbury, the widow who had hosted the party where Rosalie had gone missing... but Lord Dennings also had connections to Edgar Wakefield.

In fact, a closer glimpse into the links between Lord Dennings and Edgar suggested that Rosalie's mother, who had been born Eliza Porter, was also involved. Cornelia and Edgar had both been orphans and grown up together as street urchins, shedding a hint of illumination onto the memory of Edgar Wakefield's Cockney accent. As well, it almost made Maximilian feel... well, not sympathetic for the man, but he could see how poverty drove one to commit horrendous crimes.

When you were hungry, desperate, starving and without a drop of hope, it was all too easy to turn to the darkness for survival. Maximilian only thanked God that he had not come to such a fate.

Now, he was still in Lord Winthrop's house, though the man had gone to Parliament to attend to some urgent business. The telegram still seared a hole in his pocket, as though it were a burning ember demanding his attention before it turned everything he loved to ashes.

Should he go to Paris? If he boarded a ship, he could be there in less than a day. But what if it was an ambush and the man had some nefarious intentions for him?

Just as he was about to throw the telegram into the fireplace, a knock sounded at the door. He stood now to receive whoever was there, feeling rather strange to behave as if he were the master of the house. "Yes?"

"Mr. Walker, a missive has arrived for you." It was Mrs. Jensen, her motherly voice tinged at the edges with an Irish accent. "Well, several, in fact. There are quite a few of them here."

Who would send so many letters to him? He frowned and opened the door. "Very well, then. I will see to them."

When he exited the library, the housekeeper stood outside with a silver salver that was piled high with stacks of envelopes. There had to be at least fifty of them in there. He plucked the topmost letter, and nearly dropped it. It smelled of Rosalie's perfume, something sweet and citrus-tinged and invigorating.

Her penmanship was in big, round letters, wobbly and nearly illegible. He opened it and read the date. It was from nearly a decade ago. Dear future husband...

"Who delivered these?" He cleared his throat, folding the envelope shut again. They weren't meant for his eyes. They couldn't be.

But he gazed at the string that bound the letters together, where a red seal and a smaller notecard were bound to the wrapping.

"Lord Winthrop asked that these be delivered to the house and to you, specifically," said Mrs. Jensen. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to see to the scullery maids. They keep on tarnishing the silverware!"

And so he was left alone with stacks of letters that could not possibly be meant for him, and a decision to be made. The gnawing need to read them, to pry into Rosalie's past, bit into him, sinking in like claws. He could not have her present, and her future felt like an impossible distance from him, but her past? Here it was, so perfectly preserved... and her father had sent him the letters...

But would it not be a gross violation of her privacy to read them? Surely they were not for him.

Eventually, however, Maximilian chose a path on the crossroads. When he and Lord Winthrop had a quiet supper together that night, he informed him of his plans to go to Paris and follow the summons of Lord Dennings.

"Do you think the man trusts you?" Winthrop said, a frown creasing his salt and pepper brows. Minerva waited at his feet for scraps, wagging her tail, and resting her head on his shoes.

"He..." Maximilian could not be sure. "He sees me as his son, to be certain. Lord Dennings met with me in November of last year."

Maximilian Dennings. The sound of that name was completely foreign to him. Yet somehow, it was his.

"The man has not seen you in over eighteen years, and he returns now?" Lord Winthrop took a bite of his boiled potatoes. The food was bland, but Maximilian knew what it was to be without victuals, and was still grateful for every morsel. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"If I may be so bold, Lord Winthrop, your wife has recently returned after many years away, also without an explanation," he said.

Lord Winthrop's expression was pained. "Maximilian... you are the closest thing that I have to a son. You must understand that."

An orphan's loneliness, the sorrow of abandonment, the pain of loss... all of it coalesced and came rushing back in at the older man's words. "I know." His voice was thick with emotion that he did his best to hide.

"Yet I cannot convince you." Lord Winthrop took a sip of tea.

"Lord Dennings may very well be my father," he said. "If nothing else... I wish to know what he wants, before I dismiss him outright."

"You are as stubborn as I was at your age. Very well, then. I will send Redmond to shadow you and ensure your safety." He shook his head, but worry shadowed his blue eyes. "Please, Maximilian... be safe."

He swallowed, glancing down at his plate. "I will, sir. And if I can... I will bring her back to you."

"I cannot lose both of you."

Maximilian did his best to sound reassuring, but they both knew nothing in life was guaranteed. "You will not, sir."

***

The salt-tinged wind whipped through his hair as Maximilian leaned against the ship's railing, watching the grey smog and sandstone buildings of England recede into the distance. Seagulls cawed, and the ship's passengers bustled around above deck, waving at other ships. A foghorn blew in the distance, waves lapping against the ship. Apprehension and anxiety coiled together in his stomach, conspiring with the boat's rocking to make him fight the urge to vomit.

To distract himself, he glanced around. A few sailors were puffing on pipes in broad daylight, some refined ladies with fascinators looking disgusted at the mixing of the classes. The last ship he'd been on... well, it had been returning to England from the Orient. But he preferred to think of his time spent hiding in the cargo hold with Rosalie and Minnie, her dog, sharing secrets and escaping from her governess.

But that had been his childhood, and it was past now. Now, there was only the present. There was only what must be done, not what he wished to do.

Redmond Flynn materialized at his side. "You're looking awfully pensive, Maximilian."

"I was only recalling my last ocean voyage, Mr. Flynn." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets as they reddened from the harsh ocean air in the heart of winter. "Thank you for accompanying me to Paris."

"I always love a good adventure," he said. "And my wife has made me promise to bring back some Parisian souvenirs, so this trip shall not be for naught."

He disliked the suggestion that the trip would be for naught otherwise. "It would be good, of course, to learn of Lord Dennings' motives, and perhaps punish the man for any criminal wrongdoing."

"Were that you were an attorney." Redmond shook his head. "Alas, I suppose you are too good for that, being the son of a peer and all."

Maximilian rested his elbows on the rail, trying not to give a snarky reply. The spray of saltwater splattered his face and shirtsleeves with cool droplets, the sensation nearly refreshing. "The alleged son of a peer."

"Putative or not..." Redmond shook his head. "I must say, there are men who would kill to be where you are now."

"Men I could not respect." Men would not have killed to be in his position when he'd been a street orphan sleeping in back alleys and having his shoes stolen, he knew that much.

"I'm glad you have your priorities sorted." Redmond pulled his cap lower over his head. The two were dressed in casual clothes, of a middling variety that would mark them as landed gentry or merchants–wealthy, but not elite enough to hobnob with the names in Debrett's. "Few men do."

"Yes," he said, thinking of Edgar Wakefield, his slimy ways, his knavish words, his beady eyes. "Few men do."

They stood at the railing until England faded out of sight completely, and crossed the Channel into a thrilling new adventure.

He only hoped they might make it back to England alive.