Free Maggie MacKeever by Quin

hardly have done of her own accord. Was there anyone who shouldn’t be in the other areas of the house?” And if so, how had that been allowed to happen, he didn’t say aloud, but Samson nevertheless turned pale.
    “I don’t see as how anyone could have slipped in unnoticed,” he answered. “Everybody was told to be on the alert. Rosamund did say as she glimpsed an older female when she went down to the kitchen, but figured it must be Miss Manvers’ abigail.”
    Kate should have been assigned a maidservant. Why hadn’t Quin realized before? In his defense, he was hardly in the habit of acquiring maidservants for the various ladies of his acquaintance, said acquaintance seldom lasting more than a few hours. Still, his failure to provide for Kate was yet another indication of his tendency to think only of himself.
    Exposure to Miss Manvers was rapidly shattering what few self-delusions he had left.
    The kitchen, Quin discovered, was a spacious room with a lofty ceiling and a stone flagged floor. Cookware of all descriptions — copper pots, bronze cauldrons, pottery bowls, salt boxes, spice holders, butter stamps, graters, and a number of items he didn’t recognize — were displayed on the numerous dressers and open shelves that lined the white-washed walls. Servants bustled back and forth between the large scrubbed elm table and cast iron kitchen range. When Quin entered the room, they stopped to stare, as astonished as if their realm had been invaded by a kangaroo.
    Enquiries elicited the information that yes, a strange woman had been glimpsed in the house. One person thought she was this, and another that, but all agreed it wasn’t their place to question which of his females their employer chose to have on the premises, or why, even when the female didn’t seem at all his sort. This attitude further annoyed said employer, who had made it a point not to have extraneous females on the premises, save Kate, who could by no stretch of anyone’s imagination be called his.
    And furthermore, Figg the footman was also no longer on the premises.
    “Come with me,” Quin said to Samson, and strode toward the back door. The kitchen staff watched in silence as they exited.
    Samson hailed a hackney. “You suspicion where she’s gone to, guv?”
    “I do.” Edmund Underhill, Quin had discovered, owned no London house. When in town, he stayed at Richardson’s in Covent Garden, a well-known hotel.
    Mr. Underhill was not to be found at Richardson’s, however. After accepting a generous gratuity, the porter allowed as the gentleman could most likely be located at a certain establishment in Maiden Lane, which was to his way of thinking a low sort of place and not to his lordship’s taste. If the porter were to make a suggestion, which he would be happy to do, for an additional small stipend—
    But Lord Quinton had returned to the hackney, and was rattling away.
    The porter had misjudged him. His lordship was acquainted with the establishment in Maiden Lane. He gained entrance without difficulty, having visited this and similar establishments more times than he could count. A brief conversation with an individual of singularly sinister appearance, Sprowl by name; another exchange of coins; and then Lord Quinton and Sprowl were moving through the rooms, Samson at their heels.
    They found Coffey seated at one of the small tables in a low-ceilinged anteroom. Beside him brooded a dark-haired man.
    Sprowl nodded toward a doorway on the far side of the chamber and then took his leave of them. Samson raised his eyebrows. Quin inclined his head.
    Samson approached the table, grasped the dark-haired man by the collar, and hauled him upright. “Edmund Underhill? His lordship is wishful of a word.”
    Edmund choked, sputtered and struggled. His chair fell over with a crash. Such was the nature of the establishment that none of the other patrons so much as glanced his way.
    Samson forcibly escorted his captive over to where Quin