The Lost Heiress

by Roseanna M. White

  Nothing could ruin the afternoon. Not the way the mud sucked at her tires with every revolution, not the clouds still rolling in off the North Sea, and not even the herd of sheep crossing the road amidst much bleating, which forced her to a halt two miles from her turn to Whitby Park. She might be unable to start again in this mud, but what did it matter? If she had to sit here until Justin came by, then it would give them something else to laugh about. She leaned back, waiting for the animals to clear the road and—

  Her door was wrenched open, and a rough hand pulled her out before she could think to react. She tried to scream—surely there was a shepherd with all those sheep—but glove-covered fingers clamped down over her mouth.

  “Not a sound, darling. Not unless you want to tell me here and now where the Fire Eyes are.”

  Pratt?

  She wanted to kick, scream, something—but a sweet smell filled her nostrils, and the edges of her vision went black.

  Twenty-Eight

  Justin knew well he was grinning like a fool, and he didn’t much mind it. Even when Mr. Graham greeted him with a raised brow. “Back so soon, Your Grace?”

  He had changed into dry clothes as quickly as he could—though granted, it may have been quicker had he not kept trying to rush poor Peters, who had finally declared him hopeless and sent him out, laughing, with his tie askew. Still, by the time the Rolls-Royce chugged through the mud and ruts, an hour had indeed passed. “They’re expecting me this time, Mr. Graham. Or Lady Berkeley is, anyway. I don’t know about Whitby.”

  “Don’t know what about Whitby?” Brook’s father emerged from his study, his focus on a stack of post that he flipped through as he walked.

  Justin’s smile didn’t dim. He was glad he’d had the time to get to know the earl better. Not that he would have chosen that particular reason for it, had a choice been given. “Whether Brook had told you yet that she asked me to call. We ran into each other at the abbey and finally talked.”

  That brought Whitby’s gaze up from the letters and lit a gleam in his eye. “Did you? Good—though she certainly hasn’t found me to tell me so. I actually didn’t think her back yet. Did I miss her, Mr. Graham?”

  The butler’s brows drew together. “I am unaware of her return, my lord—though she has been known to sneak past us all before. Shall I send Beatrix up to check?”

  “Yes. Please.” But Whitby’s brows had pulled down too, and he moved toward the door. “I should have been able to hear the car. I was listening for it. I expected her back well before now.”

  Justin’s heart skipped a beat, though he told himself not to worry. “She must be here. She left well ahead of me—I watched her off. And had she got stuck along the road, I would have come across her.”

  “I’m sure she is here … somewhere.” But the earl’s step quickened as he pushed open the door and stepped outside. Justin followed him down the front steps, along the macadam of the drive. And silently echoed the curse that Whitby muttered when they saw the empty stall in the carriage house.

  Her father spun, his eyes bordering on wild. “Horses. We need horses. Now. Horses!”

  Justin had to jog to keep up as the earl flew toward the stables, shouting for Oscuro and Tempesta to be saddled posthaste. His heart, he was fairly certain, had stopped.

  She had to be here. She had to be, because she had been nowhere between. He had been watching for her once he saw the state of the roads, half expecting to see her up to her wheel wells in mud.

  Mr. Graham came huffing into the stables as the harried grooms brought the horses out. “My lord. Your Grace. Lady Berkeley is not in the house. No one has seen her since she left with O’Malley.”

  “I know. We’re going to look for her.” Whitby swung up onto Oscuro. “Mr. Graham?”

  “My lord?”

  “Gather the staff. Lead them in prayer. I want all work halted until my daughter is found.”

  Justin put his foot in the stirrup and mounted Tempesta, watching how the butler’s face paled.

  “Found, my lord?”

  But the earl wasn’t looking at Mr. Graham anymore. His focus had gone to the slate-grey clouds. “It’s those blasted Fire Eyes—it has to be. I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight until it was all resolved.”

  Justin nudged Tempesta forward. “We’ll find her, Whit.”

  Whitby pressed his lips together and his heels to Oscuro’s flanks.

  At the crossroads they turned, without the need for discussion, toward Whitby. The horses ate up the first mile, Tempesta doing her best to keep up with Oscuro. As they closed on the second mile, Justin shouted, “Wait! I noticed ruts near here on my way over. Sheep prints, too.”

  They reined in to a trot until the obvious place of crossing came into view. Oscuro pranced about as Whitby studied the road. “Someone must have had to stop for them. A car, not a carriage, given the width of the ruts.”

  But the only tire tracks going through them were those of his Rolls-Royce, along with one set from a carriage. He nudged Tempesta forward, across the sheep prints. “Whit.”

  Whitby came up beside him, his gaze following Justin’s. Off the road, following the two muddy tracks through the grass and to one of the copses of trees that marked the edge of pastureland. They both urged the horses to follow them, Justin’s gut going tighter with every hoof fall. He knew, even before he caught sight of the bumper gleaming in the weak sunlight. Even before he saw the familiar black paint of the Eden roadster.

  “No.” The word tore from Whitby’s throat with even more panic than had saturated the curse. The eyes he turned on Justin were tortured. “They’ve taken her.”

  The no beat an echo in Justin’s head, in his chest. He clenched his hands around the reins. “We’ll find her. They’ve less than an hour on us. She is well. She’s a fighter, she’s bright.”

  But she was a fighter—and sometimes fighting could get a body killed.

  Whitby turned Oscuro back to the road. “Constable. Hounds to pick up her scent. And while they’re doing that, we’re going to the Rushworths’. If they are back from London, then we have our answer.”

  They went first to see the constable, then back onto their horses and through Eden Dale, heading southward toward Azerley Hall for about half an hour before Whitby motioned Justin left at a fork, rather than right. It took another fifteen minutes before the villages and farms parted to reveal an old manor house situated well off the road. Not all that grand compared to Whitby Park or Ralin Castle, though it looked well maintained and had a stunning profusion of flower gardens.

  Their approach didn’t go unnoticed. They had no sooner dismounted before the front doors than Lord Rushworth emerged from the garden to the right, confusion in his brows. “Lord Whitby. Duke. What an unexpected pleasure. I was about to have tea—would you care to join me?”

  Whitby looked more inclined to throttle him. “Where is she?”

  The question in Rushworth’s eyes only deepened. “I’m sorry—who? My sister?”

  “My daughter.”

  Now the man’s eyes went blank. “My lord, I haven’t seen the baroness since I was in London. Why would I know her whereabouts now?”

  Whitby’s fingers had curled into a fist—a feeling Justin knew well, though now a strange calm possessed him. He put a hand on Whitby’s shoulder and stepped forward. “Forgive us, my lord. We came here on a whim. We were not even expecting you to be at home. I would have thought you and your sister would stay in London throughout the Season.”

  Now the man’s face went tight. “Kitty wanted the wedding to be here.”

  “Wedding.” Whitby said the word as if it were actually a funeral.

  And given that she had married Pratt, that comparison wasn’t far off, by Justin’s estimation.

  A bit of color stole into Rushworth’s face. “It was Sunday. There was … a bit of a rush.”

  A picture formed in Justin’s mind’s eye … and he didn’t much like it. “So Pratt is back in Yorkshire too? Or di
d they go to the Continent for a honeymoon?” Please, Lord …

  “Kitty wanted to settle at Delmore.”

  He exchanged a glance with Whitby. Lady Catherine—or rather, Lady Pratt—was the one blatantly pursuing the Fire Eyes. Had she filled Pratt’s ears with the tales of them as well? Greedy, base, selfish, cruel-minded Pratt on the trail of priceless red diamonds?

  “Wait.” Rushworth raised a hand and backed up a step. “Is the baroness missing? And you think we have something to do with it?”

  Whitby pointed a finger at the man’s chest. “Your sister came to my house and demanded the Fire Eyes. She threatened my daughter. And then your uncle was murdered in his room the very day he came to tell us about them. Will you try and tell me you have nothing to do with it?”

  “I swear to you, my lord—you’re mistaken.” Rushworth backed up another step. “Yes, Kitty was enamored with the tales our mother told of the diamonds. But we would never hurt anyone over such trifles.”

  Whitby advanced, seeming to tower over the younger man though he couldn’t be more than an inch taller. “And your father? Will you tell me he did not threaten my wife, that fear of him did not send her into the night with our daughter when he learned Henry sent the jewels to her?”

  At that, Rushworth froze. “I cannot speak to my father’s actions.” Slowly, his raised hands sank. “Though heaven knows he was not a gentle man. I would not put such things past him.”

  Justin didn’t want to feel any compassion for this man, not when all fingers still pointed to his sister and Pratt as being behind their trouble. But digging up the feud from a generation past wouldn’t help them now. What they needed to do was get to Delmore. “Whit.”

  “Right.” Whitby pivoted, his face granite. “Shall we give our congratulations to the happy couple, Duke?”

  Justin nodded, though he held Rushworth’s gaze for a long moment. The man had to know what his sister was, had to know the kind of man she had married. He had to—yet he looked back at him evenly, without a flinch, without any indication that he considered the whole story of the Fire Eyes to be more than a fairy tale.

  Spinning back to Tempesta, Justin let it churn around in his mind. And spoke only once they were outside the gates. “Do you believe him?”

  “Not for a moment.”

  “Do you think him involved?”

  Whitby hissed out a breath. “I don’t know. He has always struck me as more a shadow than a man. But at the least, I don’t think Brook is here. I know this house, these grounds, and there would be no good place to hide her.”

  Justin shifted in his saddle. “And Delmore? How well do you know it?”

  Whitby’s silence lasted three beats too long. “Not well enough.”

  Deirdre woke to darkness and a pounding head. A groan slipped out as she tried to sit up. Her wrists hurt, her shoulder was sore, and her mouth was parched.

  “Deirdre—are you awake?”

  “Lady Berkeley?” No, no, that wasn’t right. Deirdre should be on her way to Kilkeel, and her ladyship should be in Yorkshire. But this dark space didn’t rock as a train should. And it smelled of damp earth and mold.

  “Yes. Here, I have some water.”

  She heard rustling, shifting, and then a hand groped at her shoulder. Deirdre reached up, and her fingers closed around a canteen. Eagerly she raised it to her lips. The water was fresh and cool, and with its touch came a few snippets of memory.

  Running to the ticket counter. Being pulled to the other side of it, a gun barrel pressed to her back. Pratt.

  She handed the canteen back before her shudder could spill it. “He got you too. Oh, my lady, I’m so sorry. I had no idea he—”

  “This isn’t your fault. He set it all up. We couldn’t have known. He sent the telegram, he was lying in wait, he had his flocks ready to block the road whenever I came back.”

  Deirdre squeezed her eyes shut, though doing so didn’t change the darkness a whit. “You shouldn’t have driven me.” But at least Mum wasn’t ill—the one spot of good in it all. He had said so when he pressed the gun to her back.

  “He said he would have taken me on my next ride, if I hadn’t—and would have shot Oscuro to do so.” The baroness’s hands found hers and gripped them. “We are in this together, Deirdre. There is no room for regrets.”

  Deirdre clung to those strong fingers. “Where are we?”

  “He put a hood over my head a few minutes after I roused from the chloroform, but I think we’re at Delmore. Some sort of cellar?”

  It made no sense. His interest had been in Whitby Park, in marrying the baroness—how would kidnapping them help him attain that? She shook her head—and immediately regretted it when the ache turned to a slicing pain. A whimper escaped, and then the baroness’s arm came around her shoulders.

  “I’m the one who owes you an apology, Deirdre.” Her hand rubbed over Deirdre’s shoulder. “He wants the diamonds.”

  She didn’t know what diamonds her ladyship meant—and it didn’t much matter. “Well, if you know where these diamonds are, you mustn’t tell him. Sure and he’ll kill us once you do. He can’t let us go, not without bringing the law upon himself. He’s too smart not to know that.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “He’s heartless. A devil. Put nothing past him.”

  “I—”

  Noise from the right silenced them. A clanging, a scraping, and then sudden light blinded her and made the pain slice again. Wincing, Deirdre turned her face into the baroness’s shoulder and blinked until the brightness wasn’t so harsh to her eyes.

  “Ah, good. We’re all awake.” The door slammed shut, and a lamp came to a rest on a table across the room.

  No—an old desk. And the room didn’t have the earthen walls she had expected, but stone ones. There was even a space that must have once been a window, now filled with bricks. Not a cellar, then.

  Pratt pulled the chair away from the desk. It, as opposed to everything else in here, looked solid and somewhat new. He sat and hooked an ankle over the opposite knee. The easy pose bore a marked contrast to the gun he kept pointed at them. “Now then. Ready to chat, my lady?”

  Her ladyship lifted her chin and somehow managed to look regal even here, on the floor. “Oh, quite. This ought to be interesting. Do tell me, my lord, why you think you have any claim to the Fire Eyes.”

  The Fire Eyes—those she had certainly heard the baroness and Whitby discussing, though she hadn’t ever heard they were diamonds.

  Pratt’s nasty little smile curved his lips. “I forget how little you know of family history. My father was Henry Rushworth’s dearest friend.”

  The baroness’s face shifted, though only slightly. “He is the one who introduced my mother to Aunt Mary.”

  “And by extension, your father—for which ol’ Hank never forgave him. Leastways, not until he came home from India in need of help in peddling a few jewels. Then he was all gracious words and generous offers to whomever would help him get rid of the things.” He motioned with the gun. “Even shares, he said. A third to my father, a third to his brother, a third for himself.”

  Deirdre rubbed at her wrists. They were chafed and red and had obviously been bound. “But that makes no sense. Why would he promise away so much of his profit, when they were in his possession?”

  Pratt narrowed his eyes on her. “Desperation, my lovely, can make one do stupid things.”

  “And I suppose you have proof of this. Documentation. Evidence of a legal, binding agreement.” The baroness folded her hands in her lap. Mud marred the walking dress Deirdre had chosen for her that morning.

  Pratt put his second foot down and leaned forward. “I have my father’s word.”

  “Is it worth more than his son’s?”

  At the fury that snapped through his eyes, Deirdre tried to squeak out a warning. When he lunged for the baroness, she tried to scrabble before her to provide a barrier. All she achieved for her efforts was another blow to her head that sent her
reeling. The baroness still ended up trapped between Pratt and an old trunk. Her ladyship was bent backward at an angle that looked painful, his gun pressed to the hollow beneath her jaw.

  “My father died for those gems! When Henry ran back to India like the coward he was, when he sent them to your mother, when he forced my father to renege on the deal he had struck with his buyer, he was killed. Murdered! If anyone has a right to them, it’s me.” He pushed her harder against the trunk. “I tried to do this the friendly way. All you had to do was marry me—then I could have searched for the jewels at Whitby Park at my leisure. So simple. But you’re as stubborn and haughty as the rest of your family.”

  The baroness didn’t shake, didn’t quake, didn’t waver. She smiled. “You never would have found them. Not in a million years.”

  “Oh, but you would have. You with your mother’s face—the major would have told you where he’d hidden them. And he did, didn’t he? He told you how he sent them to her … though I suspect he left out the part of how his own greed made him betray his brother and his oldest friend.”

  “Greed and betrayal played a crucial role in his tale, actually.”

  Deirdre pushed herself back up, cursing the weakness in her limbs, the pain in her skull. She needed to help—but what could she do? If she tried to knock him away, he could very well shoot the baroness.

  Indeed, he pressed the gun harder into her throat. “And now he’s given them to you. Tried to sign them over to you, ignoring the first deal he’d struck. Forgetting his own brother, his friend, and the legacy their children ought to be receiving.”

  Now the baroness’s eyes slid shut. “You’re the one. You’re the one who killed him.”

  “Blood for blood—his for my father’s.”

  Deirdre’s stomach twisted so hard she had to pull her knees to her chest to try to ease the pain. If she needed any more proof that he’d never let them out of this alive …