The Lost Heiress

by Roseanna M. White

  Not that Papa or Justin would ever believe that even if she did want to try it—she never got lost. But anything that would get her out.

  Pratt chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m not quite so stupid, darling, but good try. Let’s try this instead though—you tell me where you’ve stashed them, and we send Deirdre in to get them. She can claim another message was waiting for her, saying her mother had recovered. Then everyone lives.”

  “Except that I’ll be trapped here. I cannot make that deal, Pratt. You need to offer better incentive.” She stood, knowing she had better move her legs while she had the light. He would no doubt take it out with him again.

  She made it all of three steps before he’d come up behind her and clamped an arm around her waist.

  “Now, darling, it wouldn’t be so bad. I’d give you a fine room. Lovely clothes. Books. You like those, don’t you?” He trailed his nose along the side of her face, from temple to cheek. “And you’d come to like me. I’d show you what a … generous man I can be. You wouldn’t want to leave. I’ve already sent your father a note saying you’ve run off with a performer you knew in Monaco, and I’ll let you write him from time to time. I’d have to approve the letters, of course, but he needn’t think you dead.”

  A quaver formed in her stomach. Not so much at his words as at the way his hand slid down her hip. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  She’d meant it to come out strong, daring. It hadn’t.

  His chuckle mocked her attempt. “You seem to be under the delusion that you have room to bargain. But I’m afraid that ship has long since sailed. Now, had you told us where you’d hidden them when my rough-edged compatriot asked you in the stables—”

  “You said it wasn’t you!” Deirdre had apparently sat up at some point. She looked on now with horrified eyes.

  Pratt’s hand pressed harder against Brook’s hip. “No, my lovely. I said I didn’t hire him to scare her so that I could play the hero. I assure you, that was never my intent. Though I also gave the bloke strict instructions not to kill her, and he seemed to have forgotten that one. What I get for hiring riffraff, I suppose.”

  Brook tried to swallow, though her throat didn’t want to work. She had thought it Lady Catherine … but they were in this together all the time, it seemed. “I didn’t even know what the Fire Eyes were. How was I to—”

  “You found out quickly enough, though, didn’t you?” He drew away, but before she could take advantage of it, he shoved.

  She landed with a crash of rusty springs back onto the cot.

  He stood before her, a dark blot against the lamplight. “Sent your duke to India after the information. Though you must have been clever about how he was to get it back to you. I couldn’t figure out any of his letters. Did you set up some kind of code?”

  “Quoi?” He was mad. Stark, raving mad.

  “No doubt you were furious when he got back—thinking he hadn’t written.” A chuckle rumbled out, cruel and low. “Did you think he wanted to keep it all for himself? But no—he wanted you too. That’s why he brought you to England in the first place, wasn’t it? Set you up as Whitby’s lost heiress so he could marry you and make a fortune in the process.”

  Her fingers curled over the rough, rusted edge of the cot’s frame.

  Pratt stepped close and then closer, plunging a hand into her hair, which had long ago come loose from its chignon. “And oh, how angry he must have been to come back and find you all but engaged to Worthing, while he was away digging up your secrets for you. Is that why the two of you could do nothing but fight after his return? Did you not want him anymore, my darling? I can’t say as I blame you. He was always a self-righteous, condescending—”

  “He is not!”

  “Ah.” His hand wrapped around her hair, too tightly, and pulled her head back. “So you do still have feelings for him. Well, that makes this next part even more fun. Give me the diamonds, Brook, or he’ll be the first one I kill.”

  No. Her blood froze, her fingers released their hold on the cot. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He daren’t.

  “Jenkins was so easy—and I was even applauded for it.” He twisted her hair even tighter. “Henry—he was necessary. But Stafford … Stafford would be a genuine pleasure. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll put a bullet through his skull or a knife through his heart.”

  “No.” Her voice, blast it, came out weak and desperate. “You can’t. If you keep killing everyone connected with this, you’ll get caught.”

  His laugh said otherwise. “Oh, but no one would know. He would get a wire saying he’s needed abroad, and off he’d go. No one would think anything of it for a year or more, and by then, who would link it to me? Everyone knows the duchy comes first for him. No one would question it if he disappeared to tend it.”

  Releasing her abruptly, he straightened. “Your father, on the other hand—he’s too much a fixture in these parts. His death will have to look like an accident. Simple enough, really. The brakes could fail in his car. Or he could be tossed from that wild horse of yours. But he will certainly be next, after the duke.”

  He turned, pacing toward Deirdre. “And then, if you still refuse to talk, you’ve an aunt. A pregnant cousin. And that fiery one that Cayton tossed over—though he’s a friend, and he still loves her even though his wedding is only a fortnight away, so I had better save her for last. But then …” He turned back to face her. “I don’t think it will take that long. Do you?”

  Though she refused to shut her eyes, she wanted to. She wanted to shake, to cry, to scream—or to lunge for him and wring his neck. She wanted, needed to think him bluffing.

  But Henry Rushworth lay in a fresh grave beside his brother. And Jenkins in a pauper’s one, not far off.

  Her life for theirs—that was what he was proposing. She must give him the diamonds or everyone she loved would be killed.

  Lord! She wanted to believe He had some better alternative. Where, though? How? She thought—perhaps, maybe—she heard His quiet Trust me in the recesses of her spirit. But the fear clanged so much louder.

  A weight settled beside her on the cot, and Deirdre’s arm slid around her. “Don’t give up, my lady,” she whispered into her ear. Then, louder, “Give her time to consider, my lord.”

  Pratt’s chuckle moved toward the door. “A few hours, and I’ll leave the full lamp. But no food. No water. Not until you sing for me, my little chanteuse.” He withdrew a leather-bound book from his jacket pocket, dropped it onto the worn surface of the desk. “Incentive—and a reminder of what we’re capable of.”

  The click of the door a moment later sounded like canon fire to her ears.

  Deirdre smoothed back Brook’s hair. “He’s bluffing.”

  “He’s not. He’s already killed.” She stood and slid over to the desk, her eyes going wide. The journal—Maman’s journal, the one she had bemoaned as lost all this time. “How did he … ?”

  “My fault. My first crime against you.” Deirdre appeared at her side, that familiar apology in her eyes. “I thought … I thought it would disprove your story, but I couldn’t read the French.”

  It hardly mattered now. “My father and Justin will be working with the constable—they won’t believe that note he said he sent.”

  Deirdre nodded. “They’ll be surrounded by people, searching for you, everyone will know what they’re doing. He can’t make His Grace disappear.”

  She wanted to believe that. Wanted to hope.

  But the lamp he left couldn’t fend off the darkness. She clutched the journal to her chest and squeezed her eyes closed.

  Thirty

  Whitby Park had never been exactly boisterous whenever Justin had visited, aside from at the house party. But that morning as he made his way down the stairs, it seemed downright melancholy—which suited his mood well. Sleep hadn’t come, or not for long. He had lain there praying most of the night. Eventually he had given up and had risen, switched on a lamp, and pulled out the Bible that Peters had
packed for him.

  He’d left a marker in the Psalms at some point or another, and that was where he’d turned. His eyes had found the ninety-seventh one:

  The Lord reigneth; let the earth rejoice; let the multitude of isles be glad thereof.

  Clouds and darkness are round about him: righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his throne.

  A fire goeth before him, and burneth up his enemies round about.

  His lightnings enlightened the world: the earth saw, and trembled.

  The hills melted like wax at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the Lord of the whole earth.

  The heavens declare his righteousness, and all the people see his glory.

  Testimony of the Lord’s greatness, His power. Assurance that the God of the universe was Lord of this too. Justin’s part was to trust, to tremble. To cling to the promise that they were not of the darkness but children of light.

  He paused at the base of the stairs. Breakfast room? He nearly headed that way, but he suspected Whitby wouldn’t be there. He’d taken no dinner last night, though Mrs. Doyle and Mr. Graham had both cajoled him. The chef claimed he couldn’t pray without cooking, and so food had been prepared.

  Perhaps the staff had eaten it; Justin hadn’t either and couldn’t now. He angled his feet instead for the hall that would take him to the library.

  Whitby stood by the glass doors, looking out at the early morning sunshine. At Justin’s entrance, the older man acknowledged him with a partial turn of his head. “She said, the first time she came into this room, that if ever she went missing, I should look for her here.”

  A smile bade for leave to touch Justin’s lips. He let it, though it no doubt looked as sorrowful as it felt. He moved to Whitby’s side and shoved his hands into his pockets. “We’ll find her.”

  “We must. I already lost Lizzie to the greed for these diamonds, though she never even knew she had them. I’ll not lose Brook to them. Not again.”

  “We’ll find her.” If he said it often enough, perhaps the doubts and fears would flee in the face of the must. “Then your biggest concern will be whether or not to grant us your blessing.”

  Whitby’s chuckle had little mirth in it. “And yours will be learning to tolerate your father-in-law spending months of every year at your home.”

  “I’ve rooms enough, I suppose.” And it warmed him, to think that Whitby would be willing to spend part of his time in Gloucestershire.

  The earl drew a deep breath in through his nose, his hands clasped behind his back. “Looking back … I cannot fathom how I spent all those years without her. How the hole of her absence didn’t swallow me up. Finding her has made my life so full.”

  “I know.” Justin didn’t know what else to say.

  And needed to say no more. Whitby breathed a shaky laugh and nodded toward the door. Or rather, toward the disheveled man striding toward it.

  Any other day, seeing Worthing with his tie askew, his clothes rumpled, and his hair mussed would have inspired serious jesting. Today he settled for opening the French doors.

  Worthing charged through, his eyes absent any amusement this morning. “No one opened the front door, so I made a guess. What’s wrong? Something’s wrong. I’ve had the worst feeling the whole way here—and frankly, several hours before I got your cryptic call.”

  Justin nodded to Whitby. “Told you he was uncanny.”

  Whitby sighed. “She’s missing. Kidnapped, it must be. We suspect Pratt.”

  Justin stepped to his side. “But we have a plan.”

  They explained it, along with the telegram and letters that had thrown the constable, and as they did, Worthing’s expression went from outrage to determination. By the time they finished their ideas concerning the press, he was nodding. “I can help with that.”

  “That was our hope.” Justin would have said more, but Mr. Graham chose that moment to enter with the constable.

  The official looked none too happy, though he made an effort to smile when introductions were made to Worthing. Still, he turned without any more small talk to Whitby. “The magistrate wouldn’t order a search warrant for Delmore, my lord. I dispatched an officer to the telegraph station at the next town, and he was able to verify that a young blond woman, well dressed, sent the telegraph yesterday afternoon.”

  Justin folded his arms over his chest. “It couldn’t have been Brook.” But Pratt’s new wife looked much like her—where had she been yesterday?

  The constable inclined his head. “I don’t disbelieve you, Your Grace, given what you told me of your conversation with her at the abbey. But without a warrant, we cannot do anything but pay Pratt a friendly visit—which I suggest we do. Let’s go as we would to any other neighbor and ask them all to be on the lookout for her. My cousin at Delmore has promised to keep watch for anything abnormal and report it to me.”

  Whitby drew the constable toward the table, where a slew of paper and fountain pens had been set up. “We’ve another plan as well, involving the press.”

  The constable nodded as Whitby laid it out for him.

  Worthing passed a hand through his hair—the cause of the mussing, it seemed—and stepped nearer to Justin. “You spoke to her yesterday?”

  His chest tightened and he nodded. “Just before. She found me at the abbey, and we … It was raining. I changed into dry clothes and headed here immediately, so I could speak to Whit. I wasn’t that far behind her. If only I had gone with her …”

  “Don’t.” Worthing’s hand gripped his shoulder.

  “He wouldn’t have been able to take her if I had been there.”

  “Or else he would have shot you and taken her anyway, and it would have been hours before Whitby knew what had happened.” Worthing shook his head, his eyes intent. “Or even if it discouraged him from acting then, he would have found her another time. When she was out for one of her rides or on another drive or … She would have insisted on being alone at some point—you know it as well as I. And he would have been ready to pounce, whenever that was.”

  At least this way, they realized it almost immediately. Perhaps Worthing was right, that it was better than the alternative.

  Worthing removed his hand, sighed, and focused his gaze on nothing. He had circles under his eyes and lines of weariness around them. “Evil men flourish. The righteous suffer. The Lord never promises we won’t—only that He’ll sustain us when the tribulation comes.”

  Justin shook his head. “You are uncanny. You know that, right?”

  Worthing’s grin made a showing—brief and muted. “She’ll be glad to see you and I are friends.”

  “When we find her.”

  “We’ll find her.”

  But the nagging fear wouldn’t be banished. “I pray it’s in time. He can’t mean to let her go. If it’s Pratt, if she knows it’s him … he must plan to kill her once she’s told him where the diamonds are.”

  Worthing inclined his head. “Then we pray the Lord stops her lips.”

  “Gentlemen.” Whitby, standing by the library table, motioned them over. “We need to get this drafted for the press with all speed. And then to Delmore.”

  The writing went quickly, with Worthing acting as scribe. No doubt some of the papers would alter it here and there, but this would be what they sent over the wire, and this would rouse every able body to search for her.

  Including, he prayed, the able bodies at Delmore.

  They bolstered themselves with tea and caffe espresso and then headed, all of them somber-faced, outside.

  Because the constable and Worthing both warned that the roads were yet all but unpassable to anything wheeled, they opted for horses. When the grooms brought them out, Whitby handed Justin the reins for Oscuro.

  It nearly choked him up. He patted the quivering midnight shoulder and stroked the beast’s strong neck. “Let’s go find Brook, boy. Allons-y.”

  The horse tossed his head in what Justin chose to interpret as eager agreement.

 
; Little conversation was exchanged along the way. But he could take some comfort in the size of their entourage, what with the constable’s men and the mass of Whitby Park servants who followed behind on foot to fan out and search for any sign of their baroness.

  They would find her. They must.

  Unease crawled over his skin like spiders when Whitby led them down the lane marked with posts reading DELMORE. Heath gave way to pastures full of fluffy sheep only weeks away from shearing and horses grazing in their paddocks. Copses of trees, rising hills, and on the horizon a bluff that would tumble into the sea. Salt tinged the air when the breeze whistled by. The land, being so close to Whitby Park, ought to have seemed familiar.

  But it didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel peaceful. Didn’t feel lovely and welcoming, as Brook’s home had from the moment he first rode up the drive to see if perhaps she belonged there.

  Oscuro either sensed his discomfort or felt the oppression himself—he shied, whinnied, nearly sidestepped into Tempesta. Justin brought him back under control with a firm rein and quick French.

  The constable, as they neared the carriage house, nodded toward the copse of trees behind the building and the rickety old carriage that sat in high, dried grass. “I went right round the back last night to find Antony, so I didn’t notice that. But look. Ruts leading to it, and the grass is flattened. Not to mention that it looks entirely too clean for what must be an unused antique. And what cause, do you think, would he have for taking it out?”

  A most excellent question—one that made those invisible spiders race over Justin’s skin again.

  She was here, somewhere. She had to be. Lord, let her know we’re coming. We’re close. We’re going to find her.

  They must have made a fairly impressive picture as they all dismounted and climbed the steps up to the door—the three gentlemen and five officers. The mighty wooden slab opened before they could even ring, and a perplexed butler stood before them.

  His gaze locked on Whitby’s face, which he no doubt recognized. “My lord. Do come in. Is something the matter?”

  “Something is very much the matter.” Whitby strode past the butler, the rest of them following in his wake. “My daughter is missing. Please fetch Lord Pratt at once, and assemble the staff. We need all available men out looking for her.”