“Jimmy’s right,” Bill said. “One couldn’t call for him over this wind, and it’s far too risky for searchers in the dark. We’d just be inviting more injuries, and that’s if he’s even hurt at all. He could have hitched a lift and be in the pub.”

“I doubt anyone is driving for pleasure today, but you’re right about the risk,” Jimmy said. “I don’t want Rodington Court men put in danger for Maurice. Or for anyone else,” he added, rather too late.

Pat didn’t argue. If Maurice Haworth had gone out for a walk in a storm without telling anyone, he was a fool and could take the consequences of his folly. She wasn’t entirely able to persuade herself he had, and the dropping level of brandy in Jimmy’s glass suggested she wasn’t the only one to feel unsettled.

Dennis the footman returned at last. He looked distinctly worried now. “We can’t see any things missing, ma’am. Mr. Haworth’s overcoat is hanging up.”

“Good Lord,” Preston said. “But—”

“Thank you, Dennis, you may go,” the Earl said. “Now, that is good news, surely? He wouldn’t have gone out without a coat, so he can’t have gone out.”

“Then where is he, dear, and why has he missed two meals?” the Countess returned.

Bill said it for all of them. “Ought we search the house?”

“I really don’t know why you’re all making such a fuss,” Lady Anna said. “None of you care for him in the slightest. He’s probably fallen asleep on a sofa and he won’t thank you for drawing attention to it.”

“He’s probably stuck a needleful of some garbage into his arm and passed out, is what he’s probably done,” Jimmy said, with sudden savagery. The Countess made a noise of protest. “We all know it, Ma, and someone had to say it. Blast the man. All right, let’s go and look. Preston, Jack, you check this wing. Bill and I will go to the East.”

They headed out, along with the Earl. Pat would have liked to go with them if only to be doing something, but she didn’t want to leave Fen with the Countess and Lady Anna. They sat and waited instead, making whatever pointless conversation they could for some minutes, and then slipping into heavy wordlessness again.

Pat scoured her mind for anything to say but found herself bereft of ideas. There was nothing but the wind and rain and the crackle of the fire, the ticking clock and the sounds of breathing, and as the minutes passed the build-up of hostile silence was excruciating. Would it be rude to go in search of a book?

She shot Fen a look. Fen met her eyes despairingly, took a deep breath, probably to embark on some effort at social lubrication, then swung round. “What’s that?”