0764213504 (48 page)

“Nonsense.” Justin strode forward and held out a hand until the constable put one of the letters into it. “I know all her friends from Monaco, and there were precious few. No young men.” None, other than him. He would have known it if there had been. He would have known if she’d been in communication with anyone other than Prince Albert.

And he was shaking his head within moments of reading through the letter. “No. Whitby is right, this is a lie. Aside from the fact that I’ve never heard of the fellow, the writing is all wrong. This was most assuredly not written by a native French speaker.”

A knock came upon the open door before the others could respond. Mr. Graham stood there, a salver in hand. “Telegram, my lord.”

Whitby stepped forward to take it, trepidation in his eyes. It darkened to hurt but then blazed into anger as he read it. “No.”

The constable and Justin both flanked the earl to read over his shoulder.

Forgive me, Papa STOP I do not mean to hurt you but must follow my heart STOP It is all too much STOP J is too cold and W not serious STOP Need someone who understands me STOP Met the son of a friend of Maman at train station STOP Left with him STOP Will wire when we get to Continent

The constable sighed. “No doubt the same man these letters are from. Someone must have pinched her car from the station and then dumped it.”

“No.” Justin balled up the paper in his hand. “No, this isn’t from her. She didn’t leave from the train station—she met me at the abbey after she dropped O’Malley off, and I watched her drive out of town.”

Whitby’s mouth went firm. “Whoever sent this obviously didn’t know that. Didn’t know the two of you had made up.”

He was obviously the
J
in the note—and Worthing must be W. But she never called him Worthing. She called him Brice. He would have been a
B
.

The constable didn’t look entirely convinced. He held out a hand toward Whitby. “May I take it with me, my lord, and the letters? I’ll see what we can discover about where it originated. And in the meantime, I’ll thank you two not to go off half-cocked, accusing the neighbors of anything.”

The request ate him up inside like acid, and Whitby looked every bit as unwilling to agree. His jaw ticked for a moment before he gave a curt nod. “For tonight, Constable. But a father knows. A father knows when something bad has happened to his daughter, and I’ll not sit here while she is hurt or worse. Not again. If you’ve no leads by the morning, the duke and I are paying a visit to Delmore.”

To his credit, the constable didn’t dismiss it as an idle threat or get in a bluster over it. He merely nodded, considering that as he had the paper in his hands. “I’ve a cousin who’s a groundsman at Delmore. I’ll pay him a call, quietly. See if anything’s
amiss on the estate. But you know as well as I that the place is a maze—if by chance she
is
there, our barging in won’t help us find her. We must go about this with thought and care. And with prayer.”

Praying—Justin had been praying constantly as they rode through Yorkshire. Mr. Graham had assured them the moment they stepped inside that the staff had spent the last hours on their knees. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they needed even more people beseeching heaven on Brook’s behalf.

The constable took his leave, promising to trace the telegram posthaste and to call first thing in the morning.

As Justin watched him go, a hand settled on his spirit. And a name filtered into his mind, making him sigh. He turned to Whitby. “We need to let Worthing know. He seems to have an uncanny knack for knowing what to pray.” Justin had wired him when he got to Whitby, and in the two weeks since, he’d received two letters from the man, both so very to the point that Justin had to wonder if the Lord whispered directly into his ear.

Brook’s father nodded—then shook his head. “We’d have to send a letter rather than a wire, and we certainly can’t use the phone. The operators could well leak it to the press. But a letter is too slow.”

“No . . . wait.” Ideas swirled. Motioning for Whitby to follow, he charged from the drawing room, down the hall, and into the library. Flicking on the electric lights as he entered, he headed straight for the chair Whitby had been in earlier. His newspaper still sat on the table beside it. Justin scooped it up and turned it face out.

The earl lifted a brow at the picture, weeks old, of Brook that graced the cover. “My point exactly, Duke. The merest mention of my daughter makes the front page. This insipid article is about nothing but the fact that she hadn’t been to a ball in two weeks, and they wondered if she’d left Town.”

“Exactly. Can you imagine if they learned she was kidnapped?” Pressure mounted in his chest, too desperate to be called excitement—but right. It had to be. “It would be in every newspaper in England. Front page. Every single person in this county and the next would see it and be on the lookout for her.”

Whitby’s eyes sparked. “If the article made it clear there was a sizable reward to anyone who offered solid information as to her whereabouts . . .”

Justin lifted a brow. “How well do you think Pratt can trust his servants?”

This time, a hint of a smile touched Whitby’s lips as he said, “Not well enough.”

Tossing the paper back to the table, Justin nodded. “Exactly. But we can’t tip our hand until the constable is ready to intercept anyone coming or going from Delmore.” More waiting—but waiting with purpose.

“Worthing can help us with the press. He’s as much their darling as Brook—but that again leaves us with how to reach him without tipping our hand too soon.”

Justin shook his head. “Let’s not forget how uncanny he is. Ring him up. Say you need him to come. I daresay he’ll be here by morning, with no other words needed.”

Whitby’s features eased a bit, and then he spun for the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I reach him—you had better stay here tonight, Duke. I’ll send someone for your valet.”

“Thank you.” Though he felt too antsy to sit, he sank down anyway, onto the seat he knew Brook favored. He ran his hands over the arms of the chair, knowing hers were the last to touch the upholstery. He reached over and rested his fingers on the book left on the side table.

La Chartreuse de Parme
. She’d read it before—he remembered her talking about how a Frenchman had captured the Italian spirit. So very Brook, this book.

His eyes slid closed. “Help us find her, Lord. Please. Keep her safe until we do. Drape your protection over her, keep any harm from finding her. Please. Please.”

Nothing whispered into his ear. But peace seeped into his chest, and it spread warmth into places he hadn’t realized were chilled.

The lamp’s oil ran out while she slept. Brook awoke to that cavernous darkness again, and with the sinking certainty that Pratt had meant the words Deirdre had relayed the day before. If she didn’t cooperate, he would bring no more oil. No more water. No more food.

She sat up, the rusty metal cot squeaking underneath her. Reaching up, she touched the pearls around her neck. If he knew they were here even now . . . that yesterday, as he held a gun to her head, he had been but inches from the things he desired most . . .

What was she to do? She couldn’t give them to him. He might,
might
let Deirdre go, which would mean she could fetch help, but that was a big
if
. And even if he did . . . she had a feeling that Pratt would not waste any time in teaching Brook a lesson. She would pay dearly for her impudence the moment he had the diamonds in hand.

She couldn’t turn them over. That was all there was to it. She needed some other way of escape, and it would have to come from the Lord—He would have to clear the way for her.

“A fire goeth before him, and burneth
up his enemies round about.”
The Scripture filtered into her mind—in English. Odd, given that her Bible reading was still entirely in French. Perhaps it had been in a recent sermon at the church in Eden Dale or from one of Papa’s daily selections.

That must be it—she could hear it in her father’s voice. Deep and strong. Authoritative. Promising.

Papa
. Tears burned her eyes at the thought of him. He would be so worried. So afraid of losing her all over again, and over the same thing. And Justin, faced with losing yet another loved one in so short a time. . . .

For their sakes, Lord, have mercy. You are my champion. You are my hope. Send out that fire before us to clear the way, mon Dieu.

The rattle, the clang, and then the influx of light as Pratt came into the room. Perhaps one of these times she could be ready to dart around him, to leap out the door . . . though Deirdre had said the door at the end of the hall was locked too. She wouldn’t get far enough to make it worth whatever punishment he’d dole out.

When the light shone on her, she forced a smile. “Good morning, Lord Pratt.”

His smile was as dark as ever. “Good evening, Brook.”

Evening? No, it couldn’t be. Deirdre had seen late afternoon sunshine yesterday, she said. They couldn’t have slept that long . . . or that little. It was a ploy. “Is it? And you’ve not brought us any tea.”

“You wouldn’t have drunk it if I had.” He nodded toward where Deirdre was stirring on her pallet on the floor. Since Brook had the cot, she’d insisted Deirdre take the pillow and blanket. “Though perhaps your maid would have. I
am
willing to be civil, my darling. But civility must go both ways. You give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want.”

She would appeal to Pratt’s humanity, if he had any. Deirdre’s warning rang clear in her memory though. He was a heartless devil, capable of anything. Perhaps a slight exaggeration, but . . . she had to try
something
, didn’t she?

Drawing in a deep breath, she smoothed her wrinkled walking dress. If she couldn’t appeal to his heart, perhaps she could appeal to his greed. “I will make you a deal. Make me one of
your partners, divide it evenly with me when you sell, and I’ll get them for you. You can let me go, and I’ll say my car got stuck and I went out for help but got lost. No harm done.”

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.”