The English Lily (Tales of the Scrimshaw Doll) by Kae Elle Wheeler Page B

travels?”
    “Ah, the crippled devil? I believe my grandfather had the privilege of his acquaintance. He was a sly one.”
    “I’d heard, of course.”
    Joseph smiled, keeping an eye on the road ahead. Kendra was drawing with her finger on her knee again. He couldn’t quite make out the pattern she engraved; he strove to concentrate on where he was leading the horses, lest they end up in a ditch. “And what is it you think you were privy to?”
    “That he’d lost his leg in an explosion.”
    “ Oui , but that’s not all, is it?” He gave her a sideways glance.
    She shrugged, and an impish grin touched her lips. “No. He wore a wooden leg that was said to be hollowed out in order to store his props.”
    “Surely, that is not the talk in salons across London?” he asked, startled.
    “Don’t be ridiculous. Salon talk is for poetry and politics, and knitting for the poor and underprivileged.”
    “Is that so?” he murmured.
    “I attend a great many lectures.”
    “Do you not care for poetry, then, or politics and knitting for the poor and underprivileged?”
    “I have many interests,” she told him.
    “I suppose you read a great deal.”
    She went still beside him. “What should we tell Mrs. Thomas? She’ll ask how we were able to escape while her son did not. And…and how are we to find her?”
    “Finding her should not prove difficult. Coming up with a believable tale is our main concern.”
    “What makes you think our doll is magic?” she asked.
    The “our” in her question swelled his chest with pride. It spoke of the trust she placed in him. “I cannot be certain,” he said. “But something odd happened when you were ill, and again when the villains kicked in the door. Both times we were physically holding her.”
    “And the note,” Kendra reminded him.
    “Ah, yes, the note. Though I have my doubts regarding its cryptic message.” He considered that a moment. “Perhaps we should go over it once more. Get it out and read it, s’il vous plaît. ”
    “There is time enough for that later.” Her tone went stiff. “We must fabricate a believable tale for Mrs. Thomas. That should be our first priority.”
    “Very well,” he acceded. “What do you suggest?”
    ****
    Kendra sat on the edge of her chair, back straight, gloved hands folded in her lap. The small parlor was clean but shabby. Porcelain knickknacks decorated the many shelves. The settees, two of them, were faded with age but comfortable. Still, Kendra couldn’t relax, not with the news she was there to impart.
    Now she’d located Mrs. Thomas, Kendra found she was having second thoughts about the whole ordeal. How did you tell a woman her son was dead and would never be coming home?
    A frail woman, somewhat haggard in appearance, Mrs. Thomas had kind eyes and crooked fingers.
    Joseph stood looking out the window, his back to the occupants, his presence looming in the small room.
    “How did you know my son, Mrs.—”
    “Lady Lawrie,” Joseph said over his shoulder.
    Kendra started and bit back a reprimand, surprised at Joseph’s inappropriately timed insistence. Glaring at him would do no good, as he was not looking at her. “Please forgive my husband, Mrs. Thomas.” She smiled tentatively at Mrs. Thomas.
    Mrs. Thomas looked uncertain but poured the tea and handed Kendra a cup.
    “Thank you,” Kendra murmured, and sipped.
    Joseph moved from the window and took up a place next to Kendra. She’d never admit it aloud, but she was very grateful for his attendance.
    He could have left her on her own to inform Mrs. Thomas. Instead, Joseph placed his hand over Kendra’s and addressed Mrs. Thomas. “Mr. Thomas boarded the Cécile in Bordeaux. My wife and I…” Joseph gazed at her so tenderly Kendra had to swallow her emotion. He lifted a shoulder. “After much argument, we came to the realization that we were not quite ready for the new world. Or mayhap, they were not ready for us. Not to mention, Lady Lawrie’s father