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add that he’d turned his ankle more than once and Edgar had broken his arm. He’d be more alarmed about Colin, save that they’d know by now if he’d fallen and hurt himself. He picked up the lamp from the chest of drawers, pushed the sash higher, and leaned out the window. The wind drove the rain against his face and whipped the branches of the apple tree by the garden wall. A light flickered across the mews in the stable, where Addison was searching. Charles studied the wall below, seeking signs of Colin’s descent. The stone was smooth, but there were possible footholds and handholds in the grouting.
    Mélanie leaned out the window beside him, holding the cat against her shoulder with one hand and pushing her wind-spattered hair back from her face with the other. “He probably doubled a rope up over something at the window level.” She gestured to a corner of the window ledge, which protruded from the wall. “Then he could climb down maneuvering with both ends and pull the whole thing down after him when he reached the ground.”
    “Quite,” Charles said. They had done the same themselves in Spain on more than one occasion. “I was telling Colin about the time we got out of Salamanca only a few days ago. It never occurred to me he’d actually try it himself.”
    “Charles.” Mélanie shifted the compliant cat against her shoulder. “Our son climbed down two stories using a rope that was only draped over a bit of wood and is now hiding outside somewhere in the midst of a rainstorm. And we’re talking as if we’re proud of him.”
    “Well, I am. Concerned but proud. Aren’t you?”
    “That’s not the point. As I remember, by the time we got out of Salamanca you had a cracked rib and my hands were torn to ribbons.”
    “That was a medieval fortress and we had French snipers to worry about. A London town house is a lot tamer.” Charles tilted the lamp so the light fell flush against the wall. No telltale strands of rope were caught against the stone in the part he could see. But something caught his eye just above the peaked pediment of the first-floor window, something showing dark against the pale gray stone. He tilted the lamp further, anchoring the glass chimney with his hand. A chill that had nothing to do with the night air ran along his nerves.
    “What is it?” Mélanie said.
    “Dirt. On the wall.” He kept his voice conversational.
    There was a brief pause. When Mélanie spoke, her voice was equally conversational. “You mean Colin didn’t climb down. Somebody else climbed up.”
    “Possibly.” He saw torchlight crossing the mews and heard the creak of the garden gate. “Addison,” he called.
    “Sir?” His valet disengaged himself from the shadows of the garden wall, one hand raised to shield his face from the rain. “He’s not in the stable, I’m afraid.”
    “Come over here,” Charles said. “Take care to stay on the flagstones. Tell me if there are any footprints beneath the window.”
    The moonlight picked out Addison’s pale hair as he crossed the garden. Charles took Mélanie’s hand and gripped it. Her fingers closed hard round his own. Otherwise she was absolutely still. The cat gave a distressed mew that echoed out into the night.
    “Blimey.” Addison looked up at them, his face a white blur. “Sorry, sir. But it looks as if someone’s been tramping about in the primrose beds.”
    A lead weight settled in Charles’s chest, equal parts inevitability and disbelief. Mélanie clenched his hand, so tight he could feel the scrape of bone against bone. “Look at the wall,” Charles said. “Do you see any dirt? As though someone’s been climbing it?”
    “Yes.” The word was clipped, but the edge of fear in Addison’s voice said that he too realized the significance. “Especially near the bottom. Looks as though it scraped off someone’s shoe.”
    Charles drew a long, uneven breath. Mélanie’s hand was ice cold in his own. “All right, we’d better call off