“What about the dog?” the duke asked. “Have you seen it?”
Nell’s face blanched. “Wellington? I never thought—no, Your Grace. I don’t know where the puppy is.”
“Could it be hiding in her room?” the duchess asked.
“I will look right away, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Nell.”
The maidservant bobbed another curtsy and hurried away.
“So she has the dog with her,” Ewan said.
“How do you know that?” the duke asked.
Ewan stared at him. How did the duke not know?
“She loves that dog,” the duchess said. “And it yaps all the time. Nell would have noticed if it was in Lorrie’s room.” The duchess pressed her hands together in her lap. “What shall we do, Mr. Mostyn? Shall we call Bow Street?”
The duke hissed. “Think of the scandal!”
“Think of our daughter.”
He took a deep breath. “You’re right. Scandal be damned.”
“Call the Runners if you like,” Ewan said. He started for the door.
“Where are you going?” the duchess asked.
“To find your daughter,” Ewan answered over his shoulder as he made his way out of the room, down the stairs, and into the dreary morning.
*
Lorrie held Welly tightly in her arms as the cart bounced along paths she did not think could properly be termed roads. Her arms and shoulders would be black and blue with bruises from the trip.
Fear made her belly tighten until wave after wave of nausea crashed over her. She shivered despite the scratchy horse blankets covering her. But she would not be sick. The hood over her face would only ensure her situation were more miserable if she were sick on top of everything else. Her hands were not tied, but the few times she’d tried to remove the hood, a gravelly voice had stopped her.
“I wouldn’t do that, milady. Not if ye want yer little dog to live.”
Lorrie had wrapped her hands back around Welly and lain quietly in the dark.
She didn’t know who the men were or how many had taken her. She only knew one moment she had been in the garden while Welly had his nightly constitutional and the next she’d been grabbed from behind, her head shoved into the dark hood, and carried away kicking and screaming. The men must have also scooped up Welly to keep him from barking and to use against her.
Everything she knew had been gleaned from what little she could hear and feel. She was in the back of a cart that had been used to transport produce. She knew that because it smelled like dirt and rotting cabbage. She was cold, and the breeze blew on her bare arms until they’d dropped the horse blankets over her. Those were not overly warm, but they were better than nothing. They’d traveled through London and now must be outside the city because it was much quieter. She’d been able to hear the men’s voices, thick with lower-class accents. There were at least two of them, possibly three. She’d asked what they wanted and begged to be released, but they’d only told her to shut her potato hole.
Lorrie knew what they wanted, in any event. Her money. They would either ransom her or take her to Scotland, force her to marry, and claim her dowry that way. Fears swirled around in her mind—what if her father would not pay? Would the men kill her? Would they rape her and then slit her throat? And what if Ewan had been right about Francis and she had been wrong? Could he be behind this? What if now that she’d told him she didn’t want him any longer, he had taken desperate measures and hired thugs to kidnap her so he could force her to marry?
But he couldn’t really force her, could he? Even in barbaric Scotland, a woman had to agree to marriage for the priest to sanction it. Didn’t she? Not that it would be very difficult to force her to agree. One threat against poor Welly, and Lorrie would do whatever the men asked.
She hugged her puppy tighter, and the dog licked her hand. The small gesture calmed her, as did the refrain playing in the back of her mind.
He will come for me.
Ewan would find her. He’d rescue her. He’d completed far more difficult missions during the war. Once her father realized Lorrie was missing, he’d call for Ewan and Ewan would come for her. She didn’t know how he would find her, only that he would.
The blackness she’d been staring through under the hood had grown lighter, and she realized the sun must have risen. They’d been traveling all night. Surely they would have to rest the horses. Surely they did not wish to travel in the daylight. A body-shaped lump in the back of a cart might not be noticeable in the dark, but in the light, it might draw attention.
And still the cart bounced along, rattling her teeth and forcing her to take quick breaths to hold the nausea at bay.
He will come for me.
He will come for me.
Please, God, let him come for me.
Before it was too late.
*
Ewan went straight to his father’s town house. He’d hoped to return here in triumph, but once again he stood on the stoop, feeling frightened and lost. This time it was not from fear of rejection. He didn’t need his father’s acceptance anymore. He’d found the one person whose opinion had mattered. How could he not have seen this before? Why hadn’t he done as he’d said his cousin should—scooped her up when he’d had the chance?
Damn the rules of Society and damn his own insecurities. If he ever found her, he would never let her get away again.
He knocked on the door. This was not his house, nor would it ever be. His father had made that clear enough. This was the last time Ewan would ever grace its halls.
The same butler who had opened the door the last time Ewan had come opened it again. “Oh, you,” said the man, narrowing his small brown eyes. “May I help you?”
“The earl. Now.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Ewan, who was normally a patient man, had as much as he could tolerate.
“Move aside or I’ll move you.”
The butler’s small eyes widened. “If you will wait here”—he opened the door to admit Ewan into the house—“I will tell his lordship you are here.”
Ewan stepped into the house. “We have been through this before. Tell me where he is or—”
“The library!” the butler said hastily, jumping out of the way. Ewan marched in that direction and flung the door open.
“What the devil!” The earl half rose from his desk, looking shocked and almost wide-eyed. Ewan was struck by how much older his father appeared in that moment. He was not the invincible tyrant as Ewan had always pictured him. He was just a man.
“Where is he?” Ewan demanded.
“Where is who?” his father asked, slowly sinking into his seat. “Good God, Ewan. Must you always barge in here like a cart horse who’s been stung by a bee?”
Ewan crossed the room to his father’s desk. It did not seem as large as it once had, and the man behind it seemed smaller as well. This man had never taken Ewan on his knee or put his arm around him or walked with him side by side. Ewan no longer needed that from him. His father couldn’t hurt him anymore. Francis couldn’t hurt him.
“Tell me where Francis lives.”