by Gaelen Foley
With his weapon at the ready, Jordan laid hold of the door handle. Taking a deep breath, he opened it.
He advanced into the huge, opulent room, but at once, he saw that Albert was not in the great, canopied bed. He was not behind the corner screen or in the window nook. In fact, there was no sign of the dandyish duke, just a puddle of water near the stool before the elaborate dressing table.
A window was open; Jordan crossed to it and looked out, half-expecting to see Albert’s corpse strewn out on the grass many feet below, but there was nothing there.
Suspiciously, he eyed the spikes driven into the stone, placed to allow the picturesque ivy to climb up the side of the house.
“Sir?”
Jordan turned to Parker in question.
“He’s not in here.”
“Maybe he wandered off and fell asleep in another room,” Findlay offered.
“Shall we check the rest of the house?” asked Parker.
Jordan nodded. “I’ll come with you.” With his men marching behind him, they began a systematic search of the sprawling Holyfield mansion.
The servants joined in, some of the calling out “Your Grace!” as they sought their missing master.
It took some forty-five minutes to conclude that Albert was nowhere in the house.
The butler was beginning to look very worried, too.
“Perhaps His Grace began feeling ill from drink last night and went out for a walk to clear his head. It was a fine evening. There are several places out on the grounds where he could have chosen to, er, take a nap.”
“Like where?” Parker asked with a nod.
“Oh, there are many pleasant benches in the gardens. And a folly with a daybed by the pond. He likes to read the paper there sometimes.”
“Maybe he’s just not here,” Findlay spoke up.
Jordan looked at the butler in question. “It’s possible His Grace might have left on his own much earlier this morning. It would be unusual for him to leave without crossing paths with any of the staff, but it is not impossible. We are only servants, after all. The duke does not make us privy to all of his comings and goings.”
“Are any of his carriages gone? Horses missing?”
“Go and check the carriage house,” the butler ordered one of his underlings.
“Check the stables, as well.” Jordan signaled to Findlay to go with him. “He might’ve gone off on horseback.”
Jordan gritted his teeth, beginning to wonder if the little weasel had fled with some premonition of what he had coming.
Findlay nodded and marched off after the footman, who waited for him. “This way, sir.”
“My lord,” the butler said, “it could take an hour or more to find out if all the horses are accounted for. There are dozens in the stables alone, and many more that spend the night out in the pastures this time of year.”
“Check,” he answered.
The butler dispatched more footmen to the stables for this purpose, and another of Jordan’s soldiers went with them.
“My lord, if His Grace did go into Town today without our noticing, then I would suggest you look for him at his club or his tailor’s,” the butler offered. “He could be taking tea with one of his lady friends, or perhaps he’s even visiting the Regent.”
Jordan nodded in response to his suggestions.
When the men came back a few minutes later and reported that none of the carriages were missing but that counting the horses would still take the better part of the next hour, Jordan called his squad aside.
“Let’s split up to look for him. Wilkins, you stay here and search the grounds. All those places the butler said, the folly, the benches, anywhere else that looks appealing. Report back to Dante House with any news.
“Parker, Jenkins, you two head back to Town. Look for him at White’s and around some of the fashionable tailors’ shops on Bond Street. Ask around if anyone has seen him. It could be that we’re worried for nothing, and he’s just carrying on as usual. Or,” Jordan added grimly, “if he remembers the things he admitted to last night, it would not surprise me in the least if he woke up today and immediately made up his mind to flee the country.
“Parker, I want you to go down to the London docks and locate one of our contacts in the Customs House. Tell him you need to see the logbooks for this morning. Find out if he was aboard one of the packet ships heading for any Continental port.”
“Yes, sir,” Parker replied with a quick salute.
“I’ll go to Carlton House and make sure he hasn’t taken it into his head to try to break into the Regent’s desk again.”
“The palace guards know not to let him anywhere near it, though, right, sir?”
Jordan nodded. “They’ve been advised to keep a watchful eye on him whenever he visits, though, of course, they don’t know why. Still, if he’s desperate enough at this point…” Jordan shrugged. The men nodded, then they split up to carry out their separate tasks. “We’ll be back again later tonight,” he told the butler, “perhaps tomorrow, to see if there’s been any word from him.”
“Will you let us know if you find him, sir?”
“Yes, as much as I am able. In the meanwhile, I strongly suggest you keep the news of these grave charges against the duke to yourselves, for the sake of your own livelihoods. If I were you, I would protect the Holyfield name as long as possible. The status of the charges against your master could change if more information comes to light, and we should take steps now to preserve his reputation if we can. I know he’d appreciate that.”
“Indeed, sir. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”
Jordan nodded and took leave of them, but his thoughts were grim. I have a bad feeling about this.
As he walked out, an ominous foreboding from his deepest senses was growing stronger by the second. He pulled on his riding gauntlets as he walked over to his horse. Then he swung up into the saddle, scanning the landscape uneasily as he gathered the reins.
Everything in him clamored to get to Carlton House and make sure the Regent was safe.
Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his bones.
Later in the day, after her tears had subsided, Mara went out for a long walk.
The house was too empty without Thomas there—and without Jordan. She draped a light lace veil over the brim of her bonnet to hide her bloodshot eyes and to prevent her acquaintances from recognizing her.
She was in no mood for trivial conversation.
The lace covering blew in the balmy spring breeze as she passed burgeoning flower boxes, little manicured patches of emerald grass around some of the town houses.
She strolled to Hyde Park, where the fertile earth rejoiced in the lush, green luxury of May, all the world in full bloom—but in her heart, it was bleakest autumn.
Restless, she only stayed a moment at the park, gazing at the place where her carriage had been attacked weeks ago by that unruly mob. How handy Jordan had been with a weapon! At least now she knew why.
She moved on. Her ghostlike reflection was her only company as she drifted past shop windows with enough in her accounts to lay her hands on whatever she liked. But money could not buy her the one thing she desired.
All the while, his words haunted her. “If you turn me away, I’ve nowhere else to go.” As disillusioned as she was about him at the moment, as difficult as it was to separate the truth from his lies, once the shock wore off, her foolish heart began refusing to believe he did not care for her. For Jordan to come forward willingly and admit to such a terrible deception did not bespeak indifference, it argued, but the highest respect, trust, hope, esteem.
He was only doing his duty. Of course, he might as well have stabbed her in the heart, but if his mission involved protecting the Regent, then at least some good had come of it. Still, what a cold, heartless thing he was.
Perhaps that’s what he had to be, in the hard life he had chosen. Mara let out another large sigh. At length, she decided to walk the extra two blocks
to visit Delilah.
She was not going to say anything to her friend about Jordan being a spy—a spy, for goodness sake! She just wanted to let Delilah know she was not angry at her for instigating last night’s debacle.
Before long, she arrived at her friend’s elegant little jewel box of a town house. Mara lifted a white-gloved hand and knocked, her reticule dangling from her wrist.
In short order, the butler let her in and gestured her politely toward the music room upstairs, which Delilah used from day to day as an informal parlor.
“Mara!” Curled up on the sofa in her dressing gown, Delilah turned to greet her as Mara walked in, drawing off her gloves. “How are you? Oh, no,” she said, needing no further answer beyond the red, swollen eyes and chafed nose that were revealed when Mara threw the veil back from her face. “You’re a mess.”
“Quite,” she said wearily.
Delilah winced. “I would’ve called on you earlier, but I thought you would be visiting your parents.”
She shook her head with a heavy sigh. “I just couldn’t face the pair of them today. I sent Thomas on to see them with his nurse.” She dropped into the plump, cushioned chair across from her.
“I’ve been so worried about you. I feel awful about what happened last night—”
“Don’t. It wasn’t your fault. I came here specifically to tell you that. I knew you’d be feeling guilty.”
“Bless you.” Delilah gazed sympathetically at her. “Let me send for tea.”
“No, thank you. I don’t intend to stay long. Thomas will be home soon.”
Delilah did not appear to be listening anymore, having glanced toward the doorway, where her gaze remained transfixed.
Mara followed her stare, and to her astonishment, saw that Cole had just appeared, fastening his sleeves, then buttoning his waistcoat.
A bright beaming smile burst across Delilah’s face. She held her hand out to him. “Darling!”
Mara’s eyes widened. She sat up straight as Cole sauntered in, barely aware of her existence.
He walked over to Delilah and took her hand, then leaned down and kissed her in dreamy affection.
They gazed at each other in glowing intimacy.
Well! Mara dropped her gaze with a blush. “I see you two made up.”
Cole laughed softly, glancing over at her. “Indeed. I owe your friend Falconridge a mighty debt of thanks.” He took Delilah’s hand between his own and smiled at Mara. “Whatever rebuke he scalded her ears with last night, I am happy to report, it brought my lady to her senses.”
“Is that so?” Mara turned to Delilah in amusement.
“Very well, I admit it.” Delilah began blushing like a girl. “Your ‘Jordan’ was horrid to me after you walked out. We exchanged words. But he made me realize that the love of a good man is too precious to risk losing.”
“Really?” Mara exclaimed with a half-indignant smile. “I’ve only been telling you that for months, but you never listen to me. Jordan says it once, and it’s suddenly Gospel?”
“It was the way he said it, darling.”
“He did not spare her feelings like you do, Lady Pierson.” Cole sent Delilah a doting look askance.
“I hated him at the time,” Delilah agreed, “but within five minutes of leaving that place, I realized he was right. I was being a coward, pretending I didn’t care, when the truth was, I was afraid of telling Cole how much he means to me.”
“Until last night,” he said softly, gazing at Delilah.
“Thank God, this wonderful man saw fit to give a fool another chance.”
“You’re not a fool, sweet.”
“Yes, I am. You’re just a very forgiving man.”
Mara was astonished by this tender exchange between two of the greatest cynics in the ton. But it was obvious she was intruding. She cleared her throat. “Well, then! I’ll leave you two in peace. I’m very happy for you both.” Wishing them the best, she wasted no time in showing herself out. The visit had cheered her a bit, but, nursing a broken heart, she was happy to escape the lovestruck pair.
Now she knew how Delilah must have felt throughout all those weeks when she and Cole were at odds, while Mara had been falling in love with Jordan.
As for him, she thought as she sauntered homeward, he might indeed be a spy, but his diplomatic skills were proved by the peace treaty he had brought about between these two long-warring factions.
She could not help smiling to herself over Delilah’s newfound happiness. Hopefully, this time her friend would not make a muck of it again.
Most of all, she thought, if those two could be reconciled, maybe there really was hope for her and Jordan.
This morning, she had ordered him out of her house and told him not to come back; she remembered with a pang the ashen color of his face at her words. She knew then that she had hurt him deeply. Likewise, her trust in him had suffered a serious blow, but as she walked up to her own front door, she mused that at least now her eyes were opened to the reality of who he was, what manner of man she was really involved with.
Maybe all was not lost, or needn’t be. Perhaps in a day or two, she might feel ready to write to him and ask for another round of negotiations in the hopes of settling their unexpected war.
As she pushed open the front door, Reese did not appear as usual to attend her, but it was an informal day, and she assumed he must be busy at other household duties.
Tossing her reticule aside, she untied her bonnet, set it aside in a state of distraction, started to walk through the parlor—and stopped in her tracks.
“Hullo.” A stranger, tall and lean, was seated in her armchair, his long legs crossed idly before him.
“I beg your pardon!” she burst out, clutching her hand to her pounding heart. “What are you doing in here? God, you gave me a fright! Do I know you?” She took him for a tradesman—one of the merchants or artisans that Reese made arrangements with for all the workaday household business and repairs.
She did not recall having any appointments, but—
“Lady Pierson, I presume?” His glance flicked over her. “You are more beautiful than I had expected.”
And she realized abruptly that not even the wealthiest toadstool merchant in London would dare ogle a viscountess in such a vile manner.
Fear chilled her initial, blank surprise. “Your name, sir.”
He rose from the chair. “Some call me Dresden Bloodwell. My true name, I fear, is long forgotten.”
At first glance, he was utterly ordinary, though his height and muscular physique were impressive, the sort that one might hire for a footman or a carriage groom. He had hazel eyes, brown wavy hair that shone with oil, and a well-formed countenance with good, strong bones, but a sallow-tanned complexion faintly scarred with pockmarks.
It was his stare, however, that warned her “Mr. Bloodwell” was not quite right in the head. Good gracious, had this oddment simply wandered in off the street?
But he knew her name.
She backed away, holding his stare warily, as he advanced toward her with slow, measured paces. “Mr. Bloodwell, where are my servants? What are you doing in my house?”
He gave her a curious half smile, studying her with a lecherous gleam in those unsettling eyes. Then she noticed a faint banging sound coming up through the floor, as though someone were locked in the cellar.
Danger, whispered all her senses. She swallowed hard but refused to show her fear. “You’d better leave.”
“Stay calm, Lady Pierson. And please don’t scream. I trust a lady of your fine breeding will not resort to hysterics.”
“Indeed,” she agreed as she continued keeping a healthy distance between them.
“Good.” He nodded, his stare fixed on her. “For you will need your wits about you to accept the deal I came here to make. And don’t worry about your servants. They are quite unharmed. Believe me, they are not your main concern at the moment.”
“What is this about?” she demanded, striving to sou
nd calm.
“I came to propose an arrangement that I’m sure will interest you, my lady.”
She edged toward the fire poker. “I doubt anything you say would be of interest to me, Mr. Bloodwell. I do not converse with trespassers in my home.”
“Oh, I think you’ll hear me out. I did not come empty-handed, after all. Here. You see? I brought you a present.” He gestured to a small, flat box on the parlor table. “Go on. Open it.”
She eyed the chipboard box warily. A common sort of box from any ordinary shop. “What’s in there?”
“Well, if I told you, it would not be a surprise, my dear. Go on. Take a peek.”
“Very well.” She inched calmly toward the table, not taking her eyes off him.
He watched her reach over and slide the box toward herself. With trembling hands, she picked it up, untied the ill-made ribbon bow, and pulled off the lid.
Warily, she glanced down to see what was in the box.
She went motionless. The air rushed from her lungs, and horror turned the blood in her veins to ice.
Mr. Bloodwell folded his hands politely behind his back. “Now, you see, I have a little request for you, my lady. I don’t think you’ll find it too much to ask.”
Her heart in her throat, she reached into the box in shock and pulled out the little multicolored jester’s cap with bells that she had knit with her own hands for Thomas.
Mrs. Busby had put it on him that morning.
“Where is Thomas?” Pure terror made her head swim as she looked up slowly at Bloodwell. “What have you done to my child?”
“Easy—”
“What do you want?” she screamed.
“Just a simple favor. One little piece of paper. In exchange for your son’s life.”
Chapter 19
The trip to Carlton House was a blur.
Please, I’ll do anything you ask. Just don’t hurt my baby.
She had run out of her town house in such a blindly frantic state that she had forgotten her bonnet altogether, only snatching up her reticule. With shaking hands, she had thrust into it the little piece of paper on which Bloodwell had scrawled the address in Seven Dials where she was to go afterwards.