Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

What had happened? It must have been a robbery. The entry was completely devoid of silver candlesticks and the other glittering

things that used to adorn it. But the attackers had entered through the front door. If it had been thieves, why not wait until the middle

of the night when they could have entered with stealth?

He worked his way down the corridor, checking each room as he passed.

But the entryway wasn’t the only area that had been stripped. The parlor and the study were perfectly untouched, but the rest of the

rooms were almost completely bare. And odd things had been left behind. Brass candlesticks. Why would a thief have left behind

the most easily sold items?

He knew from his research that the mill had disintegrated due to neglect until its sudden revival two years ago. Was the house’s

condition a result of that?

The thought of Olivia selling off luxuries bit by bit should have pleased him. A sort of divine justice if he was fool enough to believe in

any.

But the thought didn’t please him.

What had happened to her after his arrest was no concern of his. His business was with her father, not with Olivia. He hadn’t even

bothered to look into her life when he’d researched the mill.

He didn’t care.

He opened the door to the library, and a woman screamed. Clayton’s hand tensed on his knife. But again, it wasn’t Olivia.

An older maid huddled in the darkness in the far corner of the room, shielding her face with her arms.

Sheathing his knife, Clayton kept his approach as smooth and calm as he could so he wouldn’t frighten her further. “Be quiet. I’m not

going to hurt you. What happened here?”

The maid quieted, although the whites of her eyes still gleamed in the thin shaft of light from the open door. “You’re not Russian. You’

re not, are you?” Her voice was tiny and tight with fear.

Clayton shook his head, his feet suddenly too slow. His thoughts muddled. Russian? What the devil was going on? “No, I’m not. Are

they still here?”

Her head jerked from side to side. “I think they all left. They took her and they left.”

“Who did they take?” His voice must have been harsh because the maid shrank from him.

“Miss Swift.”

He’d taken two steps to the door when his training reasserted authority. He couldn’t go charging blindly. He didn’t know who’d taken

Olivia or where to. “How long ago?”

“I don’t know.” She rubbed her palms on her cheeks. “I was thinking I had to hurry and start the coals for the warming pans. I do it

every night—I never thought—”

“When do you normally fill the warming pans?”

“At seven.”

It was past eight now. She was definitely in shock, but he needed all the information he could get. He helped the maid sit. “Who

were they?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know. I don’t—”

Her gaze grew unfocused again and Clayton spoke before he lost her entirely to her terror. “Are you hurt?”

Her hands flew to her throat. “No. Not me.” She pressed her knuckles against her mouth. “They took her. Might have had a coach. I

think I heard one. Oh, you have to help her.”

He’d passed a dozen carriages and carts on his way here. She could have been in any one of them. But Clayton knew he needed

patience to get the information. “Tell me exactly what you saw and heard. Everything. Any little detail might help me find her.”

The maid yanked her hands away from her mouth, planted them in her lap, and drew a stuttered breath. “I don’t know how much help

I’ll be. But—I was cleaning out the hearth when I heard a commotion in the entry hall. I poked my head out to see what was amiss.

Two fellows had knocked Mr. Burton on the head. Perry, he’s the footman, tried to stop them, and the black-haired man just pulled

out a knife and stabbed him. Right in the chest.”

She began to tremble, so Clayton rested his hand on her shoulder. “Can you describe them?”

“One was tall and mean-looking, huge bushy beard. Like some sort of beast. The other was leaner, handsome, black hair. Very

neat. Both of them looked foreign. They spoke in Russian.”

“How do you know it was Russian?”

For the first time a hint of spark returned to the maid, and she glared at him. “I’ve been serving this house and its guests since

before the master got sick. He was always entertaining all sorts of foreign men of business. We had Russians many times. I know

the difference.”

“Did you recognize any of the words?”

“Not the Russian ones, but they kept speaking about something in French. La Petot?”

“La Petit?” He had to force the name out.

“Yes! The dark one told the big one something about a La Petit.”

“Then they took Miss Swift?”

The maid nodded, her chin wobbling. “I think so. I was—I was hiding in here so I couldn’t see. But I heard her yelling.”

If Olivia was yelling, that meant she’d left here alive.

“Where was her father? The other servants?”

The maid’s head tilted slightly, but then her face cleared. “Not here tonight, sir. But they should be home soon. Oh, they said one

thing I did recognize. East End.”

The docks. He strode over to the desk and scribbled a quick note on a sheet of paper. “Have this delivered to Ian Maddox at The

Albany when the others get back.”

He was out of the room running toward the front door before he heard her answer. If the kidnappers thought Olivia was La Petit, one

of the most hated spies in all of Europe, then her life was in danger. When they found out she wasn’t La Petit, she was dead.

He leaped onto his horse and galloped to where the driveway met the road. Why had they taken her? Olivia looked absolutely

nothing like Madeline, the real La Petit.

The only thing that connected the two women was him. The kidnappers must somehow have assumed she was Madeline because

of his contact with her. But why the devil had they only wanted La Petit? They must have known where Clayton was as well. They

must have been following him.

Damned sloppy.

And who could have taken her? The Trio had been to Russia only a handful of times and every time had involved Prazhdinyeh. But

the violent group of revolutionaries had fallen apart with the death of their leader a few years ago.

His hands clenched on the reins, stopping his mount. He slid down to examine the tracks at the end of the drive. It was too dark to

see much, but the most recent wheel indentations cut toward London.

Hell, it couldn’t be Prazhdinyeh. They no longer existed.

But some of its members might. And all of them wanted La Petit dead. And she soon would be. Or at least Olivia in her place. After

they tortured her for information.

If he’d still been a praying man, he would have prayed to make it to the harbor before they sailed. Instead, he pushed his horse into

a dead gallop.