The Lost Heiress

by Roseanna M. White

  A scratching reached her ears halfway down. She paused, the sound bringing her awake a bit more. Mice? A rat? Her pulse hammered at the thought. She lifted the lamp, though she saw no evidence of the rodent. But sure and it was the sound of claw on wood at the end of the hall.

  It stopped. Then came again, louder. She squealed, though quick as a flash she clamped a hand over her mouth.

  The scratching stopped. And in its place came … a hiss? Did rats hiss? No, wait—that was words! Praise be to the Almighty. Someone was at the door!

  “I’m coming.” Her voice came out the barest whisper, but she hoped whoever it was could hear her. Tremors possessed her by the time she reached the door. What if it was a trick? Did Pratt doubt her? Was he testing her?

  It was a risk she had to take. “Is someone there?”

  “Bless my soul!” came the muted reply. “I didn’t hear awry, then. Who is in there? Is this the baroness?”

  Someone knew! Deirdre pressed close against the door, her mouth at the crack. “Aye! I mean, not I, but I’m her maid, and she’s in here too. Do you work for Pratt?”

  “Much to my dismay—but I’m cousin to the constable, and he told me to be on the lookout. I was seeing to repairs outside this wing and heard the screaming. Took me all night to find the hall what corresponded. Are ye well in there?”

  She splayed her fingers against the wood. “Nay. I’m well enough, but the baroness is hurt. He struck her in the head, and she’s not woken for so very long. I don’t know what to do.”

  A shuffling sound reached her, one that went away from the door and then back. “He’s coming. We haven’t much time. But he’s joining the search this morning, ordered his horse to be ready at eight. He’ll be away. Two hours’ time. I’ll get you out, somehow or another. Aye?”

  “Aye! Aye.” Two hours. She didn’t know how she’d gauge it, but she knew answered prayer when it scratched. The constable’s own cousin—praise be to heaven. He could help her carry the baroness out, help them sneak from the house. Then it would only be a matter of getting her the miles back to Whitby Park.

  Heaven help her—how was she to do that, if her ladyship didn’t awaken?

  She would worry with that later. For now she rushed back to the cell, where the baroness lay as she’d left her. Golden curls tucked beside her, soiled gown half covered by the ratty blanket. Hands limp and useless at her side, with Pratt’s blood still staining her nails.

  The distant creak of the door echoed down the hall. Footsteps. And then a curse. “Blast it, Deirdre—why the devil is the door open?”

  She spun, her fists at her sides. And took what was likely a sinful amount of pleasure in seeing the angry welts on his face, the bruises and cuts. “And what harm can it possibly do, when she hasn’t so much as twitched a finger since you struck her? She needs a doctor.”

  “A doctor would do nothing but wave smelling salts under her nose.” Apparently doubting her word, he strode to the cot. Cursed again when the truth spoke for itself. “Idiot woman, forcing my hand.”

  Never in her life had she been so tempted to strike a gentleman and add another mark to his once-beautiful face. She would do it, too, if the baroness didn’t need her to keep his trust. But the words … the words came forth of their own volition. “You call her stupid? How did you expect her to react when you come barreling in here and tell her you’ve killed the man she loves?”

  He jerked toward her, looking ready to bite. Then, with a low mutter she couldn’t discern, he knelt down and pressed a finger to her ladyship’s neck. “Her pulse is still strong—she cannot be too hurt. She will wake up soon, and when she does, the door had better be locked. And you had better be ready to get answers from her.”

  He stood straight again and strode for the door. Deirdre followed him out—closing the door behind her. “Sure and I will be, if she awakens. And what if she doesn’t? Or what if you’re arrested for killing the duke? Will you let us die of thirst?”

  He’d left a lamp at the end of the hall. Its light outlined the hard angle of his brows. “I won’t be. I did nothing but defend myself.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up, Deirdre, or I swear I’ll lay you out along with her.”

  Never, in the year she’d known him, had she seen his nerves so frayed, his temper so close to the surface. Perhaps, devil though he was, he hadn’t been prepared for the effects of his own actions. Perhaps he staggered under the weight of his sins. Perhaps … perhaps he realized he’d dug himself too deep a pit.

  She followed him into the other open chamber, where a new tray had taken up residence on the table.

  He motioned to the bread, the cheese, the ham, the pitcher of water. “That ought to keep you alive, don’t you think?”

  She folded her arms over her chest. It was more than he usually brought—which meant he intended not to be back by the midday meal, she would guess. And also, praise God, that there would be plenty for both of them when the baroness awoke.

  “Well then.” He turned to the door.

  “Wait.” She didn’t know what she meant to say, only that she wanted to prick at him. Needle him in whatever way she could. She lifted her chin. “If thirst doesn’t kill me, boredom might, while I wait for her ladyship to flutter her lashes. Have you a book in this house of yours? One written in English?”

  One she could actually read to her ladyship, that didn’t speak of the horrors that had brought them here?

  Pratt snorted, though not with amusement. He stood stock-still for a moment and then reached into his jacket pocket. Pulled out a newspaper, still crisply folded and bound with twine, and threw it to the floor. “Don’t get the pages out of order—I’ll want to read it later.” Not awaiting her response, he hurried out. Though he did toss over his shoulder, “And lock the blasted door!”

  Thirty-Two

  Thunder roared, lightning sizzled, and darkness consumed her. Fear nipped, making a cry want to tear from her throat.

  But her throat wouldn’t work. Brook couldn’t make her body obey the command to run, flee, get away from the danger behind her.

  Then the words began. Some in French—Maman’s words, but in Brook’s own voice as she read the pages of the journal, softly. Some in English, filling in the gaps.

  Pratt and Rushworth had told Mother that Papa was dead—and that Brook was next. That’s what had sent her out into the night, into the storm. Why she had the letters from Papa with her … and why she was wearing the pearls and gold she had thought were the last gift she would ever receive from him. When the storm raged, when the carriage tipped …

  That was where Maman’s journal had begun. With watching the accident from the distance and rushing up. Hearing the wail of a baby. The groans of a dying woman—the driver was already dead. She recorded Mother’s words, her pleas to take the babe, her Elizabeth Brook, and see her to safety. Somewhere far away, she said.

  She had no one left in England. Her husband was dead, and her family … How was she to know whom of her family she could trust, when it was a cousin who had done this to her?

  In the darkness, Brook felt tears gather. How alone Mother must have felt in those last moments. Giving away her child, mourning the husband she didn’t realize would soon be mourning her. Thinking her whole family turned against her.

  Collette recorded her own fears too—suddenly having a child she didn’t know how to care for. Fearing that whatever had sent the woman to her death would chase after her if she took the child … but being unable to leave the babe to the elements. She’d found nothing on the lady to offer identification—no doubt purposeful on Mother’s part, if she were running away. But she took what she could for the baby. The box of letters. The necklace.

  And she had devised the best plan she could come up with for seeing to the girl’s future. She went to the man she’d been involved in an affair with a year before—Prince Louis of Monaco.

  Prince Louis, who had never wanted to be Brook’s father. Who had never loved
her, never accepted her. But Grand-père had. Grand-père, always at odds with his son, had believed Maman’s story. Had arranged for their care. Their flat. Had promised to provide for Brook’s education.

  No wonder Maman had made him promise never to tell her. To destroy the journal with the story written inside it. She no doubt feared that if Brook ever returned to England, the violence would find her as it had her mother.

  And so it had.

  Her fingers curled into the damp mattress, closing around something warm and hard. Metallic. Her fingertips ran over it, tracing its contours … slipping into it. A convulsion rippled through her. Not just Maman and Mother. Justin, too, was gone.

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the darkness. They were all gone.

  Brook tried to sit, but her head pounded too hard, and her limbs all felt so heavy. How could she feel so tired, and yet as if she hadn’t moved in an eternity?

  She used her fingertips to turn the large ring of gold around her finger. If Justin were here, he would prod her. Poke her if necessary, but he wouldn’t let her lie about. He wouldn’t let her weep away her life. He wouldn’t let Pratt win. He’d tell her to get up and fight.

  She didn’t want to fight. It hurt. And what was the point? Pratt had already won, had avenged his father’s death, had taken what mattered most. Why fight anymore over the diamonds? Why should anyone else lose their lives over the Fire Eyes?

  “A fire goeth before him, and burneth up his enemies round about …”

  “Mon Dieu.” She opened her eyes again, and the lamp seemed brighter than it had before. “Are you here in this? You must be, because you promise you are. But I can’t feel you now. I can’t see you.”

  “His lightnings enlightened the world.”

  She shuddered. The lightning had always been there, hand in hand with the darkness. They had seemed, somehow, of the enemy, not of God. But He was the author of that story. It was from His treasury that the winds came. By His hand that night overtook day.

  By His command that they died?

  No. “Ye are all the children of light, and the children of the day.”

  Men made their own choices. And as some of them chose life, others chose death, chose evil. God could stop all the evil, all the violence, but if He did, He’d be rendering their choices for Him meaningless. But God did have a hand in this world. He was the one who had brought Brook home. Back to Papa. He was the one who had led her that day to Justin, in the abbey. He had led them to reconciliation before Pratt found her.

  She must praise Him for that. Papa was right. The hurt was unfathomable, the hole gaping. But it would have been even worse if they had still been at odds.

  And she knew, with every fiber of her being, that Justin would tell her to buck up. To mourn later. To focus, now, on beating Pratt. Getting free, somehow. Finding justice for him … and gathering close what family she had left. As William had taught him.

  Gritting her teeth with every contraction of muscle, she pushed herself up.

  “My lady!” The door’s squeak must have blended with the cot’s—but Deirdre flew through it and was on her in a moment, scarcely taking time to put down the tray in her hands before pulling Brook close in a hug so exuberant it made her head throb. “You’re awake! Praise be to God, you’re awake!”

  She pushed aside the pain and squeezed Deirdre back. “What day is it?”

  “You’ve been out almost an entire day, and sure and you scared a decade off my life.”

  “Sorry.” Brook pulled away and managed what she hoped was a smile. She gripped her friend’s hands. “We need to get out of here. Somehow, some way. We’ll lie in wait at the end of the hall if we must, and spring on him when next he comes, but—”

  Deirdre’s laugh, light and a bit incredulous, cut her off. She shook her head. “I knew you would come up with something like that, once you roused. But the Lord has provided. There’s a groundsman what heard your shouting yesterday. He’s coming back in two hours to help us.”

  Brook sagged in relief. “Two hours.”

  “Aye. Enough time to eat and for it to revive us. Here, sit at the desk. You need water right off, and then some food.”

  “You, too, from the looks of you. Have you slept at all?” Brook took slowly, carefully to her feet.

  Deirdre steadied her and then bent for the tray. “You were sleeping enough for the both of us.”

  “You’ll eat and then must rest. You’ll need your strength.”

  “Aye.” Deirdre slid the tray onto the desk and gave her a smile. “It’s good to have you back, my lady.”

  Brook returned the smile and took the chair before her legs gave out. The bread smelled of heaven, and the water that Deirdre poured into a dented tin cup tasted of ambrosia. She took a slow sip, let it settle, and picked up the newspaper. “Really?”

  Deirdre held out her hands, palms up. “I asked him for reading material. Mostly to irritate him, but he tossed that at me.”

  Tugging at the string with one hand, she reached with the other for a slice of cheese. Then she unfolded the paper.

  Her own picture stared back at her. This one was from the night of her debut, but the camera had caught her in an odd moment. She was looking over her shoulder at something, no smile on her lips. Rather, concern etched her brow—had she been wondering, in that moment, where Justin was? Not a picture they would have run then, but now it suited the headline.

  BARONESS BEAUTY KIDNAPPED!

  A startled breath escaped and brought Deirdre to her side. She quickly read through the paragraphs. Her lungs closed off when she reached the fifth one, and she jabbed a finger at it. In an interview given last evening, the Duke of Stafford stood with Lord Whitby and Lord Worthing and pronounced that he would match the reward …

  “What time?” Was it hope that fluttered, or new fear of it being dashed? “What time did Pratt come in with the ring?”

  “Morning.” Deirdre’s fingers dug into her shoulder, but she scarcely felt it. “This had to have been after. He’s alive!”

  A sound came from Brook’s throat that was half laugh, half cry. She pressed a hand to her mouth—the one that still had his ring slung loosely around one finger. “Pratt was lying.”

  Justin was alive—which meant all she had to do was get to him.

  She read the rest of the article as she ate, her heart pounding with every word. The reward her father offered was substantial—and the fact that Justin had offered to match it would make it mighty tempting for anyone who had caught a glimpse of her. They’d done what they could to swing the tide. To win her allies.

  She would use them.

  When they finished eating, she banished a protesting Deirdre to the cot and let the words run through her mind time and again. The Duke of Stafford. Alive and giving quotes to the press. She stood, stretched, paced until her legs didn’t feel so wooden and the tension in her neck eased a bit. She prayed and she praised and she plotted.

  They would have a considerable trek ahead of them, when they got free. They had to be at Delmore, and once the groundsman got them out of the house, she could find her way home easily enough. Find the sun, find the south, and go. Pratt land would lead straight to Eden. She had only to avoid him, and she would be home.

  Then she had to read the article again … and shake her head.

  He had used the same trick on her that his father had used on her mother—and she, too, had fallen for it. Had been mourning one who hadn’t been lost at all … but who would be concerned about losing her.

  Well, it was time for the pattern to reach its end—and for Papa to finally have the answers he’d needed for nearly nineteen years. She retrieved the journal from the floor and made a makeshift sack for it and the canteen.

  Had it been up to Justin alone, they would have been out again the moment dawn streaked the sky. But they had waited for the paper, and he was glad of that too. As he finally strode out into the cool morning air, certainty settled in his chest. They had done right. They
had given her what she needed.

  Even if the magistrate wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t let them search Delmore, they would find her. She would find a way out, find someone to help her, and they would be there when she did.

  “Stafford, Whitby! Wait!”

  Justin paused with one foot on the macadam and the other on the stair. Whitby was ten paces ahead of him, but he turned too.

  Worthing stood at the door, motioning to the footman who had been assigned as his valet. “Tell them, Hiram.”

  Hiram seemed to be clinging to composure by no more than a thread as he waited for Whitby to join them. “Forgive me for not speaking sooner, my lord, but I tried to tell myself it was unrelated.”

  Whitby shook his head. “Speak, Hiram.”

  “It’s Deirdre. She swore she’d wire at every stop, and she hasn’t. I was worried, so yesterday afternoon when the search took me to town, I telegrammed her family. She never arrived in Kilkeel—and what’s more, her mother isn’t sick, they never sent her a message. Pratt must have taken her too.”

  Justin felt his brows pull together. His thumb moved to his ring finger to twist the signet around, but its empty state made him want to utter a few choice words. He’d worry with that later, though. “Why would Pratt take her too?”

  Hiram glanced at Worthing, who gave him a helpful prod forward, his face stern. “Tell them.”

  The footman swallowed. “She’d been giving him information. He’d threatened her family.”

  Whitby pivoted away, muttered something unintelligible, and spun back to him. “Why did she not come to me?”

  Hiram spread his hands. “She sees the mistake now, my lord, which is what’s to the point. She won’t help him in this, though he might think she will. She must be with her ladyship. She’ll help her. I know my DeeDee, and she’ll help her get free.”

  Justin wasn’t so sure about that, but he didn’t know the woman. Whitby, after a long moment of clenched fists and ticking jaw, nodded.

  So then. Justin headed for the stables once more and nearly drew his pistol when he caught sight of the rider who trotted their way.