Crossing the now darkened yard at a trot, he noted with some relief that Mr. Hartsinger’s carriage was gone. There’d be no need to sneak her out now. With the baron in his study, and the house filled with disinterested staff, he could simply walk her down the front steps.
But just to be certain, he stopped at the study doors once he was inside. Reassured by the sound of huffing breath and creaking floorboards on the other side, he headed upstairs to Mirabelle’s room, peeking in the library and billiards room for returned guests along the way.
He found her door unlocked, which irritated him some. But he found the room empty, and that flatly infuriated him.
Hadn’t he expressly told her not to leave her room?
He turned a circle in the small space, taking in the gown laid across the bed, the mess of papers at the desk, and the packed valise on the floor.
She’d gone looking for something, he assured himself, even as a chill of unease settled over the anger. Like as not, the stubborn chit was in one of the countless storage rooms, digging out some memento or other.
The shuffle of heavy feet in the hall had him striding out of the room again.
“Something’s wrong,” Lindberg said, panting a bit from his quick climb up the steps. “Study’s a wreck. Eppersly’s sporting a bloody nose and wouldn’t let me past the door. Where’s our girl?” he added on a shout as Whit sprinted past him.
“Missing! Fetch the others!”
Whit barreled into the study, throwing the doors open with a crash. He took in the contents of the room in one sweep of his gaze. Furniture turned over, papers and items from the desk scattered, the baron holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose, and—most terrifying of all—a pistol lying in the corner.
Eppersly hastily shoved the handkerchief in his pocket. “Thurston, my boy—”
“Where is she?” Whit demanded, crossing the room in a few long strides. He fought the urge to wrap his hands around Eppersly’s neck and squeeze the information out. Unfortunately, the man couldn’t answer if he couldn’t breathe.
Eppersly made a sad attempt to straighten his cravat. “Where is who?”
“Mirabelle,” Whit ground out, curling his hands into fists. “Where is she?”
“Mirabelle? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Eppersly blinked rapidly, the very picture of a dim-witted man attempting to play stupid.
Which was twice the idiocy Whit had the patience for. His fist shot out, connected, and Eppersly went down like a felled oak.
It may not have been as satisfying as strangling the bastard, but then, Whit wasn’t entirely confident his hands could have found a neck under all those rolls of fat. And it was immensely satisfying to plant his boot on the man’s chest and hold him down.
“Where is she, you miserable—”
“You don’t understand!” Cowed, Eppersly shook on the floor. “She’s mad! She went mad! Attacked me!”
Whit was almost glad for the excuse to lean in until the baron garbled and choked.
“Where?”
“Hartsinger,” Eppersly gasped when Whit let up again. “Hartsinger took her.”
The confession hit Whit like a shot to the chest, robbing him of breath and leaving him reeling.
She’s mad.
Hartsinger took her.
“You sent her to St. Brigit’s?” he hissed.
“Smuggled her out in a trunk,” Lindberg’s voice informed him from the doorway. Whit glanced over to see him enter the room with McAlistair and Christian. “The staff here will do anything for a coin. And admit to it for a little more.”
Shoving aside panic, Whit stepped off the baron and turned to Christian. “Can you fight?”
“I’ve a brace of loaded pistols in the stable,” Christian answered with a nod.
“Good. Saddle the horses. Lindberg,” Whit continued as Christian left, “take the carriage to Haldon, tell William what’s happened.”
“Of course.”
“McAlistair, there’s a pistol in the corner—”
“Now see here!” Eppersly interrupted, struggling to a sitting position. “You’ve no right interfering! No right! You don’t even like the chit!”
Whit didn’t bother responding. He simply pulled the printing plate and bank notes from his pocket and handed them to McAlistair. “Find out what he knows. If he gives you any trouble,” he said clearly, “kill him…Have you ever killed a baron?”
McAlistair considered it briefly before shaking his head. “Duke once. Two counts. A Russian prince.”
“Well then, a baron wouldn’t be much of a feather in your cap, would it?”
He left the room to the sound of Eppersly’s whimpering.
Twenty-five