“I have to go.” Ian reached for his boots and slipped them on. “My coat, Hob.”
A swath of blood, presumably from his head wound, had left a stain on the collar of his tweed jacket, but the hearth elf removed a miniature whisk broom bound with golden thread from inside his jacket, then repeated, “Spot out, spot out, spot out,” until the unsightly blotch was swept clean, restoring the coat to near new. When Hob had finished, Ian handed him the wee cream pitcher from the tea tray for his effort.
“Is it wise to leave now?” Edwina asked after the elf swallowed the milk with a satisfying smack. “You’ve only just recovered.”
He shrugged his coat on and combed his hair back with his fingers. “Thank you for your care, Miss Blackwood,” he said with full sincerity. “But I’ve lost precious time and I canna afford to lose any more.”
“This is maddening. Where will you go?”
“I have four days of work I must recover. I suppose I have no choice but to begin at the beginning and start over again as if I’d just arrived.” He checked his pockets for his watch and also discovered Sir Elvanfoot’s business card. He took it out and flipped it over in his fingers, reminded of his promise.
“But what work is so urgent a man must risk his own health?” The witch, though tender and attentive with her womanly bedside manner, stood her ground in front of him, attempting to charm him into a change of heart with that lilting voice of hers. “Why not lie down, take a rest, until you’re truly feeling your best. Let your mind be free of distress, I’m concerned for your welfare, I must confess.”
He tucked the business card back in his pocket and concentrated on resisting her gentle spell by invoking the silent mantra of deflection he’d learned to perfect in his line of business. With this charm I disarm, your magic here can do no harm. The sweet tone of her voice dissipated in his ears, with an odd smidge of regret on his part.
“Despite the lapse, I do have my faculties back, Miss Blackwood, if that is your concern.” He paused, wondering if he could confide in her. If he should confide in her. An ally in the city could speed things along. But could he trust her? She’d just tried to enchant him, though he supposed it was for his own good. Either she had a hand in his attack or she was someone who could possibly help him discover who did. So which was she?
“Those missing four days found you hit over the head and left for dead on the river’s foreshore in the end, Mr. Cameron. Whatever it is you seek to recover led you to that violent moment. What makes you think it won’t again?”
Hob jumped on Ian’s back, hugging his arms around his neck the way a small child would. The contact made him swallow, reminding him of the phantom nightmare he couldn’t relinquish. She was right. His investigation must have taken a dark turn. Either he’d discovered a dangerous piece of the puzzle he’d been sent to solve or merely met with bad luck in a city overrun with hooligans out to rob a man and relieve him of his possessions. Despite the events that had led him to that shore, he must retrace his steps to uncover the truth and discover what had happened over those four days. He owed it to Elvanfoot.
With Hob clinging to his neck, he turned to the witch. “Aye, it likely will, but that is exactly what I intend to find out.” Something in him relented and he decided to be candid with her. “I’m a private detective, Miss Blackwood, searching for a missing person in the city.” The idea of four days lost and the trail gone cold irked him to no end, knowing it was more likely than not he’d been on the verge of discovering something pivotal before he was attacked.
She gestured toward the card he’d tucked away. “Sir Elvanfoot. That’s who you’re working for, isn’t it?”
Again, she awakened in him a vein of sincerity he’d lost touch with years ago. “He hasn’t heard from his son in weeks. I’m here to find him. That, Miss Blackwood, is the work I must risk my health for.”
“My family has always admired the Elvanfoots,” Edwina said. “If there’s any way I can help, I’d be happy to do it.”
He’d taken her for a sharp-eyed, cold-as-stone southern witch—after all, who else steals a man’s memories with no shame or regret?—but after her humble offer, and a prod from Hob in his ear to trust her, he reconsidered his initial reading of her. “I believe the best way to unravel this mess would be to start at the last place I was last myself in the city.”
“The foreshore.”