by Shana Galen
The same butler who had opened the door the last time Ewan had come opened it again. “Oh, you,” said the man, narrowing his small brown eyes. “May I help you?”
“The earl. Now.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Ewan, who was normally a patient man, had as much as he could tolerate.
“Move aside or I’ll move you.”
The butler’s small eyes widened. “If you will wait here”—he opened the door to admit Ewan into the house—“I will tell his lordship you are here.”
Ewan stepped into the house. “We have been through this before. Tell me where he is or—”
“The library!” the butler said hastily, jumping out of the way. Ewan marched in that direction and flung the door open.
“What the devil!” The earl half rose from his desk, looking shocked and almost wide-eyed. Ewan was struck by how much older his father appeared in that moment. He was not the invincible tyrant as Ewan had always pictured him. He was just a man.
“Where is he?” Ewan demanded.
“Where is who?” his father asked, slowly sinking into his seat. “Good God, Ewan. Must you always barge in here like a cart horse who’s been stung by a bee?”
Ewan crossed the room to his father’s desk. It did not seem as large as it once had, and the man behind it seemed smaller as well. This man had never taken Ewan on his knee or put his arm around him or walked with him side by side. Ewan no longer needed that from him. His father couldn’t hurt him anymore. Francis couldn’t hurt him.
“Tell me where Francis lives.”
“No.”
Ewan blinked slowly, his gaze boring into the earl. He was a little, little man. Ewan could have crushed him with no more effort than it took to crush a fly.
“I won’t have you abusing him.”
“I won’t abuse him unless he deserves it.”
The earl actually drew back slightly, seeming afraid of Ewan. Good. There were enough times Ewan had been afraid of his father. It was time the tables were turned. “What is this about, Ewan? Did you find de los Santos? Did he tell you something else about Francis?”
Ewan had forgotten all about the diamond mine swindle and for a moment he was thrown off guard. “What else would he have told me?” And then Ewan knew what his father suspected. No, what his father knew. Francis had been part of the swindle. He’d hoped to make millions but instead Francis, the swindler, had been swindled.
Ewan couldn’t stop his lip curling in disgust. “And that is the man you would rather have as a son? He has no honor, no scruples—”
“At least he’s not a complete idiot,” his father retorted.
“And who is the real idiot?” Ewan asked. “You are the one who has lost everything. And do you know that your idiot son has found the solution for you?” Ewan started around the desk, moving slowly but deliberately. The earl shrank back in his chair. “That’s right. I’m too stupid to read Latin or Greek, but I understood the mortgage documents. You mortgaged the house and the rents in Yorkshire, not the land. That I assume was a fortunate coincidence, because I doubt you ever read the surveyor’s reports. If you had, you might know that the land is full of iron and lead. I sent surveyors there myself a few days ago to be certain. You should have their findings in a sennight at most.”
The earl’s jaw dropped, and he was the image of complete astonishment. “But that’s it,” he muttered. “I never…there could be minerals…if we dig…” He looked up at Ewan. “How did you think of this?”
He hadn’t thought of it, Lorraine had, and now she was the one in danger. “I’ve helped you, now you help me. Tell me where Francis lives.”
The earl shook his head. “I know what this is about, and your cousin didn’t mean it.”
Ewan lowered his arms so his hands clenched the sides of the chair his father occupied. “Tell me or I will make you tell me.”
“It’s nothing. I’ve said too much.”
Ewan lowered his head until his face was an inch from his father’s. “Do you know what working for Draven taught me? How to make a man talk. I break a finger or a toe, your tongue still works. I break a hand, and you may cry, but you can still blubber.”
“You wouldn’t!” the earl hissed. “I’ll ring for the butler.”
Ewan blinked, bemused. “Is he stronger than he looks?”
“You wouldn’t!” the earl said, voice wobbling.
Ewan leaned close. “Think about all the times you used your fists on me, Father. Then tell me you don’t deserve a taste of what you gave me.”
The earl cringed back and his lip trembled.
Ewan leaned forward, and the earl began to talk.
* * *
Susan knocked on her husband’s bedchamber door before she even knew what she was about. This was no time to hold on to her pride, no time to wonder whether she could really trust him, really believe he loved her this time.
She needed him. Lorrie was his daughter too, and only he could understand how she felt right now. Only he could understand her pain, her fear. He knew the same pains, the same fears.
He opened the door himself, and though she had intended to say something, she fell into his arms, weeping. He caught her and pulled her close, his coat smelling of bergamot and tobacco, familiar and soothing scents to her.
“Shh,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “You don’t have to be strong in front of me.”
The words were what she’d needed. She’d been so strong all day, and now she felt all that resolve crumbling. “If anything has happened to her—”
“Mostyn will bring her back. He won’t allow anything to happen to her.”
Susan looked up at him. She wanted to believe him, needed to believe him. His green eyes met hers, filled with a calm strength that gave her strength. Her fingers closed on the lapels of his coat, holding on to him tightly.
“I’ll ring for tea and a cold compress,” he said.
She shook her head. “I don’t need tea.”
He placed a finger over her lips. “Let me take care of you, Susan.”
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around him. “I don’t need anything but you.”
“I’m here.”
“Just hold me.”
He led her to the bed, gathered her in his arms, and held her.
Eighteen
She’d prayed the torture in the cart would end—the bouncing and rattling that left her battered and bruised. When it did end, she had regretted her prayer immediately.
“He’ll come for us, Welly,” Lorrie whispered, holding the puppy close. Welly had managed to fall asleep, despite the new surroundings and Lorrie’s palpable fear. The dog snoozed peacefully, while Lorrie stared into the gloom of the room. She’d decided it must have been the gardener’s work shed at a great house once upon a time. It smelled of dried herbs and peat, and underneath all that, the sweet scent of fruit or flowers. She’d had a glimpse of a long table and windows in the large room after her captors had pulled off her hood but before they could close and lock the door. The room she occupied was smaller, three paces by two paces. At one time it might have been used to store gardening implements. Now there was nothing inside but a muddy apron. Lorrie had put it on the floor and sat, pulling her knees close to her chest.
The tiny room boasted no windows, but the small building was old and in disrepair, and she could see sunlight through cracks in the wooden slats. Beyond the sunlight was green and more green. This might have been a gardener’s work building before, but now the area around it was overgrown.
They’d traveled through the night, but it was still morning, which meant they couldn’t have made it far outside London. Still, it was far enough. Lorrie didn’t see how anyone would ever find her here. The thought was enough to bring fresh tears to her eyes.
She swiped them away. She wouldn’t cr
y. It would only make her thirsty, and except for a small cup of stale water and one moment of privacy in a makeshift privy out back so she might relieve herself, her captors had given her nothing.
They hadn’t even spoken to her, though she’d asked for their names and what they wanted. Their silence scared her more than anything else, but it also gave her hope. If they had planned to kill her, would they have taken the trouble to cover her eyes so she could neither see them nor their destination? Would they have been cautious about speaking in front of her? Perhaps this was all a misunderstanding or a mistake and they’d bring her home in the morning—
The lock on the door rattled, and Lorrie squeezed herself back against the wall tightly. Welly went stiff in her arms and growled low in his throat, his brown and white fur bristling. The door scraped open, and a man blocked the exit. His hat rode low on his forehead and the collar of his coat concealed the lower part of his face.
Lorrie looked down, not wanting to meet his gaze, the fear clawing inside her like a rabid animal bent on escape. The man crouched, set a cloth on the ground, then backed up and closed the door again. The lock sliding back into place made a rusty scratching sound. Welly let out a small yip, then scrambled off her lap to nose the cloth. Lorrie grabbed it and unwrapped the contents—a slice of bread and an apple.
Her stomach rumbled with hunger she hadn’t felt until now. Before she could devour all the food herself, she broke off a piece of bread and fed it to Welly, who gobbled it and then looked at her hopefully. Lorrie sighed and gave him the rest of the bread, contenting herself with the apple.
She brushed away the unshed tears that had stung her eyes since the ordeal had begun. Crying would accomplish nothing. Ewan would come for her, but what if he was too late? She had to try to escape and run for help. If this was an old work shed, surely the house it had been part of still existed. There would be a path leading to it or tenants’ cottages. She just had to find it.
She reached for the door latch and lifted it. The sliding lock on the outside was probably a new feature her abductors had installed. She wanted to test it further, but if she rattled the door, her abductors would come to check on her. The little closet had no windows, and she was not quite tall enough to reach the roof, but it looked secure.
She sat again, leaned back against the wall. The wood creaked. Perhaps she could find a weak plank in the wall. If she wedged it open far enough, Welly could escape. Perhaps the little dog might fetch help.
Well, that was unlikely, but if she managed to make the hole big enough, perhaps she might be able to squeeze out.
Lorrie knelt and began to push quietly on the walls surrounding her.
* * *
His cousin held court in a small coffee shop in Fleet Street. It wasn’t the most fashionable part of town, but if it had been the haunt of those with titles and wealth then the nephew of an earl wouldn’t have held sway.
Francis sat at a table in the middle of the room, three or four of the young men Ewan had seen with him at various functions throughout the Season seated beside him. The men talked loudly, laughed loudly, and in so doing commanded the attention of every other patron.
Ewan had tried Francis’s modest flat just around the corner, but after he’d knocked loud enough to bring out the neighbors, he’d been told Mr. Mostyn was at the coffee shop.
Ewan had not been pleased to hear it. He’d known Lorraine wouldn’t elope with Francis, but he’d still hoped that was the explanation for her disappearance. It was a far worse situation than he faced now—Francis entertaining a group of people and Lady Lorraine nowhere to be found.
Just where the hell was she?
His cousin hadn’t seen him come in. Ewan knew how to be unobtrusive when the situation called for it. He’d slid in behind a group of men entering and moved to the side where he could stand in the shadows. There were not many shadows remaining. It was midday now, and the sun was bright in the sky. The two men seated at the table beside Ewan had taken one look at him and elected to find another coffee shop. He pulled a chair back and sat, keeping his head down and his shoulders hunched.
If he’d learned anything from Neil, it was to observe before acting. So now he would observe. He didn’t see Lorrie, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t make an appearance in another moment or so. In the meantime, he listened to Francis brag about his social calendar.
When he mentioned the daughter of the Duke of Ridlington, Ewan’s eyes fastened on him.
“And when I marry Lady Lorraine,” Francis was saying, “I’ll have enough blunt to buy this shop and a dozen more. We’ll travel the world together, won’t we, Tommy?” He slung an arm around the man seated beside him.
Tommy smiled affably enough, but the other man at the table snorted. “You might have held the affections of the duke’s daughter at one time, but I hear she returned your letters and won’t dance with you at any of the balls.”
Francis shrugged. “Oh, I have a feeling she will come around. I just need to play the part of Lancelot and save her from danger.” He winked at a pretty girl who set glasses on a nearby table, then checked his pocket watch. “Not long now until I rescue the damsel in distress.”
Ewan rose slowly, not taking any care not to be seen. He supposed he wasn’t as stupid as everyone had claimed him to be because all the pieces in Lorraine’s disappearance came together now.
Francis looked his way, just as Ewan stepped into the light.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked, a note of fear in his voice. Ewan could recognize the sound of fear—panic and dread too. He’d heard them often enough.
He crossed to Francis, batted the man called Tommy out of the way, and lifted his cousin up by the throat, then threw him across the room. Francis smashed into a table, toppling it and spraying coffee and tea all over the walls, the floor, and the patrons. A wide circle opened around Ewan as people attempted to stay out of his way. Notably, no one came to Francis’s aid either.
Ewan advanced on him, and Francis scrambled back. His cheek bled from a small scrape and his always perfectly styled hair was wet with coffee and cream. “What is wrong with you?” he shouted at his cousin. “Are you mad as well as stupid?”
“I’m neither,” Ewan said so low he wondered if even Francis could hear him. He stooped, lifted Francis, and pressed him against the wall. He lifted his cousin just high enough so that his toes rested on the floor. “I should kill you,” he said, his voice a rumble. “You had her abducted. You paid to have her taken so you could ride in and save her.”
“What the devil are you blathering about? Put me down!”
But Ewan had seen the fear in Francis’s eyes—the fear and the guilt. Ewan hadn’t made a mistake.
Ewan shoved him back against the wall. Francis’s skull made a satisfying thunk against the wood. As much as he’d like to hurt his cousin right now, that would have to wait. Lorraine needed him. “Where is she?”
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ewan slammed Francis back against the wall, the man’s head thunking on the wood once again. “Where is she?”
“I told you—”
Ewan raised a brow. “If you like your head with its skull intact, I suggest you answer me now.”
“I didn’t hurt her,” Francis said now, his voice whiny and much like it had been when they were boys and Ewan had fought back after Francis’s bullying had gone too far. “They won’t hurt her.”
“Where. Is. She?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I was to meet them at an inn in Edgware at midnight tomorrow. Then they’d take me to her and I could…” He trailed off.
Ewan dropped Francis and kicked him lightly like the rubbish he was. “Pathetic. If I ever see you near the lady again, I’ll make you wish you were never born. Go crawl back to my father. He’s the only one who can’t see what a lily-livered coward you really
are.”
Ewan tossed a few coins to a man he assumed was the proprietor. He was the only man looking concerned, folding and unfolding his hands at the wreckage. Then Ewan strode out of the shop.
Ewan would find her.
But he would not do it alone.
He went directly to the Draven Club. He didn’t have any time to waste, and as soon as he arrived, Porter informed him that the Duke of Ridlington was looking for him.
“Did he send a note?” Ewan asked.
“No, sir,” Porter answered. “The footman merely asked if you were within and when I informed him I had not seen you today, he asked me to tell you the duke asks you to call on him forthwith.”
The duke wanted news of his progress, and Ewan could hardly blame him. But he didn’t have time to indulge the father at the moment.
“Who is here?” Ewan asked. “Stratford? Lord Phineas?”
“No, sir. Mr. Wraxall is here and Lord Jasper. Would you like me to send word to the others?”
“No.” He thought about asking Porter to send for Rafe and decided against it. The mission Ewan had now was not one suited to Beaumont’s skills. Jasper, however, was exactly the man he needed. He’d had considerable experience as a bounty hunter, even before joining Draven’s troop. He could find the men who’d taken Lorraine. Neil would lead them. Ewan was no leader, but Wraxall had no qualms about giving orders. He’d know where Jasper and Ewan should begin, and he’d know what to do when and if they encountered trouble.
“Where are Grantham and Wraxall?” he asked.
“The reading room. Shall I bring you—”
But Ewan was already striding away. He took the steps two and three at a time and was barely winded when he pushed open the heavy oak door to the reading room. Jasper sat at a table with a large book of maps spread out before him, and Neil lowered the paper to peer at Ewan from a dark chair near the fire.
“What has you looking so”—Neil furrowed his brow—“animated?”
