Page 76 of The Time for Love
He met that incisive gaze without flinching, then directed an indulgent smile at Sophy. “Your granddaughter has made me a very happy man.”
Her grandmother snorted, then raised her napkin, patted her lips, and somewhat grudgingly admitted, “I can’t say I didn’t wish for such an outcome, so”—she smiled at Martin, then nodded to Sophy—“you are both to be commended for having such excellent sense.”
Higginbotham hurried in with the hot chocolate, and at his mistress’s direction, poured cups for both Sophy and herself.
Then her grandmother raised her cup and, with a wicked gleam in her eye, said, “Let’s drink to your engagement and, of course, to the wedding that will follow.”
Higginbotham audibly gasped, and a look of hope and expectation bloomed on his face.
Smiling widely, Martin raised his coffee cup and, with a “hear, hear,” complied with her ladyship’s directive, as did Sophy with her hot chocolate.
But the instant they’d all drunk and her grandmother lowered her cup, Sophy leapt in to say, “However, until we resolve the mysteries presently besetting us, Martin and I would greatly prefer to keep the news within the family.”
“Purely until we’ve seen off these threats.” Martin met Lady Bracknell’s eyes. “Aside from discussions of engagement balls and weddings being an unnecessary distraction at the moment, we would rather not advertise the nature of our connection to whoever is responsible for the attacks.”
From the corner of his eye, Martin saw Higginbotham all but visibly rein in his excitement. Confident that the message of the need for temporary secrecy had been heard and understood, Martin concentrated on convincing her ladyship. “Further to that, I would greatly prefer Sophy especially”—he flicked an understanding glance her way—“not to feel distracted while deciding the details of announcing and celebrating our news.”
As he’d hoped, that consideration weighed with her ladyship, too.
“Indeed.” Lady Bracknell turned her gaze on Sophy. “Very wise.” She nodded to Sophy. “One needs to be able to give one’s complete attention to the details when announcing news such as this. One only does so once, after all, and it doesn’t pay to muff it.”
Sophy met Martin’s gaze, then took another mouthful of chocolate and didn’t argue.
“With a view to eliminating the obstacles to announcing our happy news,” Martin continued, “perhaps we should discuss exactly how to approach the police. Specifically, how much we need to tell them.”
Lady Bracknell blinked back to the here and now and nodded decisively. “You’re right. We need to decide how best to keep Sophy’s involvement in what went on quiet, or at least as quiet as possible.” Her ladyship’s gaze hardened. “Quiet enough that it won’t ever become widely known.”
Martin and Sophy agreed unreservedly, and they knuckled down to work out how to achieve that outcome.
* * *
It was midmorning when, with Lady Bracknell on his arm, Martin walked into the main police station in Sheffield.
The tiled foyer was a noisy place, with various miscreants seated on benches against the walls and constables striding in and out through the heavy wood-and-glass doors.
After a quick glance around, Martin led her ladyship straight ahead, directly to a raised counter set against the foyer’s rear wall.
The sergeant on duty behind the desk glanced idly at them as they approached. His gaze passed over them, and he blinked and quickly straightened. “Ma’am.” He nodded respectfully to Lady Bracknell, then transferred his gaze to Martin. “Sir. How can we help you?”
As they’d agreed, Martin replied, “I have information regarding a kidnapping in the area.”
In a firm voice, Lady Bracknell added, “My good friend Sir Hubert Swale, who, I believe, is your chief commissioner, always told me that should I ever have need to call on the police force, to ask to see the relevant inspector.” She widened her eyes at the sergeant. “Who is that, pray tell? For the case of the kidnapping of a member of an aristocratic family?”
The sergeant’s eyes had widened; they widened even more at the mention of the aristocracy.
The speed with which things happened next made Martin glad he’d gone along with her ladyship’s wish to use her influence. Within minutes, she and he were escorted upstairs and along a narrow corridor to the rather small office of Inspector Curtin, who, they were assured, was the right man to investigate their case.
Curtin proved to be a neat, rather dapper individual. As they entered, he rose from his chair behind a desk playing host to two towering piles of brown cardboard files, stacked at either end of the blotter. The inspector greeted Lady Bracknell with appropriate deference, but no fawning, then nodded respectfully to Martin. “Sir.”
Martin read the question in Curtin’s eyes. “My name is Martin Cynster. I’ve been in Sheffield for the past several weeks, looking into investing in Carmichael Steelworks.”
Curtin blinked, then inclined his head. “I see.” He waved them to the pair of armchairs that had been hurriedly ferried into his office. Once they sat, Curtin resumed his seat, folded his hands on his unencumbered blotter, and leaned forward, reminding Martin of a hound in expectation of catching a scent. “The sergeant mentioned a kidnapping.” With poorly concealed eagerness, Curtin looked from Martin to Lady Bracknell and back again. “Who has been kidnapped?”
“Was kidnapped,” Martin corrected. “And it was me.”
Curtin’s eyes flew wide, suggesting he had, indeed, recognized the Cynster name.
“I managed to escape,” Martin continued, “and as I’ve now learned the identity of those responsible, I wish to lay charges.”
