A Duke For All Seasons (12 page)

    
“Well, Mr. Harris,” Sebastian said as he ushered Bella to a chair and then took his seat behind his desk. “What have you to say for yourself?”

    
“I failed you, Your Grace. I ask your pardon,” the man said with unflinching honesty. “We underestimated de Lisle’s reach. I assigned two men to dog him, but he shook free. The man’s a ghost. We had the family under our watch in Chelsea as you ordered, but the child still turned up missing.”

    
Time stopped flowing around Arabella. Her insides went dead and hollow as a diseased elm. Mr. Harris seemed to say Lisette was gone but she was too numb to wrap her mind around the words that signaled her heart’s doom.

    
“When?” Sebastian asked.

    
“Yesterday evening. After we realized the girl had been taken, I set one of my men to try to pick up her trail. Seems as if she’s been taken back into the heart of London. Then since we were under orders to protect the whole family, I brought Mr. Boyle and his wife here and installed them in the hunting lodge for safekeeping. I trust that’s in order.”

    
Sebastian nodded curtly. “I assume you still have someone monitoring de Lisle’s favorite haunts in town.”

    
Mr. Harris’s response faded in Arabella’s ear to unintelligible noise as she stared out the window behind Sebastian’s desk. Her sister and brother-in-law were just over the hillock, probably with the same horrified shock clawing at their innards.

    
Oh, Lisette.
She covered her mouth to suppress a sob.

    
“And I have those dossiers you ordered, Your Grace,” Mr. Harris said as he pulled a packet from one of the deep pockets of his greatcoat. “I’m thinking the Frog’s known associates will give us a place to start looking for the little girl. But I have to warn you, de Lisle keeps fairly bad company.” His gaze flicked to Bella. “The report on the other one is tame reading by comparison.”

    
Other one?
Who else was Sebastian investigating?

    
“I also have Cavalli’s finished document for your approval. He’s fashioned a seal to ape the old one if you’re satisfied with the work. If not, he’s always willing to have another go at it.” Mr. Harris produced another packet, this one wrapped in oilskin to protect it from moisture. “For a reformed forger, the old fellow certainly likes to keep his hand sharp.”

    
“That’s enough, Harris,” Sebastian said, obviously trying to quiet his servant. “You look done in. Can you ride?”

    
The man straightened to his full height. “It’s been a couple days since I found my bed, but I’d welcome the chance to redeem myself in your eyes, Your Grace.”

    
“Then you shall have it. Take yourself to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Wiggins to find you a plate of something. We leave for London within the hour.”

    
Mr. Harris bowed deeply and strode from the room.

    
Once he was gone, the full force of the situation hit Arabella like a punch to the gut. Her worst fears had come to fruition. “Fernand has her,” she whispered.

    
“But we have no reason to believe he’s done her harm,” Sebastian said, coming around the desk toward her.

    
Bella rose and paced away, determined to put some distance between them. She didn’t want him to try to comfort her. She wanted her daughter.

    
“It’s a thorough beast who’d harm a child,” Sebastian said. “And a regular demon who’d hurt his own.”

    
She skewered him with a look. “Then you have hit upon Fernand’s character exactly. He’ll use Lisette to get what he wants and when she is no more use to him . . .”

    
Arabella knew her heart was continuing to beat. She could hear it pounding in her ears, but she’d gone dead inside. As if she watched, disembodied, while this disaster unfolded around her. Her thoughts darted like a school of minnows, too numerous to count, too fleet to catch in a net. She was only able snatch up one.

    
“Fernand wants that envelope, Sebastian.”

    
“Then we shall have to see that he gets it, shan’t we?” He tore into the second packet, withdrew a single sheet of foolscap, and spread the missive on his desk. “Cavalli has outdone himself. The handwriting and most of the message is identical. Only the target has been changed.”

    
Bella had never seen the contents of first message, but she approached the desk to read this one over his shoulder. Rather than ordering a string of political murders as Sebastian had told her the original did, the replacement note gave detailed instructions for the assassination of a single high ranking peer of the realm, one that should discomfit the British Crown with the audacity of France’s reach. She squinted at the curlicue script for the name of the peer to be eliminated.

    
Sebastian Blake, the Duke of Winterhaven.

“Life teaches us there is an end to all things, however pleasant. When a liaison has run its course, the kindest method of ending matters is with directness. The sharpest cut heals cleanest.”

~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress

    
“No, I won’t have it.” Lisette was already in peril. Arabella didn’t think she could bear putting Sebastian in danger too. “There must be some other way. You can’t mean to do this.”

    
“I don’t. I mean for you to do it.” He carefully folded and stuffed the missive into its envelope, melted a bit of red sealing wax and stamped it with the seal the forger had provided. The likeness was perfect. Arabella couldn’t tell it from the original. “You must deliver the envelope to Fernand as he expects. We can only surmise he abducted your daughter to ensure your cooperation in this matter. So after he gives you assurances the child is unharmed, I want you to do exactly as he expects.”

    
“But you’ve painted a target on your own back and with no guarantee Fernand will even return Lisette,” she said. “I can’t give him this. It’s your death warrant.”

    
“Let me worry about that.”

    
No doubt Sebastian had resources she could only guess at, but so did Fernand. “Where is the original letter?”

    
“I trust the artist I commissioned to draft the replacement implicitly. He knew enough to destroy it once he was finished with it,” Sebastian said. “And wild horses couldn’t drag the names of the actual intended victims from me. If we are to play a game of brinksmanship with de Lisle, I don’t care to hazard anyone’s neck but my own.”

    
“My daughter is still in jeopardy.” She sank into a chair. She’d been so careful not to contact her sister in the little neighborhood of Chelsea once she moved them there, so sure Fernand would never be able to trace them. But Lisette was a beautiful child, all golden ringlets and pink cheeks. She was noticed wherever she went. For once, Arabella wished she were a little more unremarkable. Would her loveliness be enough to spark an ounce of paternal mercy in Fernand’s cold heart? She doubted it. “How will this help Lisette?”

    
“You’ll demand to see her before you tell Fernand where the envelope is. My operatives will be watching you both, though I warrant you’ll never see them. Once Fernand reveals the whereabouts of your daughter, my people will arrange to steal her away. Then we’ll bring her here to rejoin your sister and her husband. I’ve a mind to offer your brother-in-law a post that will keep them here indefinitely. Will that suffice?”

    
She nodded. Suffice? No words could express how the thought of Lisette growing up in security on this beautiful estate made her feel. Her heart jumped out of rhythm for a moment. The possibility that their plan might work sent life screaming painfully back into her chest. The full weight of her anguish over Lisette’s abduction was better than the deadness that had descended on her earlier. Pain proved hope was still alive.

    
And so was her daughter.

    
“But once we have Lisette again, why must we still give Fernand the envelope?” she asked. “We know what devilry he’s intending. Couldn’t he simply be arrested or at least transported back to France?”

    
“He’s attached to the embassy. Diplomatic immunity means he’s untouchable unless we catch him in the act. Then in that case, de Lisle will definitely be . . .
touchable
.” Sebastian picked up the letter opener on his desk and tested its sharp edge against the pad of his thumb. “I mean to save the Crown the trouble of either trying or transporting him.”

    
Arabella blinked hard. Sebastian was a duke, a gentleman, yet he had no compunction about eliminating an enemy in the most permanent manner possible. Beneath the superfine jacket and neatly tied neck cloths, were all men truly only a few steps from feral? From the determined set of Sebastian’s jaw, she didn’t doubt it.

    
But the difference between Sebastian and Fernand was the underlying motive for their aggression. De Lisle was intent on killing in order to win back his family’s lost fortune.
 
Sebastian was trying to defend his country and rescue her daughter. In that light, Arabella thanked God for Sebastian’s masculine ferocity.

    
The aching sweetness that had been growing in her chest for him all week suddenly burst into full bloom and with it came fear.
  

    
“Fernand is a trained assassin,” she reminded him. “Not an easy man to kill.”

    
“Neither am I.” He laid the letter opener down and turned to gaze out the window. “It would be best if you don’t have actual possession of this envelope. We need de Lisle to believe it never left London so he won’t suspect a switch has been made. Can you think of a hiding place where it’s unlikely to be disturbed?”

    
She closed her eyes for a moment, considering and discarding several spots in her London home. Not in her rooms. Fernand would tear up the floorboards there, if needs be. “In the theatre. Yes, the envelope should be safe enough if I put it in the Scottish play box.”

    
“The what?”

    
“It’s a box that holds all the props used the last time the theatre troop that shares the Olympic with the opera company did Mac—” Arabella stopped herself. Everyone knew the mere mention of
Macbeth
was enough to bring calamity. “If I put the envelope in the prop box for a certain Shakespearean story about a Scottish murderer, no one will bother it.”
 

    
“Scottish murderer.” Sebastian frowned. “You mean
Macbeth
?”

    
“Hush.” She put her fingertips to his lips. “Do you want to tempt the devil? Don’t say it aloud.”

    
“Why not?”

    
“It’s bad luck.”

    
“I never suspected you for a superstitious person.”

    
“All theatre people are superstitious to some degree. Besides, it’s not superstition if you’ve seen the effects of the curse first hand,” she said. “During the last production of . . . the Scottish play, there was a fire backstage on opening night. Midway through the run, a flat came down during the opening act nearly squashing the three witches. And on closing night, the director stumbled off the edge of the stage during his ovation and fulfilled the time-honored theatre saying.”

    
“You mean he literally
broke a leg
?”

    
Arabella nodded.

    
“Then why does the Olympic even keep the box of props?”