Tremont went on handing out assignments so that the child would be found and so that every member of the household could feel that they contributed to that happy outcome—or had done what they could to avoid a tragedy.

“And for the sake of all that is holy,” he went on, “look into any space that closes or locks. Trunks, cupboards, wardrobes, crawlspaces, every nook and cranny, every crevice and drain. Look for our Tommie as if he were your three-months-overdue pay packet. Tanner and Tucker, you are not to tarry at the tea shop. Ask after the lad, have a look around. Make a search of Mrs. Merridew’s former residence, including the adjacent alley, and then report back. No appointing yourself to scouting duty at the pub. Mrs. Merridew and I will expect reports from all points in one hour. Dismissed—and keep a sharp eye.”

Several of the men saluted, though most had shed that habit. They shuffled out the door, muttering and cursing, but following orders, as Tremont had known they would.

Mrs. Merridew had at some point turned from the window, though she kept her arms crossed over her middle.

“Thank you,” she said. “I have never heard so many raised voices at once. All I could think was, ‘The sweeps will get him.’ Whatever shall I do if the sweeps steal my boy?”

She was pale and still, though Tremont could feel the panic trying to shake her. He knew that battle for self-control, as did every soldier to take up arms.

“Has Tommie gone missing before?”

“Never. I barely let him out of my sight, but he seemed so happy here. He slid down the banister at least a dozen times, and I hadn’t the heart to scold him. If I’d been less permissive… less indulgent…” Her breath hitched, and Tremont steeled himself to endure the tears of a woman who’d probably given up crying the day she’d entered second mourning.

“We will find him,” Tremont said. “Little boys love to explore. They do not love to miss meals or worry their mamas. Tommie wants to be found.”

“He was so good at breakfast. No rude questions, no arguments. He ate every bite of his porridge.”

“Then we know he’s not hungry.”

Mrs. Merridew blinked and nodded while Tremont wished she would cry, wished she could collapse upon him in a heap of female misery so he could offer her the simple comfort of an embrace.

That was apparently not what she needed. “What is Tommie’s favorite thing?” Tremont asked. “His greatest joy?”

Mrs. Merridew worried a nail. “He was very impressed with that cup of hot chocolate at the tea shop.”

Were you impressed? Tremont kicked himself mentally. “Tommie is a canny lad. He’d know he couldn’t purchase another serving without coin. When does he lose himself in enjoyment? When is he most deaf to your maternal instructions?”