by Anna Bradley
Every servant Ciaran questioned had noticed the redheaded lady.
One of the upper housemaids was sure she’d seen her coming down the staircase. A footman thought she’d been in the entryway. Another was certain she’d seen her standing on the second-floor landing.
They’d all seen her, yet not one of them could tell Ciaran where she’d gone. One moment she’d been there, and the next she’d disappeared.
He ran into the innyard and found Vale standing beside his carriage, impatiently tapping his walking stick against his boot. When he saw Ciaran he started forward, but then he caught sight of the expression on Ciaran’s face and stopped. “Ramsey? What’s happened?”
“I—I can’t find Lucy. She’s missing.”
The color drained from Vale’s face. “Missing? Eloisa and Lucy, both missing? Jesus, Ramsey. Did you question the servants?”
“A half-dozen servants, dozens of questions, and not one useful piece of information. No one saw her leave the inn, but she must have, Vale.” Ciaran dragged a hand down his face, his gaze darting up and down the street in front of him.
That was when he saw it.
The color caught his eye first. Bright green silk peeking out of a limp bundle of dark gray wool, lying in the middle of the innyard.
Ciaran darted across the yard, only narrowly avoiding a collision with a heavy wagon.
“Ramsey, what the devil?” Vale shouted, following on his heels. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Look, Vale.” Ciaran caught up the cloak and stood in a daze, gazing down at the bundle of dusty fabric in his hands. “It’s Lucy’s. She must have left the inn and come out into the yard.”
Then she’d disappeared.
Ciaran clutched the cloak to his chest. “He took her, Vale. Jarvis. Snatched her right out of the yard and shoved her into his carriage. It’s the only explanation for why her cloak would be lying out here in the dirt.”
Except, was it really the only explanation? Lucy might have left him and gone off to Devon alone—
No. Lucy would never have done that. She wouldn’t leave London without knowing her aunt and cousin were safe.
She wouldn’t leave him.
Not like this. He was as sure of that as he was of the sun rising tomorrow morning.
“How could Jarvis have found her, Ramsey? He couldn’t have simply stumbled across the Swan and Anchor. Only Eloisa and I know where you—”
Vale broke off and met Ciaran’s gaze. Ciaran saw his own panic reflected in his friend’s eyes, and knew they were both thinking the same thing. Jarvis had threatened his own daughter. He’d made Eloisa tell him where Lucy was, and then he’d come after her.
Now Eloisa and Lucy had both vanished.
Icy fear filled Ciaran’s heart, but only for a moment before it exploded in shuddering, trembling, burning rage. His jaw went tight, and his hands fisted. If Jarvis laid a finger on Lucy, touched even a single hair on her head, he’d spend the rest of his life answering to Ciaran for it.
But first he had to find them.
“Portman Square, Ramsey,” Vale said through gritted teeth. “Portman Square, and if I have to I’ll shake the truth out of the servants.”
Within minutes they were in Vale’s carriage and on their way to Portman Square. Ciaran’s stomach twisted tighter and tighter with every agonizing mile. The carriage was still rolling into the drive when he leapt from it and flew toward the front door, with Vale right behind him.
The house was dark and silent, but nothing could have stopped either of them from pounding on the front door.
Or, if that failed, knocking it down.
As it happened, force turned out to be unnecessary. Vale’s fist hardly had a chance to touch the wood before the door flew open. On the other side stood Eloisa Jarvis, her hair disheveled and her eyes wild.
“Eloisa,” Vale whispered, stunned. “I thought…God, I was terrified you’d been—”
“Sebastian! Thank goodness.” Eloisa grasped his arm and tugged him into the entryway. Ciaran followed, and she slammed and locked the door behind him. “I heard the carriage, and I was afraid you were my father.”
Vale glanced at Ciaran, his expression troubled. “Your father isn’t here, then?”
“No.” Mrs. Jarvis stepped forward, darting a glance behind her as if she were afraid Jarvis would leap from the shadows. “He left in the carriage a while ago.”
Ciaran’s heart sank like a stone in his chest. “Lucy?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Is Lucy here?”
But he already knew the answer. As soon as he’d walked into the bedchamber at the inn and heard the dull thud of his footsteps in the empty room, a part of him knew Jarvis had found her—that he’d taken her. But knowing it was one thing. Hearing Mrs. Jarvis say it aloud was another.
Mrs. Jarvis stared at him, her face going white. “No. I thought…isn’t Lucy with you?”
For one helpless moment, Ciaran let his head drop into his hands. How could he have let this happen? He should have known Jarvis would find a way to track her. Now she was gone, and Ciaran felt as if his chest had been hollowed out—as if a hand had plunged inside him and ripped out his heart.
Mrs. Jarvis was trembling with shock, and Ciaran caught her arm to steady her. It took every bit of his control, but his voice was calm when he asked, “Did Mr. Jarvis tell you where he was going?”
“He didn’t even say he was going, much less where.” Eloisa Jarvis let out a bitter laugh. She wasn’t at all unsteady. Her blue eyes were flashing with fury. “We weren’t in a position to ask him, since he locked us in a bedchamber at the top of the house before he left.”
“Eloisa,” Mrs. Jarvis began, but then she fell silent again, her lips tight. Even she was in no humor to defend her husband.
Vale’s face had turned an ominous shade of red, but when he spoke, his voice was soft, controlled. “Your father locked you up?”
Ciaran darted a glance at Vale, alarm bleeding through his panic. Vale didn’t often lose his temper, but when he did, he didn’t rage or shout. Instead, he went oddly quiet. It was a lucky thing Jarvis wasn’t here, because Vale looked ready to tear the man limb from limb.
“Easy, Vale.”
Ciaran reached out to lay a restraining hand on Vale’s shoulder, but Eloisa Jarvis was already there, speaking in soft, soothing tones to Vale. She cupped his cheeks, cradling his face and whispering to him until gradually Vale’s hectic breaths began to slow. The rigid line of his shoulders relaxed, and his forehead met hers.
Mrs. Jarvis gasped softly, shocked to see her daughter on such intimate terms with the Earl of Vale. After a moment, though, her arm relaxed beneath Ciaran’s fingers, and a tentative smile rose to her lips.
Ciaran left the lovers to their tender moment for as long as he could before clearing his throat. He was happy for Vale, but right now he could think of nothing but Lucy. Jarvis had her, and he was taking her God-knew-where. What if he abandoned her on a remote country road somewhere? Or took her to a place Ciaran would never find her?
What if he hurt her?
“Do you have any idea at all where your father’s gone, Miss Jarvis?” Fear made Ciaran’s voice harsher than he’d intended, and he forced himself to take a deep breath. “Forgive me, but we have to find him.”
Eloisa Jarvis looked stricken. “Oh, I don’t know! By the time we got out of the bedchamber he was already gone.”
“How much time has passed since you escaped?” The situation was growing worse with every moment, and Ciaran’s chest was pulling tighter and tighter.
“I—I’m not sure, but perhaps two hours? Our first thought was to go to Sebastian and Lady Felicia in Hanover Square, but then we discovered my father had left in the carriage.” Eloisa raised her face to Vale’s. “We were just trying to decide what to do when you and Mr. Ramsey appeared.”
“Did a servant let you out?” Whatever servant had freed them was the one most likely to reveal what they knew about Jarvis’s whereabouts. But Eloisa shook her head, and Ciaran’s heart sank even lower.
“No.” She flushed, and held up her hand. She was clutching a hair pin between her fingers. “I picked the lock.”
Vale blinked. “You know how to pick a lock, Eloisa?”
Eloisa blushed. “Lucy showed me how to do it. She’s, ah…very good at that sort of thing. She picked the lock on my father’s desk.”
Of course, she had, because it was just the sort of thing Lucy would know how to do. For the first time since they’d arrived at Portman Square, hope swept over Ciaran. Lucy was, without question, the most capable woman he’d ever known.
I never needed you to save me, Ciaran.
It was the truth. Lucy had always known how to save herself. It wouldn’t stop him from going after her, because nothing in the world could stop him from that, but that didn’t change who she was.
How special she was.
Intriguing, kind, passionate, beautiful…
Yes, she was all those things, and so many others as well.
She was everything.
He thought of her, with her stubborn chin and those dark eyes that had held him spellbound since he’d first looked into them all those weeks ago, and something in his chest unfurled its wings and soared into sudden, glorious life.
He swallowed.
His heart. It was his heart.
The truth swept over him then—soft, like a breath from parted lips.
He was in love with her. He was in love with Lucy.
Madly so. Not friendly love, but passionate, delirious, weak-kneed love. The sort of love he’d never felt before, never imagined he could feel. The sort of love where nothing would ever be right again if her face wasn’t the first thing he saw when he woke, and the last before he fell asleep.
Those mornings they’d sat together on the beach, when he’d told her his secrets and listened to hers in return. His first night in London, when he’d walked into Lady Ivey’s ballroom and found her again. Their kiss in the carriage, the trembling of her lips against his…
All that time he’d been falling, falling, falling deeper with every day that passed.
How could he not have seen it? He’d fallen in love with Lucy without ever realizing it.
When he’d held her last night, it hadn’t been just his arms wrapped around her.
It had been his heart.
That was what he should have told her this morning. He’d talked of marriage, friendship, stubbornness, obligation, but he’d never breathed a single word about love. God, it was unbearable she could be out there somewhere without knowing how much he loved her. Unbearable to spend another moment without her in his arms.
“How long ago did Mr. Jarvis leave the house?”
“A little more than an hour ago,” Mrs. Jarvis replied. “The bedchamber he locked us in looks down on the mews. I saw him leave.”
“An hour ago?” Vale frowned. He pulled his pocket watch free, consulted it, then met Ciaran’s gaze. “I was here an hour ago, Ramsey. I should have crossed paths with him.”
“You did cross paths, but you didn’t realize it.”
The voice came from the far end of the hallway. All of them turned toward it and watched as a man made his way to them. “Mr. Jarvis was here when you arrived, my lord.”
Vale stared at the man. “You’re the servant who answered the door.”
“Harley, my lord. The butler.” The man bowed. “Mr. Jarvis was here all morning. He ordered me to answer the door and tell you the family had left London and didn’t intend to return.”
Eloisa gasped.
“He told you to lie, you mean.” Vale had gone eerily quiet again, and he took a menacing step toward Harley. “You were ordered to lie, and you did exactly as you were told.”
Harley didn’t flinch. “I did, my lord, and I beg your pardon for it. I…didn’t like to do it, and I’ve come now to help if I can.”
Ciaran was struggling with his own anger, but giving into it wouldn’t do Lucy any good, and she was all that mattered. “Good man,” he said, stepping between Vale and the butler. “What else can you tell us? How did Jarvis know how to find Lady Lucinda? She was safely tucked up at an obscure inn in Cheapside. He wouldn’t have thought to look for her there.”
Harley turned a wary look on Vale. “My lord, you didn’t happen to go to this inn after you left here this morning?”
“I did, yes. Why would that—”
“Mr. Jarvis followed you. He thought you’d lead him to Lady Lucinda, and I’m afraid he was right.”
Ciaran froze. It was a far cleverer plan than he would have thought Jarvis capable of. Lucy had warned him Jarvis was dim enough in general, but had an uncanny ability to secure his own interests.
The best way for Jarvis to save his skin was to marry Lucy to Lord Godfrey. Ciaran had assumed Godfrey would beg off the marriage when he discovered Lucy had placed herself under Ciaran’s protection, but he’d never known a more avaricious man than Godfrey. Wasn’t there a chance he’d made up his mind to overlook it to gain Lucy’s fortune?
Even now, Jarvis could be delivering Lucy into Godfrey’s hands.
A fear unlike any he’d ever known before lodged in Ciaran’s throat. For one awful moment he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. “Do you know where Jarvis has gone?”
“Yes, sir. He went to Kent. He said he’d forgotten he had business in Maidstone.”
“Maidstone?” Ciaran turned to Eloisa and Mrs. Jarvis, but they looked as baffled as he was. What kind of business could Jarvis have in Maidstone? Of course, he could have lied to the butler, or the butler could be lying to them, but Ciaran’s instincts told him the man was telling the truth.
If Jarvis was traveling into Kent, he could be headed for Dover as easily as Maidstone, but it seemed unlikely, given he’d left his wife and daughter behind. If he wasn’t fleeing to the Continent via Dover, then he must have some other reason for heading south to Maidstone.
“Mr. Ramsey.” Ciaran felt a slight tug on his coat sleeve and looked down to find Mrs. Jarvis at his elbow, her face gray. “Please, I—I’m worried about Lucinda. Lord Godfrey was here this morning, and he…my husband sent for Lucinda to wait on him, but she wasn’t…Lord Godfrey got angry, and my husband was even angrier, and I’m afraid he’ll take it out on Lucinda.”
Ciaran couldn’t make much sense of this incoherent ramble, but he took Mrs. Jarvis’s hand and patted it. “I won’t let your husband hurt Lucy. I promise you, Mrs. Jarvis.”
“You mustn’t let him take her!” Mrs. Jarvis managed, before she burst into tears.
“Please, Sebastian.” Eloisa clutched at Vale’s coat. “You must go after them! There’s no telling what my father will do if he—”
“No.” Ciaran met Vale’s gaze. “Take Mrs. and Miss Jarvis to Hanover Square, Vale, and stay there with them. I’ll go after Lucy.”
A horse—it would be faster than a carriage. Jarvis had more than two hours start on him, but if he rode hard, he’d catch them. He had to.
Because if he didn’t…if he didn’t…
Ciaran refused to acknowledge the possibility, even to himself. He wouldn’t even think it. He’d go after her, and he’d find her.
As far as direction, he had precious little to go on, but he’d take the butler at his word, and head for Maidstone. Jarvis would have to stop at some point to change horses. A gold coin or two, and whatever innkeeper happened to see them would be pleased to tell Ciaran which direction they’d taken. Someone would have noticed Lucy. She wasn’t the sort of lady you overlooked.
Maidstone, Dover�
��it didn’t matter. He’d go all the way to the edge of England if he had to, but he’d find Lucy, and he’d get her back.
She was his, and no one, least of all Jarvis, was going to take her away from him.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Unconsciousness suits you, Lucinda. If you were even a fraction as obedient when you’re awake, you wouldn’t be in your current predicament. Alas, I’m afraid it’s too late now.”
Lucy flinched away from her uncle’s cruel words, the hot drift of his breath. Her mouth was as dry as dust. She tried to swallow, but a starburst of pain exploded in her throat, and a faint moan escaped from between her bruised lips.
“You’re a bit heavy-headed, I expect.” Uncle Jarvis drew back, the carriage seat giving a protesting squeak as he settled his bulk against it. “It’s a pity, but it won’t be much longer now. We’re almost there.”
Almost there.
Where? She’d tried to stay awake, to keep track of her surroundings, but the panic and exhaustion had caught up to her. How long had they been traveling? Judging by the way her body ached, it must be hours.
Lucy cracked an eye open. The inside of the carriage was dim, the view outside the window shrouded in dusk. Hours, yes. It had been late afternoon when they’d changed horses in Rochester. She tried to pull together a coherent guess as to their final destination, but she kept losing the threads of logic in the cotton wool inside her head.
“It might comfort you to know, Lucinda, that you made all this much easier than I imagined it would be.” Uncle Jarvis’s grating voice scraped at the inside of her skull.
Lucy peeled the other eye open and struggled upright against the squabs. Her uncle was seated across from her, one foot balanced negligently on his knee, an arm thrown across the back of the seat.
A picture of casual ease.
It was terrifying. More so even than the dark isolation into which he’d brought her. Uncle Jarvis was never at ease unless he was very certain whatever scheme he had in hand was sure to succeed.
“Easier, Uncle?”
“Oh, yes. At first, I thought the easiest thing would be for you to marry Godfrey, but once I had a chance to reflect on it, I realized it’s far better this way.” Uncle Jarvis picked a bit of lint off the sleeve of his coat. “Why should I settle for the paltry ten thousand Godfrey was going to give me when I can have the whole lot?”