by Viola Morne
Snow strode to his study. The cabinet door hung loosely on its hinge, the lock shattered. Everything seemed in order, but something was missing. The bottle of laudanum was gone. Snow cursed, banged the door shut, and threw himself in his chair. He eyed the brandy bottle. Best to keep a clear head.
"I've ordered breakfast." The major followed him into the room. He cocked an appraising eye. "You should eat something, Julian."
"I had a bottle of laudanum locked up in the cupboard. I dispense it when a member of the household is in need, usually for headaches. Someone broke into the cupboard and took it."
The major looked grim.
"I don't like the implications. Someone here must know more than they're saying."
"You think a member of my household is involved."
"Don't you?"
Snow pounded a fist into his thigh.
"Isabelle is out there, somewhere, with an unknown ruffian bent on villainy. You think someone I know, someone I trust, is behind it. How? And why, for the love of Christ? Where is she? Who took her? She must be so terrified..."
"Julian, stop imagining the worst. We'll find out who took your wife. We'll find Isabelle."
Winter's calm manner had its usual effect. Snow took a deep breath and nodded.
"There was something about those letters that bothers me." The major leafed through the pile. "I checked with Warwick and the footmen, to see if any letters had been brought by the house. They all confirmed the only letters in the past several days have come by post. But look at the letters Isabelle received. They haven't been hand stamped...here, look at them closely."
Snow looked at the letters and then at his friend, suspicion dawning.
"These letters never came by the post."
"Then someone must have slipped them into the pile of posted letters."
"But who? The only person who handles all my correspondence is Trent."
"Then let's talk to Trent."
"Warwick!" The butler hurried into the study. "Fetch Mr. Trent, at once."
"I'm very sorry, my lord, but Mr. Trent hasn't come in today. Nor has he sent any word."
Snow lifted a brow. "Rather unusual, wouldn't you say?"
"Most unusual, my lord. I even sent Purvis round his lodgings, I was that concerned. But no one has seen him at his lodging for several days."
Winter stood up.
"Then it must be Trent who has her. He had access to the mail and your study."
Snow shook his head.
"Where would he take her? And why, for the love of Christ? Why would he take Isabelle? There's been no demand for money...or anything else."
"That's because Trent already has what he wanted."
Snow swore. "Isabelle."
Mrs. Hutchins and one of the maids entered with platters of cold meat, hot muffins, and tankards of ale. Buoyed by their discoveries, Snow and the major ate their breakfast with appetite.
"We should have a look at Trent's lodgings, see if he's left some clue to his whereabouts." Winter wiped a smear of butter from his chin.
"I'm trying to remember where he's from. I'm sure he mentioned it at some point, but truthfully, I wasn't interested enough to inquire."
"You always were a selfish ass." The major pushed away his plate. "Time to leave."
Snow drained his tankard and set it down with a thump. Stay strong, my love. I'm coming for you.
* * * * *
Trent had lodgings in the City, on a narrow street near St. Paul's, within walking distance of Blackfriars Bridge. His landlady told them he'd mentioned a trip to the country, though he hadn't said where. She agreed to let them in the room, which was scarcely furnished. It showed signs of having been hastily emptied: drawers left open and the wardrobe door hung askew. All empty. A desk by the window was bare except for a used blotter. The single drawer held nothing but unpaid bills and vowels, all for small sums. Snow bent to check the fireplace but found only ashes. He cursed and kicked over the fire iron.
Winter glanced at him but said nothing. He rifled through each drawer of the bureau methodically. Then he pulled each one out, checking behind and underneath.
"Nothing. Trent was very thorough. Anything in the desk?"
"Bills and the like, nothing too expensive."
The major crossed over to the desk, flipping through the bills.
"Seems Trent was fond of a flutter. He owed about ten pounds to a bookie in Epsom."
Snow frowned.
"Epsom." Something flitted through his memory. He'd been speaking to Trent, after the Derby races last year. Snow had backed the winner and Trent had said, curse it, what had he said? He paced the small room, brow furrowed in concentration.
The major's head lifted, like a hound scenting a fox.
"Something?"
"I was telling Trent about the horse I backed in the Derby, Sweet Alice. He said he'd seen her train down at Epsom Downs before the races." Snow stopped, shook his head, the memory eluding him.
Winter picked up on his thought. "He had time to go see the horses at Epsom. He's your secretary; where were you at the time?"
"We traveled down together. Trent had some leave coming and he planned to go the races, but went down early to spend time with his mother." Snow grinned, remembering. "Because his mother had a cottage in the country not far from Epsom."
"Got him." The major's answering smile was ferocious.
* * * * *
Isabelle's head swam as she tried to sit up. Nausea churned her stomach. She flopped back upon the pallet. The last thing she remembered was walking on the bridge, to meet the unknown author of those horrible letters. There had been footsteps behind her and then...blankness.
A heavy tread sounded on the bare wooden boards.
"Back with us, my dear Countess? How's the head? I fear I might have been too liberal with your husband's laudanum."
Isabelle blinked. That explained why her head felt stuffed with cotton wool and she felt sick to her stomach.
"Mr. Trent! Why are you...where are we..."
Trent shook a reproving finger.
"You really are rather stupid, aren't you, my lady?" He gestured wide. "I am the author, nay the creator of all this. My lord Snow deprived of his lovely wife, you imprisoned here, as you so richly deserve, well, it's all very satisfying, isn't it? Especially for a moralist like myself."
"A moralist? You are a kidnapper and a villain!"
"You wound me, my lady. Let us examine the facts and then perhaps you shall have to rethink who the villain truly is."
Isabelle rolled her eyes. She'd never suspected the secretary of having such a theatrical bent, as well as being a blackguard. She was almost relieved that her assailant was only Mr. Trent.
"Amused, my lady? You won't be, I assure you. Picture a young woman, fresh from the country, a rose in bloom, so to speak. Once in London, her position fell through. Adrift, she took employment on the stage. Not the ideal occupation for a gently-bred girl, but needs must. The night she made her debut, she caught the eye of a noble gentleman, a man some would term a rake and others a libertine. He took her into his keeping, thus assuring her ruin. When he tired of her, the lord cruelly cast her aside. Eventually, she drifted into prostitution, lost to her family forever. That man was your husband, Julian Beaufort, the Earl of Snow."
"If you hate him so much, then why accept employment with him?"
Trent crouched down.
"That's the beauty of it, my dear countess. I infiltrated the enemy ranks, not difficult for a man of my address. A few forged references, and a proper show of ingratiation. That's all it took. Once employed, I searched for a way to avenge myself, reading letters, deciphering his ledgers. And then he married you. Really, it was as though he gave me a gift. The proud aristocrat allied to the Widow of Woe. It was...delicious."
Isabelle's stomach turned over again, not just with sickness. The way Trent recounted his history reminded her of her late husband. Charlie had the same talent of twisting facts to meet his o
wn version of reality. The drink had merely exaggerated it. She had underestimated Trent. She must keep her head, and try to find a way out of this fix.
"You've been very clever, Mr. Trent, I am bound to admit."
He looked at her sharply, perhaps expecting prevarication.
"You have, unfortunately, confirmed my own fears where my husband is concerned." She forced herself to smile ruefully. "I am not lucky in my choice of spouses."
Trent laughed, low and incredulous.
"Unlucky? Does your gall have no bounds? I know you killed your husband." He leaned closer. "Don't you want to know how?"
Isabelle swallowed. Don't think about that now. Keep calm.
"Of course, Mr. Trent. You have a captive audience."
He smirked.
"Your late husband, the unlamented Sir Charles Croucher, baronet, was made from the same stuff as your current husband. Drinking, gambling, whoring, his infamy knew no bounds. But, of course, you would know that, better than most. He also enjoyed despoiling innocent girls before discarding them. Quite by chance, I encountered such a young woman. She was very willing to share her information with me. She was there the night your husband died."
Isabelle's breath quickened. She was close, so close to learning the truth about Charlie, and she was sick with fear. Her nails dug into her palms.
Fear had let John control her, and practically imprison her. Fear had forced her to stay with Charlie and her daughter had died. She'd been weak and compliant. She disgusted herself. Isabelle slowed her breathing and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Trent was staring at her, puzzled.
"Well then, Mr. Trent. Tell me what she said, and then we will both know what happened that night."
Trent's brows rose.
"You mean that you don't know?" He might be vengeful and vainglorious, but he wasn't stupid.
Isabelle settled herself against the wall. A curious kind of relief settled over her.
"I have no memory of my husband's death."
"You're serious? Oh, this is rich." He bounded to his feet and took a quick turn around the room.
"I'm trying to decide if that makes it better or worse." Trent tapped his chin with one finger. "Better, I think. You've been squirming, not knowing when your husband would find out, and you didn't even know what it was he would discover. Allow me to elucidate." He pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Your husband dismissed everyone that night. You and your child were both ill. What you didn't know was that your husband's discarded mistress crept back into the house. You see, she wanted her due. She found your husband stabbed to death in the parlor. You were wandering around with a knife in your hand, and your clothes stained with his blood."
Isabelle heard a roaring in her ears. She felt light-headed and cold, so cold.
She saw Charlie, drunk and disheveled, sneering at her. She tried to tell him that their daughter was dead, but he wouldn't listen. Why hadn't he sent for the doctor? He kept drinking. He pushed her and she fell. She pulled herself up by holding on to his desk. She saw the pearl-handled knife Charlie used as a letter opener. She took in her hand. The steel gleamed in the candle light. The fire in the hearth had gone out and it was freezing.
Charlie was...unreachable. He laughed and took another swig from the brandy bottle. She staggered towards him. Any trace of the man she'd married was gone, erased by years of neglect and misuse. Her daughter lay dead in her cold cradle. She was done. She raised the knife.
It slid in so easily. Quite surprising, really. So Isabelle stabbed him again, and again, until he finally stopped laughing. She dropped the knife and went back to the nursery. She picked up her daughter and settled down in the rocker with the tiny body in her lap. She rocked, singing a lullaby softly, so as not to wake the baby. Isabelle was still there when John arrived.
Trent bent over her. He smelled of brandy and unwashed skin.
"My dear countess, I believe your memory is returning."
Isabelle blinked. Her vision of the past wavered and dimmed. She remembered everything.
"You know, Trent, while your tale was entertaining, it missed the mark when it came to relating actual facts."
The Earl of Snow ambled into the room, a pistol in his hand. He nodded at Isabelle.
"I apologize for the delay in finding you, my love. I came as soon as I could."
Trent spun around. Shock slackened his features. He took a step forward.
"Stay where you are." Snow's voice was as cold as his name. Trent faltered.
"What you've left out from your story, Trent, is that your sister was born to be a whore. She came to London to make her fortune on her back and she did so. She chose me as her protector and then left me when a richer prize came along. She is now ensconced as the madam of the most exclusive brothel in town and, I imagine, rolling in guineas. Pity she hasn't shared any of it with you, or is that your real grievance?"
"You're lying!"
"Why would I bother? I am not ashamed of the life I've led. But you're ashamed of your sister, aren't you? At least she had the gumption to live her life on her own terms. Shame and envy are uncomfortable bedfellows, are they not?"
"But the child..."
Snow waved the pistol. "I believe she did have a child, but it wasn't mine. If I know Lizzie, she probably has the child living with her here in London."
"You think I'll believe you? A liar and a libertine..."
Snow interrupted. "I don't give a damn what you believe. You are less than nothing to me, Trent. I'm here to collect my wife. And to see you in hell." He took aim with the pistol and fired. Trent leaped to one side. He rolled across the floor, grabbed a pistol from his stocking and pulled the trigger.
Snow staggered back. Blood bloomed from a wound on his shoulder. He hit the wall and slid down, a look of surprise on his face.
"Snow!" Isabelle struggled to her feet.
"Stay where you are," Trent snarled.
"I'm quite all right, my love." Snow pressed a hand to his shoulder. "Just a little embarrassed. Didn't think the secretary had it in him."
Trent started towards him. "Let's finish this, my lord."
"I'm sorry, Isabelle."
"Julian!" she screamed, and the world wavered.
* * * * *
The door slammed open. Winter burst into the room, a thin, bedraggled woman clutched under one arm.
"Am I late?"
He thrust the girl ahead of him into the room. She fell to her knees and cast him a venomous look over her shoulder.
"I found this lurking around the door. Friend of yours, Trent?"
"She is my wife." Trent licked his lips.
Winter eyed his friend. Snow lay slumped against the wall, his hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder.
The major pursed his lips in disapproval.
"How did the secretary get the better of you, Julian? It's a damned stain on the regiment, old man."
"My apologies. Cursed fellow had a second pistol stuffed in his stocking."
Winter regarded Trent with disapproval. "Bad form."
Trent sneered. "You seem to forget that I have the weapon."
"Can't kill us all with one shot. I'd say you're done for, Trent."
A thin smile stole over Trent's face.
"How do you reckon that, Major? His lordship is down for the count. I can shoot you, and then deal with your friend."
"Sorry, Trent, I don't like your chances. You don't seem much of a shot. Rather a weedy sort of fellow, in fact. You'll only have one try, you know." The major cracked his knuckles. "If you don't kill me with that first shot, I'll tear you to pieces."
Trent's wife squealed and crawled over to her husband.
All Trent's attention was focused on his wife and the major. Isabelle dropped silently to the floor and crept over to Snow's discarded weapon. Her hand closed over the butt. The gun shook in her grasp. Isabelle took a deep breath and steadied the pistol, using her other arm for support. She cocked it. Trent spun at the sound. Isabell
e fired and he fell, his curse muffled by the carpet. His wife shrieked and threw herself on top of him. Trent groaned and tried to roll over.
Isabelle stumbled to her feet and ran to her husband. She ripped a piece of her petticoat, pushed his hand away and pressed the linen to his wound. His hand came up to cover hers and their eyes met.
"If I could move, I would kiss you," he told her.
"Later."
"That's a promise." Snow closed his eyes.
* * * * *
Snow cursed as the major settled him into the hired coach. Isabelle dropped into the seat beside him. She had bound up his wound as best she could. She wished for something to dull the pain, but the laudanum Trent had stolen to subdue her was gone. Just then the major thrust a flask into her hand.
"For medicinal purposes only." He flashed her a grin.
"Thank you, major. For everything."
"No trouble at all, Lady Snow."
He stepped out of the coach and banged the door shut.
Snow struggled to push down the coach window. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Julian, I'm sending you back to town. You need a doctor."
Snow started to protest, but the major overrode him.
"No time for arguing, damn you. Just shut up and let us take care of you. I'll deal with Trent and his wife."
Isabelle leaned forward.
"Do you think he'll survive?" She had no desire for another death on her conscience, no matter how justified.
"You just winged him. His wife is dealing with the wound. When she's done, I'll tie them both up and find the local justice. I believe his name is Logan. We went to school together. You will never see them again. Trust me."
Winter stepped back and pounded on the door. Isabelle heard the snap of the coachman's whip, and the carriage lumbered forward.
"They'll be lucky if they live to meet the justice."
Isabelle turned her head. Snow was pale, though his breathing was regular. She placed two fingers on his wrist. His pulse was a little tumultuous, but that was only to be expected.
"Will he kill them, do you think?"
Snow sighed. "I suppose not. Disappointing, really. But Winter's become quite respectable in his dotage."
"His dotage? The major cannot be much above forty."
