by Bree Wolf
Before a discussion could ensue, Oliver stepped forward. “Thank you for your support. It is greatly appreciated.”
Lord Ashwood nodded, but did not say another word after that.
As their meeting came to an end, all gentlemen assured that they would speak to their wives as well as hold themselves at the ready for when their assistance would be required. Oliver thanked them once more and then quickly departed, eager to share the good news with his own wife.
When the carriage came to a halt in front of his townhouse, Oliver jumped out, a large smile on his face, and climbed up the steps in eager anticipation. However, when he reached the landing, he was surprised to find the front door ajar, agitated voices drifting through the small gap.
“Where is she?” Henri’s angry voice cut through the air.
“Sir, I would ask you to lower your v–” Dunston mumbled feebly before the Frenchman cut him off with a string of curses.
Pushing open the door, Oliver stepped inside, his gaze drifting from his pale butler to the enraged privateer. “What is going on here?”
Henri’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw was clenched painfully. “She’s gone!” he hissed, glaring at Oliver as though he would like nothing more but to murder him. “And your butler does not have the faintest idea what happened.”
Oliver’s blood turned to ice as he stared at the dark-haired man. “She’s gone?” he stammered, trying to swallow the lump that had suddenly lodged in his throat. “What do you mean, she’s gone?”
Trying to breathe, Oliver found himself near panic. She could not be gone. She would not simply leave, would she? Especially not before the issue with her sister had been resolved. This did not make any sense.
Hands balled into fists, Henri glared at him. “She’s missing,” he clarified, one hand curling around the large knife he carried at his side. “Someone took her, comprenez?”
Oliver’s heart stopped, and panic slammed into him with a devastating blow that almost knocked him off his feet. “Who?” he breathed, then swallowed, his hands clenching into fists as he turned to Dunston. “What happened, Dunston?”
Barely able to meet his master’s eyes, the old butler stammered, “Lady Juliet called and asked for Lady Cullingwood to meet her outside on the front steps.”
Oliver frowned. “That is unusual. Did she give a reason?”
Dunston shook his head. “She did not. However, your wife suspected it had something to do with…,” he swallowed and cast a furtive glance at Henri, “…with Mr. Duret’s presence.”
Henri’s glare narrowed, his muscles tense to the point of breaking that Oliver feared he might do something unwise if he were forced to stand by idly for much longer. The man was clearly desperate to have something to occupy his hands.
Oliver understood the feeling only too well. “Then what happened?” he asked, forcing himself to remain calm while his pulse thudded wildly in his veins.
“I cannot say with certainty,” Dunston replied, an apologetic gleam in his eyes. “After all, it would have been wrong for me to eavesdrop on a private conversation.” His gaze momentarily shifted to Henri, the look on his face one of righteous vindication. “However, sometime later, I found the door ajar, and upon stepping outside, I found neither Lady Cullingwood nor Lady Juliet. I assumed they had bid each other goodbye and that Lady Cullingwood had returned inside.”
“But she did not!” Henri growled out. “She is nowhere to be found.” His jaw clenched, and Oliver could almost hear the man’s teeth grinding together with pent-up tension. “He took her!”
“Now, let’s not be hasty,” Dunston mumbled, wringing his hands as though he wished to sink into the floor. “There is no reason to assume–”
“There is every reason!” Henri snarled, advancing on the old man with such ferocity that Dunston shrank back in fear.
“Enough!” Stepping in front of his butler, Oliver met Henri’s gaze. “What is your reasoning?”
Inhaling slowly, Henri’s gaze held Oliver’s before he finally spoke. “There is only one reason why Lady Juliet would ask Violette to step outside,” he hissed out through gritted teeth. “Someone asked her to do so. Why else would she have done so? Not because of me. No.” Scoffing, he shook his head. Then he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Oliver. “Who would consider her a threat, I ask you? Who would suffer if her identity became known? Who would want her gone?”
Oliver swallowed. “Her father.”
Henri nodded. “Somehow he found out, and he sent the girl here to draw Violette out.” His gaze shifted to Dunston, who all but trembled where he stood. “How did Lady Juliet seem when she asked for Violette?”
Dunston swallowed. “She spoke softly, her gaze averted.” The man’s eyes widened. “She wrung her hands as though nervous. She–”
“There!” Henri said, a touch of dark triumph in his voice. “She was but a pawn.” Raking his hands through his hair, Henri growled. “I should’ve been here. Not locked up in that room for my own safety. What about hers? Now, she’s–”
“There is no use in what-ifs,” Oliver interrupted as he turned on his heel and hastened toward the door. “We need to speak to Lady Juliet. Perhaps she can tell us–” His voice broke off as he yanked open the door and stopped short, his eyes widening as he found his father leisurely climbing up the stoop, a pleased smile on the man’s face.
Oliver could not remember ever having seen the man smile.
That could not be a coincidence, and his blood ran even colder as a nagging suspicion rose in his mind.
“Father,” he said, his voice gruff as he fought the impulse to lunge himself at the man. “What are you doing here?”
His father’s gaze narrowed in displeasure as he stopped in front of Oliver. “Now you do not even observe normal pleasantries?” He shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line, and stepped inside, his gaze narrowing once more as he took note of Henri’s presence. “What has become of you?”
“Where is my wife?” Oliver demanded, slamming the door shut.
At his words, Henri’s gaze darkened and narrowed in on the old man with the walking stick.
“How would I know?” the marquess chuckled. “Would it not be your duty to keep track of your own wife? Are you failing in this as well?”
Although he found himself not in the least affected by his father’s insult, Oliver still had to force a lungful of air into his body at the thought that it had been his own father who had had a hand in Violet’s disappearance. How could he not have seen this coming? Dimly, he recalled the murderous gleam in his father’s eyes as well as his hissed threat when they had crossed paths at Lord Grafton’s ball. Still, he would have thought that even the marquess had limits. That even the marquess recognised certain boundaries.
It would appear not.
Had he acted alone?
“What have you done?” Oliver snarled, advancing on his father, who appeared to possess at least a little bit of sense when he took a step back, a touch of concern in his eyes. “Where is she?”
Gripping his cane, the marquess raised his chin, determination coming to his features. “You will not speak to me with such disrespect,” he snarled in the same condescending tone that had haunted Oliver’s childhood. “I did what I had to do, what you could not. I corrected your mistake. I removed that…woman from our family before she could cause irredeemable harm. I–”
With a growl, Henri lunged himself at the marquess, grabbing him by the front of his tailcoat and slamming him into the wall. “Where is she?” he demanded, his face twisted into an angry snarl.
Groaning, the marquess blinked, momentarily stunned by the way his head had collided with the wall. “How dare you?” he muttered, his cane dropping from his hands as they sought to free himself of the Frenchman’s angry grip.
With a hint of satisfaction, Oliver watched his father’s face. He saw panic crawl into the man’s features, barely hidden by that self-serving haughtiness he portrayed to the world. Then the marquess’s g
aze turned to Oliver. “How can you let him treat me like this?” he demanded, still trying to push Henri off himself. “Where are your loyalties? Never would even I have thought that you would stoop so low as to not even protect your own family.”
Although his blood still burned, Oliver could not help but chuckle as he approached, shaking his head at his father. “You’re quite mistaken, my lord,” he said, his voice cold with derision. “I would give my life to protect my family. The simple reason I am not interfering at this moment is that I do not count you among the members of my family. Quite on the contrary, you are the enemy, and the man demanding to know Violet’s whereabouts is the one deserving of my loyalty…as is she.”
Henri cast him a surprised look, and Oliver could feel a change in their relationship. Although they had been at odds before, it was in this moment that they both seemed to realise that none of their petty differences mattered. All that mattered was Violet as well as the fact that they both loved her.
“Where is she?” Henri growled out once more, his hands tightening on the marquess’s collar. “What did you do?”
Struggling in the Frenchman’s grip, the marquess gasped for breath. “Nothing. I…” Strangled sounds slipped from his throat as his hands clawed at Henri’s arms rather ineffectually.
“Release him,” Oliver said, nodding to Henri, “so he may tell us what he knows.”
Stepping back, Henri dropped his hands and the marquess sank to the floor like a sack of potatoes. One hand closed protectively around the front of his throat while he stared up at them with wide eyes.
“Tell us where she is,” Oliver said, his voice calmer than he would have expected it to be judging from the wild thudding of his heart. Kneeling in front of his father, he fixed him with a measured stare, willing the man to see that he would not be allowed to leave this house without sharing what he knew. “What did you do? Did you speak to Lord Silcox?”
Ever so slightly, the marquess’s head bobbed up and down. “He deserved to know,” he croaked. “After all, she’s his daughter.”
Oliver gritted his teeth at the sudden desire to throttle his father. “And he took her.”
Again, the marquess nodded.
“Why?” Oliver demanded, doubting that Lord Silcox simply wished to be reunited with his daughter. “What does he want with her?” Behind him, he heard Henri pacing the floor like a caged tiger, anger rolling off him in waves, and Oliver knew that he would have to get answers fast before there was nothing he could do to prevent the enraged Frenchman from strangling his father…with or without an answer concerning Violet’s whereabouts.
Devious amusement tugged on the marquess’s lips, and Oliver almost lost his control. “Where is she?” he snarled, grabbing the front of his father’s coat in a similar fashion as Henri had only moments before. “Tell me where she is, or I swear I will end you. Where did he take her?”
The marquess’s eyes widened as he drew in a strangled breath. “Silcox Manor,” he croaked, gulping down a lungful of air when Oliver released him abruptly.
“Let’s go,” he said, and immediately Henri fell into step beside him.
“You’ll never make it in time,” the marquess gasped from the floor. “Silcox has too much to lose and too much of a temper. There is nothing you can do.”
Enraged, Henri spun on his heel, the murderous gleam returning to his eyes. Oliver, however, held him back. “There is no time,” he said calmly, holding the man’s gaze. “She needs us now.”
Gritting his teeth, Henri nodded.
Out of nowhere, Dunston appeared, a new determination in his old eyes. “I’ve taken the liberty of having two horses saddled, my lord.” Then he glanced at the marquess, and a hint of disgust came to the slight curl of his lips. “And I will make certain your guest has left before you and Lady Cullingwood return.”
Surprised, Oliver looked at his butler, pleased to see that the man had finally figured out where his loyalties lay. “Thank you, Dunston.”
“My pleasure, my lord.”
Without wasting another precious moment, Oliver and Henri all but flew out the front door and down the steps toward the waiting horses. Jumping into the saddle, they turned down the street, but stopped when they saw Lady Silcox followed by a distraught Lady Juliet come hastening toward them.
“Lord Cullingwood,” Lady Silcox cried, her face white as she rushed forward, “we need to speak to you. It is most urgent.”
Oliver nodded. “We are aware of your husband’s scheme.”
Lady Juliet’s eyes widened as she came to stand beside her mother. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled, tears streaming down her face. “I never meant for any harm to come to her. You must believe me. I didn’t know.”
Gritting his teeth, Oliver nodded, noticing the way Lady Juliet’s pleading gaze shifted from him to Henri. Her lower lip trembled as she looked at Violet’s cousin, and Oliver wondered yet again what had happened between them in their drawing room only a few days ago.
Henri’s gaze remained hard as he looked at her, unaffected by the pleading young woman. Then he urged his mount down the street.
Oliver kicked his horse’s flanks and took off after him, praying that they would indeed not be too late.
Chapter Thirty-One – A Viscount’s Act
As Violette awoke, she found herself lying on the ground as it shook and rumbled as though the earth was trying its utmost to shake her awake. Groaning at the pain radiating through her head, Violette realised that there was a gag in her mouth and her hands were tied.
Opening her eyes, she flinched as bright light shone into her face, sending more pain echoing through her head.
For a moment, she lay still, focusing on drawing one breath after another into her aching body. What had happened?
Carefully blinking her eyes, Violette tried to see, tried to make out her surroundings. She turned her head away from the blinding light and realised that she was not lying on the ground, but rather on the floor of a carriage.
A moving carriage.
Indeed, judging from the way it swayed and rumbled along, Violette thought it had to be going at breakneck speed. How had she ended up here?
Dimly, Violette recalled seeing her sister’s face. Yes, Juliet had called on her, asking her to meet her outside rather than being shown to the drawing room. Violette had smiled at the request, understanding why her sister would be hesitant to return to the room where she had shared an intimate moment with Henri. Thus, she had walked down the front steps, the smile vanishing from her face when she had seen her sister’s distraught face. Alarmed, she had rushed forward, grasping her sister’s hands, asking what was wrong.
That was it.
Try as she might, Violette could not recall more. Had Juliet answered her? If so, why did she not remember?
As Violette searched her mind, the throbbing in her head grew. Gritting her teeth, she rolled onto her back, grateful for the small mercy of having her hands bound in the front and not behind her back. However, the moment she found herself staring up at the shaking ceiling of the carriage, a piercing pain shot through Violette’s head.
Groaning, she rolled back onto her side, alleviating the pressure on the back of her skull.
Her breath came in panting gasps, and for a moment, panic swept through her as the gag in her mouth prevented her from taking deep breaths. Closing her eyes, Violette fought down the rising panic, concentrating on breathing through her nose.
After a while, her heartbeat slowed, and she began to breathe more easily. Now, at least, she knew why she did not remember.
Judging from the painful bump on the back of her head, someone had to have knocked her out, tied her up and thrown her into the carriage. But who? And why? And where were they going at such speed?
Pushing herself into a sitting position, Violette glanced around the dim interior. The curtains had been drawn. Still, sunlight streamed in through the small gaps where the curtains had slipped to the side–no doubt due to the breakneck speed
at which they were currently travelling.
Carefully and trying not to move her head too much, Violette rose onto her knees, her tied hands reaching for the door’s handle. As expected, it was locked, which was just as well as the thought of throwing herself out of a moving carriage at such speed was rather daunting.
For a moment, Violette considered reaching for the small dagger still strapped to her ankle to free herself of her bonds. However, even if she did so, she would still be locked in the carriage. Perhaps it was unwise to reveal to whoever had abducted her that she was in possession of a weapon just yet. Perhaps it would be better to wait.
Bracing herself against the door, Violette pushed herself to her feet, gritting her teeth against the nausea that rose at the sudden movement. Then she sank into the lush seats, stretching out her aching legs and resting the side of her head against the wall, careful not to put pressure on the throbbing bump in the back of her head.
Closing her eyes, Violette willed herself to rest and conserve her strength as there was no doubt she would soon need it. When the nausea began to subside, Violette tried to peek through the small gap in the curtain, wondering where they were going.
The sunlight pained her eyes, and it took a few moments before they adjusted, and she could see, noticing that the sun already stood low on the horizon. Her gaze swept over a clear blue sky reaching down to touch a wide expanse of lush grass, running from one end of the horizon to the other. In the distance, she spotted a windmill growing smaller with each turn of the wheels. Other than that, there was nothing that would point to their destination. Still, Violette could not help but feel that she had been here before as there was an odd familiarity pulsing in her heart.
Sighing, Violette shifted back in her seat, and once more resting her head against the side of the wall closed her eyes. From a long-ago memory, an image of Silcox Manor sprang up in her mind, and Violette jerked upright, cringing as her head began to pound with ferocity.