by Shana Galen
“I heard you have been keeping the daughter of the Duke of Ridlington safe from those with designs on her dowry.” The careful way he spoke left no doubt that the lieutenant colonel, like Beaumont, had heard the rumors Francis Mostyn was spreading.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what are your plans when your employment with Ridlington is at an end?”
Ewan hadn’t even considered the question. “I have a position, sir.”
“Throwing men out of that gambling hell.”
“Langley’s,” Rafe supplied.
“Yes.” Draven’s sharp blue eyes seemed to assess Ewan. He remembered the first time he’d met the lieutenant colonel. The man had assessed him very much the same way, then asked him the question he asked every man before adding them to his team. Are you afraid to die?
Ewan had said no, of course. But it wasn’t until after he’d served Draven for a few weeks that he realized death would become as natural to him as life. And that sensation—the loss of life and the way it became almost commonplace—had scared him.
“You are the son of an earl, Mostyn. You are better than the muscle in a gambling hell.”
Ewan didn’t think so, but he would not contradict Draven. “Yes, sir.”
“Gentleman Jackson’s,” Draven said, his eyes narrowed as he continued to assess Ewan.
“Fine establishment,” Rafe said.
Draven cut him a look. “Beaumont, everyone knows you are a lover, not a fighter.”
“I can hold my own,” Rafe said without animosity.
Draven nodded and looked back at Ewan. “Have you ever been to Jackson’s?”
Ewan nodded.
“But not often, because you have nothing to prove. Nothing to learn either. But you have something to teach.”
Ewan shook his head, uncomprehending.
“Last week I went for my lesson with Jackson. I like to keep fit. Never know when another war will spring up. With these blockheads in the Lords running things, it may be any day. In any case, he told me he has a list a mile long of men who want lessons.”
“I’m not surprised,” Rafe said. “He’s one man, and everyone wants to train with him.”
“Because he’s the best,” Draven said.
“Exactly.”
But Draven was looking at Ewan again. “You’re the best at what you do, Mr. Mostyn. You are one of Draven’s Survivors, and the fact that you survived twenty-three suicide missions is no small matter. Men would flock to you to learn pugilism and self-defense as well.”
“Isn’t that more Rowden’s area of expertise?” Rafe asked of another member of the dozen who was known for his skill in pugilism.
“He likes fighting too much ever to teach, but you have nothing to prove,” Draven said to Ewan. “Not in the ring, at any rate.”
Ewan stared at the lieutenant colonel, uncertain what he was being offered. But a warm feeling had begun in his belly. He could picture himself in the boxing ring, and the image seemed…right.
“Think about it, Mostyn,” Draven said. “If you’re interested, I’ll help get you started. I have friends.”
Started… Ewan could only stare at the man. Did he mean to back Ewan in his own business? For a moment, elation surged through Ewan. He wanted to hold out his hand and accept immediately.
And then he remembered.
How was he to succeed in business if he agreed? He couldn’t read. The first charlatan who came along would cheat him.
“Thank you, but no,” Ewan said, looking away so Draven would not see the disappointment on his face.
Draven seemed unsurprised by his answer. “Think about it more,” he said. “I won’t take your answer now.”
“It won’t change, sir.”
Draven nodded, then rose. “If it does, you know where to find me.”
Seventeen
Ewan woke the next morning with a dull throb in his head. He and Beaumont had finished off the brandy and another bottle besides. Ewan didn’t usually drink so much, but Draven’s offer had niggled him. He’d never considered that he might own a business. Ewan hadn’t thought he had any skills. But if Draven and Beaumont, who’d talked his ear off in an effort to convince Ewan Draven’s advice was sound, thought knocking heads together a skill, then perhaps the idea had merit.
Later, that was. When his head didn’t pound.
He rolled over and the thudding continued. Ewan pulled his pillow over his head, then realized the pounding came from outside his tortured brain box.
“Go away,” he called, wincing at the lance of pain through the base of his skull.
“It’s important, sir. Open the door.”
“Later,” Ewan muttered. He was fit company for no one.
“Sir, it’s Arthur. I’m a footman with the Duke of Ridlington.”
Ewan sat, making his head spin. He clenched his hands and pushed down the rising nausea as he stumbled to the door to unlock and open it. He scowled at the tall footman with curly brown hair standing at attention in the doorway.
“Here.” Arthur handed Ewan a note.
Ewan glanced down at it. Even if he had been able to read, his eyes were not altogether focused enough to make out any letters.
Ewan handed the note back. “Read it.”
“Me?” Arthur pointed a finger at his chest. “Uh, yes, sir.” He opened the note, breaking the seal with a look so guilty he might have been pilfering jewels. Arthur cleared his throat. “It says, ‘Mr. Mostyn, please come directly. There is an urgent matter we must discuss.’”
Ewan snatched the note out of the footman’s hand. The pounding in his head doubled, the thuds of pain coinciding with the hammering of his heart. He scanned the letter, some of the words jumping out at him. Then he looked up at Ridlington’s servant. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, sir. I was sent to fetch you.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t—”
Ewan slammed the footman against the door none too gently. “You know something. Is it Lady Lorraine?” Don’t let it be Lorraine.
“I don’t know for certain,” Arthur squeaked.
“Guess.”
“I think it has something to do with her.”
Ewan released the footman, who straightened his livery coat. “Nell was frantic this morning and closed herself in Mrs. Davies’s room. Then Mrs. Davies and Mr. Bellweather and Nell all scurried upstairs like the house was on fire. Only it weren’t.”
“Wait.” Ewan shut the door and dressed hastily. He didn’t bother to shave, and he was pulling on his coat when he opened the door and walked past Arthur. The footman ran after him. Knowing the footman would have come on foot, Ewan hailed a hackney and gave the jarvey Ridlington’s address. It was not yet nine in the morning, but London’s streets were bustling. The journey seemed interminable, and Ewan’s head felt as though it would roll off his shoulders every time the conveyance bounced.
Finally, they arrived, and Ewan was out of the cab before the wheels had come to a stop. He didn’t knock on the door, but shoved it open and seeing no one, yelled, “Ridlington.”
The butler appeared at the top of the stairs, a frown on his face. Ewan didn’t give a damn if he’d broken every rule of etiquette. He would see the duke now. “Where is His Grace?”
“In the drawing room, Mr. Mostyn.” The butler started down the stairs.
Ewan held up a hand. “Stay there.” He took the steps two at a time, and when he reached the top, he did not wait to be announced. He opened the drawing room doors and stepped inside.
Fear gripped his chest like an iron waistcoat when he saw the duke and duchess of Ridlington. They sat in silence, hands clasped, while their eldest son, Lord Perrin, paced the room. When Ewan entered, Lord Perrin pointed an accusing finger at him. “Where the devil have you been?”
&nb
sp; Ewan ignored him, looking from Lorraine’s mother to her father.
The duchess raised a bejeweled hand. “Charles, do not make a scene.”
Ewan’s gaze locked on the duke. “Where is she?”
The duke’s eyes widened with surprise. “You’ve heard?”
Ewan hadn’t heard. He’d said the first words that popped into his mind, but he had hoped he was speaking out of fear. Now the fear became something tangible. An iron cravat clamped on his neck. He could not swallow. He could not breathe.
Lorraine was gone.
Eloped? No, she wouldn’t. She’d told his cousin her affections for him had changed. Lady Lorraine might be impulsive, but he didn’t think her fickle. Had she gone to St. James’s again and this time met with trouble en route?
“Tell me everything you know,” Ewan demanded.
“If you’d been here, you would already know,” Lord Perrin sneered. “And Lorrie wouldn’t be missing.”
Ewan was a man with an abundance of patience, but at the moment it was fleeing him fast. He gave the duke a hard look. “If you’d like your heir to keep all of his limbs, Your Grace, you’d better make him shut his mouth.”
“I’ll make you shut your mouth.” Perrin started for him, but the duke rose and the action halted his son.
“That’s enough, Charles. Mr. Mostyn does not answer to you. He had no obligation to be here last night. This is not his fault.”
Ewan couldn’t help but feel it was. Lorraine was his responsibility. He should have stayed near. If anything had happened to Lorraine, anything at all, Ewan would kill the person responsible and then spend the rest of his short life blaming himself.
When his son retreated, the duke looked at Ewan. “Mr. Mostyn, we had a quiet night. We dined at home, as we planned, and Lady Lorraine seemed tired and retired early, perhaps half nine.”
“Yes, it was half nine,” the duchess said. “I remember the clock had just chimed the half hour.”
The duke nodded. “Her maid helped her prepare for bed, and then Lorrie dismissed her. Nell says she went to bed. This morning when she went to wake my daughter, her chamber was empty.”
A thousand thoughts tumbled through Ewan’s mind. He was no detective and had no way of sorting them out. He did know Lorraine. “Where is her dog?”
“What has the bloody dog to do with anything?” Perrin asked.
Ewan whipped around and slammed his fist into the man’s temple. The marquess crumpled. The duchess gasped, but Perrin didn’t rise.
“Forgive me,” Ewan said, feeling the vise on his throat loosen the tiniest fraction.
The duke held up both hands. “I supposed he asked for it.”
Ewan thought he’d asked for much more than a blow to the head. He’d asked to have his nose broken, but Ewan didn’t think the duchess would forgive blood on her carpets.
“The dog?” Ewan reminded him.
The duke’s brows drew together. “I don’t know. Bellweather,” he said to the butler, who stood at the drawing room doors gaping at the fallen Lord Perrin. “Go fetch Lady Lorraine’s maid.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Ewan paced the room while they waited. The duchess remained on the yellow chintz settee, and the duke stood beside the gold chaise longue. No one seemed too concerned about the unconscious Lord Perrin on the floor beneath the ormolu side table. Ewan stepped over the prone man and went to the windows. He parted the heavy gold drapes and peered out onto Berkley Square. He hadn’t noticed the cold earlier, but now he noted the men and women passing by were bundled warmly, despite the fact it was almost summer. The wind blew leaves across the brown grass of the park, just a few yards away, and the sun was hidden behind a gray fortress of clouds.
Finally, the door opened again, and Ewan watched Nell curtsy to the duke and duchess. Her gaze flicked to the marquess on the floor, but she hastily averted her eyes.
“Thank you for coming, Nell,” the duchess said. “Now that you’ve had a few moments to look through Lady Lorraine’s room, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
Nell cleared her throat. “Yes, Your Grace. None of her dresses are gone. Before—” Her gaze darted to Ewan.
“You may speak in front of Mr. Mostyn, Nell,” the duchess assured her.
Nell nodded. “When she tried to elope, she packed a valise with her favorite dresses and books. This time she left everything here. Wherever she is, she’s still wearing her night rail.”
“What about the dog?” the duke asked. “Have you seen it?”
Nell’s face blanched. “Wellington? I never thought—no, Your Grace. I don’t know where the puppy is.”
“Could it be hiding in her room?” the duchess asked.
“I will look right away, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Nell.”
The maidservant bobbed another curtsy and hurried away.
“So she has the dog with her,” Ewan said.
“How do you know that?” the duke asked.
Ewan stared at him. How did the duke not know?
“She loves that dog,” the duchess said. “And it yaps all the time. Nell would have noticed if it was in Lorrie’s room.” The duchess pressed her hands together in her lap. “What shall we do, Mr. Mostyn? Shall we call Bow Street?”
The duke hissed. “Think of the scandal!”
“Think of our daughter.”
He took a deep breath. “You’re right. Scandal be damned.”
“Call the Runners if you like,” Ewan said. He started for the door.
“Where are you going?” the duchess asked.
“To find your daughter,” Ewan answered over his shoulder as he made his way out of the room, down the stairs, and into the dreary morning.
* * *
Lorrie held Welly tightly in her arms as the cart bounced along paths she did not think could properly be termed roads. Her arms and shoulders would be black and blue with bruises from the trip.
Fear made her belly tighten until wave after wave of nausea crashed over her. She shivered despite the scratchy horse blankets covering her. But she would not be sick. The hood over her face would only ensure her situation were more miserable if she were sick on top of everything else. Her hands were not tied, but the few times she’d tried to remove the hood, a gravelly voice had stopped her.
“I wouldn’t do that, milady. Not if ye want yer little dog to live.”
Lorrie had wrapped her hands back around Welly and lain quietly in the dark.
She didn’t know who the men were or how many had taken her. She only knew one moment she had been in the garden while Welly had his nightly constitutional and the next she’d been grabbed from behind, her head shoved into the dark hood, and carried away kicking and screaming. The men must have also scooped up Welly to keep him from barking and to use against her.
Everything she knew had been gleaned from what little she could hear and feel. She was in the back of a cart that had been used to transport produce. She knew that because it smelled like dirt and rotting cabbage. She was cold, and the breeze blew on her bare arms until they’d dropped the horse blankets over her. Those were not overly warm, but they were better than nothing. They’d traveled through London and now must be outside the city because it was much quieter. She’d been able to hear the men’s voices, thick with lower-class accents. There were at least two of them, possibly three. She’d asked what they wanted and begged to be released, but they’d only told her to shut her potato hole.
Lorrie knew what they wanted, in any event. Her money. They would either ransom her or take her to Scotland, force her to marry, and claim her dowry that way. Fears swirled around in her mind—what if her father would not pay? Would the men kill her? Would they rape her and then slit her throat? And what if Ewan had been right about Francis and she had been wrong? Could he be behind this? What i
f now that she’d told him she didn’t want him any longer, he had taken desperate measures and hired thugs to kidnap her so he could force her to marry?
But he couldn’t really force her, could he? Even in barbaric Scotland, a woman had to agree to marriage for the priest to sanction it. Didn’t she? Not that it would be very difficult to force her to agree. One threat against poor Welly, and Lorrie would do whatever the men asked.
She hugged her puppy tighter, and the dog licked her hand. The small gesture calmed her, as did the refrain playing in the back of her mind.
He will come for me.
Ewan would find her. He’d rescue her. He’d completed far more difficult missions during the war. Once her father realized Lorrie was missing, he’d call for Ewan and Ewan would come for her. She didn’t know how he would find her, only that he would.
The blackness she’d been staring through under the hood had grown lighter, and she realized the sun must have risen. They’d been traveling all night. Surely they would have to rest the horses. Surely they did not wish to travel in the daylight. A body-shaped lump in the back of a cart might not be noticeable in the dark, but in the light, it might draw attention.
And still the cart bounced along, rattling her teeth and forcing her to take quick breaths to hold the nausea at bay.
He will come for me.
He will come for me.
Please, God, let him come for me.
Before it was too late.
* * *
Ewan went straight to his father’s town house. He’d hoped to return here in triumph, but once again he stood on the stoop, feeling frightened and lost. This time it was not from fear of rejection. He didn’t need his father’s acceptance anymore. He’d found the one person whose opinion had mattered. How could he not have seen this before? Why hadn’t he done as he’d said his cousin should—scooped her up when he’d had the chance?
Damn the rules of Society and damn his own insecurities. If he ever found her, he would never let her get away again.
He knocked on the door. This was not his house, nor would it ever be. His father had made that clear enough. This was the last time Ewan would ever grace its halls.
