by Olivia Drake
Gianetta sobbed, “Baby ees gone from her cradle. Someone steal her while I sleep.” She lapsed into a babble of Italian.
Wilson’s thin face had a gray pallor. “I checked the nursery myself,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically rattled. “The child is missing.”
“There must be an explanation,” Jane said wildly. “Perhaps one of the nursemaids took Marianne for an early walk. We must look for them.”
“No.” Ethan put his shaking hand on her shoulder. “Jane, there was a note left in the cradle.”
“From whom? Let me read it!”
He wished to God he could shield her from this. But he could not. Grimly he handed over the paper he held crushed in his palm. She snatched it away, smoothing the wrinkles and hastening to the window to read by the light. For a moment, the only sounds were the whistling of a passerby on the street and the sniffling of the wet nurse. Then Jane dropped the note to the floor and swayed. A keening moan broke from her.
Ethan sprang to her side and caught her against him. He felt her pain as sharply as his own, a knife blade to his heart. Trembling from shock, she buried her face in his neck, and he held her tightly, giving her what little comfort he could.
Over her head, he snapped to Gianetta, “Fetch tea for my lady immediately. And summon her maid.”
The distraught woman scrambled to her feet and fled the room. Wilson discreetly melted into the dressing room.
Jane lifted her head. Tears glossed her eyes and seeped down her cheeks. Looking dazed, she clutched at his dressing gown. “Lady Portia. It was Lady Portia who took Marianne.”
“She must have slipped inside the house during the night.”
“But she was gone … settled in Cornwall.”
“Yes. My man of affairs attested to that fact.” Ethan cursed himself for not anticipating this treachery. “But it seems she tricked all of us.”
“How could she do such an evil act? How could she take my baby?”
Her desperate eyes looked to him for answers, and he had only one. “For money,” he bit out. “The note says she wants fifty thousand pounds by tonight.”
“Can you procure so large an amount in a day? Isn’t your wealth invested? In land, paintings, jewels?”
“There’s sufficient cash available.” Or so he hoped. But he wouldn’t alarm her further. He massaged his aching brow and tried to think. “I’ll go to several banks. Loans can be arranged.”
“But will it be enough?” Jane asked fervently. “If Portia refuses to return Marianne until we have the money…” Her voice faltered. “Who will care for Marianne? Who will feed her?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get the ransom. Today.”
He despised giving in to Portia’s demands. But he would sign away his soul to get his daughter back. He was tortured by the thought of never seeing her toothless smile again, never touching her silken skin, never holding his little angel.
Fury and panic battered his control. And down deeper, a dark guilt clawed him. He could have prevented this from happening.
He could no longer stand still. Putting Jane aside, he hastened into the dressing room, where he tore off his dressing gown and snatched his breeches from Wilson.
Jane rushed to his side. “We must gather what we have here. Empty the strongboxes, collect the jewels.”
“Wilson can manage that.”
“Yes, my lord,” the valet said, taking a shirt from the clothes press. “I shall do whatever I can to assist you.”
“And you will instruct the staff to keep quiet about this,” Ethan added. “I want no gossip to leave this house.”
“It shall be as you say.”
Ethan had fastened his breeches and yanked on his shirt just as the outer door opened and rapid footsteps approached. Lady Rosalind burst into the dressing room and stopped, her eyes large and blue against her pale features. Her upswept hair straggled in wisps around her face, and she wore a pink silk robe tied crookedly at the waist.
“Is it true?” she gasped out. “Someone has taken Marianne?”
“Yes.” Ethan motioned Wilson out of the room, and then told her about the note.
Her mouth quivering, she sagged against the door frame, and Jane hurried to her side, guiding her to a chair. As if boneless, his mother sank onto the seat and bowed her head, digging her fingers into her skirt.
“Portia,” she whispered. “Dear God. That female has Marianne.”
“She cannot mean to harm her,” Jane said. “She needs the money too badly. She’ll find a wet nurse for the baby. She will.”
Jane glanced at Ethan as if seeking reassurance, and he gave a jerky nod of agreement. Then he turned away, hiding his dread from her, fumbling blindly with his cravat. Jane couldn’t know just how unscrupulous Portia was. To sustain her gambling habit, she would lie, cheat, steal.
But would she murder? He prayed he was wrong to fear so.
“How did that woman get into this house?” Lady Rosalind cried out. “Was a door left unlocked?”
“She may have kept a key,” Ethan said. “Or enlisted the aid of a skilled housebreaker.”
The dowager sprang up and paced toward him, her robe swishing. “You cannot let her get away with this! You must find her. Call in the Bow Street Runners!”
“The note warned there is to be no interference from the law.” He spoke sharply, forcing himself to voice his darkest fear. “Lest we never see Marianne again.”
Lady Rosalind faltered to a stop and braced her hand on the mahogany clothes press. “Oh, dear God. What shall we do?” Her voice rose to an hysterical pitch. “Whatever shall we do?”
Ethan paused in the act of drawing on his waistcoat and frowned at his mother. Never had he known her to shatter emotionally. She was always calm and collected, seldom worrying about anyone but herself. He felt a bond with her, a shared anxiety and heartache, a love for his child.
Jane slid her arm around the dowager’s waist. “Please, Rosalind. There is a way for you to help. You must return to your room and gather up your jewels. We shall need to pawn them for the ransom.”
“You’re quite right.” The dowager took several deep breaths. “And I must appeal to His Grace, too. He will help us to obtain the money.”
“An excellent notion,” Jane said, walking her to the door. “We mustn’t panic. We must all work together. I am sure by this evening, Marianne will be back here with us, safe and sound.”
“Yes. Yes, we must believe that.”
Lady Rosalind enveloped Jane in a brief hug. Then quite unexpectedly, she ran to Ethan and put her arms around him.
Returning the embrace, he inhaled her familiar scent of expensive perfume. His mother was slender and dainty as a girl half her age, and a powerful affection washed over him. He couldn’t remember the last time she had held him with unguarded love.
Without saying another word, she let go and hurried out of the room. He swung back to the mirror and straightened his cravat, his emotions too raw to share.
Jane stepped to his side. “It’s too early to visit the bank. Where are you going?”
“To seek information.”
“Where? How?”
“I’ll go to Portia’s old neighborhood. There’s a chance someone might have seen her. You will wait here.”
“No! I’m going with you.”
Turning, he put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her stormy eyes. “You must stay, Jane. In case Portia sends a message telling us where to leave the ransom.”
Jane shook her head. “She won’t. Not so early in the day.”
“It may be dangerous. She must have an accomplice. God only knows what manner of ruffian she hired.”
“Then that’s all the more reason for me to go. Please, Ethan. Don’t ask me not to help save our daughter.”
His head throbbing, he rubbed his temples. He could well understand her stubborn insistence. She loved Marianne as much as he did.
He pulled Jane into his arms and held her fast. He kissed her h
air, needing her warmth and support with a desperation that went far beyond the physical. Their estrangement seemed insignificant now. He could think of nothing but getting their daughter safely back home.
“All right, then,” he said heavily. “You’ll go with me.”
* * *
Jane stood at the front window in the library and peered out into the street. The last rays of sunlight bathed the square in golden splendor. People strolled beneath the trees, and an elderly gentleman sat reading on an iron bench. Seeing a nursemaid pushing her charge in a pram, Jane felt agony clutch her breast anew. The pain caused her heartbeat to quicken, and she took several deep breaths to calm the panic that had lurked in her all day.
She would hold Marianne in her arms again. Soon. Very soon. She had to believe that. Portia needed the money Ethan was still out collecting. Even so, it frightened Jane to think that Marianne might be hungry or neglected.
Their visit to Portia’s neighborhood had been fruitless. As expected, the shabby rooms had been empty, the furniture long since carted away. Though Ethan had offered a reward, no one on the street had seen Portia since she had moved to Cornwall.
Behind her, Jane heard the rhythmic clacking of Aunt Willy’s knitting needles, and the murmur of voices as the Duke of Kellisham soothed Lady Rosalind on the chaise. He was trying to convince her to put off the wedding, but the dowager kept insisting that would bring bad luck for rescuing Marianne. Their conversation struck Jane with a pang. In all the tumult, she had forgotten the ceremony was scheduled for tomorrow. Then she saw the barouche coming up the drive.
She spun around. “Ethan is back.”
Lifting her skirts, she ran for the front door. A footman opened the door, and she emerged onto the portico in time to see Ethan striding grimly up the marble steps, a leather satchel in his hand.
He looked weary, his brow furrowed and his hair mussed, as though he’d run his fingers through it countless times. His eyes were dark and hollow, but he smiled briefly at her, enough to reassure her that his mission had met with success.
“Any word yet?” he asked.
Biting her lip, Jane shook her head.
She wanted to put her arms around him, to feel his heart beating against hers. There was so little she could do to banish the starkness from his face. As they entered the house, she saw Mrs. Crenshaw walking in the corridor and asked her to send a tray of tea and sandwiches to the library.
Concern etched the housekeeper’s severe features. “Yes, m’lady. And if I might be permitted to say so, all of us downstairs are praying for the young one’s safe return.”
“Thank you,” Jane whispered, blinking away tears. Only with effort did she subdue the constant worry. She hurried into the library, closing the double doors behind her.
Lady Rosalind had risen from the chaise and clutched her son’s sleeve. “You obtained the money?” she asked anxiously.
Ethan placed the satchel on a mahogany table. He opened the latch and displayed the bundles of bank notes. “It’s all here. Fifty thousand.”
“My word!” Aunt Willy exclaimed from her chair by the fireplace, her knitting lying forgotten in her broad lap. “Why, it boggles my mind that a criminal could place any price on a baby.”
“I trust my man of affairs was of assistance,” the duke said gruffly.
“Very much so,” Ethan said, snapping the case shut. “I owe you a debt of gratitude, Your Grace. I would have been hard-pressed to gather the amount so swiftly.”
The two men solemnly shook hands. Their accord gave a moment of gladness to Jane. At last they had ended their hostility.
“Thank your mother,” the duke said. “She sets great store by her granddaughter.”
He smiled at Rosalind, but she didn’t smile back. Her fists clenched, she burst out, “I deplore this waiting. Oh, why doesn’t that woman send the message?”
“She’ll wait until dark,” Ethan predicted. “She won’t want to be seen.”
“Surely you don’t think she’ll come herself, do you?” Jane asked.
He shook his head. “But we’ll be prepared, nonetheless.”
He stalked to the front window and parted the green brocaded curtains to peer out into the gathering dusk. Burdened by tension, Jane walked to his side. “I regret trusting Portia,” she said in a low voice. “I know I’ve told you so before, but I must say it again. I should never have believed any of her lies.”
Letting go of the drapery, he turned to Jane. “I am to blame, not you,” he said. “If only I had paid off her debts, it would never have come to this.”
The haunted quality to his eyes reached her heart. She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed it, briefly laying her cheek against his strong, warm fingers. “Oh, Ethan, you did as you thought best. You couldn’t have known what would happen. Besides, Portia would have gambled the money away and then wanted more.”
If anything, his expression grew harder, so that he looked every inch the powerful lord. “I will get Marianne back safely. I promise you that.”
“I know.” But she didn’t know. A voice of doubt whispered in her mind, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, hiding her face in his coat and fighting off despair. Gloomy thoughts would solve nothing. She needed to think clearly, to keep up her spirits, to be ready when the message came.
He held her for a long moment until the library doors opened and she quickly turned her head. Her rise of hope died a swift death. It was only a maid to light the candles, followed by a footman bearing the tea tray, which he set on a table.
Sitting beside the duke, Lady Rosalind leaned forward. “Has a letter arrived yet, Tucker?”
“Only those her ladyship opened earlier.”
The dowager sank back on the chaise. “Thank you.”
Troubled, Jane glanced at Ethan. The letters. She had forgotten about them. She would as soon he didn’t hear about them just yet.
As the servants went out, she pulled him to the tea tray and poured a cup for him, adding the dash of cream he liked. It was a breach of etiquette to serve him before the duke, but she didn’t care and she didn’t suppose His Grace would, either. Ethan took the cup and drank automatically, his brooding gaze focused on the wall of books.
“Well, Chasebourne, you’ve been quite the popular fellow today,” the duke said with forced cheer. “All those congratulatory notes.”
Jane froze in the act of filling another cup. Her gaze went to Ethan, but he shot a perplexed frown at Kellisham.
“Congratulatory?”
“About your poem,” Lady Rosalind said distractedly. “We had an unusual number of visitors, too. But of course, the footman turned them all away.”
“I see.”
Ethan glanced at Jane, and in his dark gaze flickered a weary awareness, as if he were sorely disappointed in her for her part in exposing his secret. Then he turned to contemplate the shelves of books again.
He couldn’t have slept more than a few hours the previous night. She had waited up until the wee hours, hoping to hear him return home, but finally she had succumbed to exhaustion. Then this morning, she had smelled brandy on him, and she knew he’d been out drinking to escape his pain. The abduction of Marianne had brought them back together. But Jane couldn’t help wondering how much damage she’d done to his trust in her.
With mechanical movements, she delivered tea to Lady Rosalind, the duke, and Aunt Willy, who added a dollop of her restorative to it. Jane was relieved that no one seemed inclined to pursue the topic of his poetry. She would think about it later, make it up to Ethan somehow. Only Marianne mattered now. How desperately she wanted to hold her small form, to see her lift her head, her eyes bright with curiosity about the world.…
Jane wrapped her fingers around her cup, needing the warmth more than sustenance. The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the agonizing seconds. It was the only sound save for the clacking of Aunt Willy’s knitting needles and the quiet voice of the duke talking to Lady Rosalind. Outside, the darknes
s deepened to night.
Then the noise of scuffling footsteps came from the foyer, the library door opened, and two footmen dragged in a squirming, filthy urchin.
“Caught this one trying to run away,” Tucker said, his white wig askew. “Sneaked right up to the house and left this on the porch, he did.” In his gloved hand, he held out a sealed note.
Ethan strode forward and took the missive. “Thank you,” he said. “Leave the boy here.”
The two footmen bowed out. The urchin made a dash to follow them, but Ethan seized him by his ragged collar and marched him to a footstool.
“Lemme go,” he cried, wriggling and fighting. “I done nuthin’ wrong, guv’nor. Just brung the letter.”
“You aren’t in trouble,” Ethan said calmly. “Now sit. There’s a guinea for you if you cooperate.”
The boy’s eyes grew big and blue against his small, dirty face. “Cor,” he said, and promptly plopped down on the footstool.
“Read the note,” Lady Rosalind urged. “What does Portia tell us to do?”
“One moment,” Ethan said. He hunkered down in front of the urchin. “Who gave you this letter?”
The boy shrugged warily. “’Twas a gent. ’E told me ta leave it an’ run.”
“A gentleman. Not a man of the streets?”
“Nay, ’e wore fancy stuff … like ye.”
“Was he tall or short, dark or fair?”
The urchin scratched his spiky brown hair. “’E were tall, but ’twas too dark ta see naught else.”
“Did you note the color of his eyes? Any scars or markings? Anything about his voice?”
“’E spoke like a gent. Dunno more, m’lord.”
With a grimace of frustration, Ethan stood up. He took a coin from his pocket and tossed it to the lad, who caught it in his grubby fist. Then Ethan escorted him to the door and called to a footman. “Take the boy to the kitchen for a meal.”
“What was that all about?” Jane asked as he closed the door. “Do you know who the man is?”
Giving a distracted shake of his head, Ethan paced the chamber. “Last night, I saw a tall man watching from the square. I thought my eyes were deceiving me. I wish to God I’d had the wits to be more suspicious.”
