The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Thirty-Five

U

nease slithered through Brock as his coach pulled up to Maudsley House. He hated Maudsley House. Every time he walked through the door, he was slammed with images of finding Ginny’s body, broken, bloodied, and unconscious on her bedchamber floor; the girls hovering in their own rooms another level above with their governess, Miss Elvins, who had only been ten and six when Maudsley had promised her a life far above her means. A life he’d had no intention of following through on. The man had targeted younger girls for sport, and Ginny was right. If Maudsley had suspected Irene didn’t belong to him, her life would have been worth nothing. It was a sickening thought.

He shook away his angst and studied the mansion.

Nothing appeared amiss. A low light shone from an entryway window. All was dark on the upper levels. Still, his anxiety escalated tenfold and wouldn’t slacken. He glanced over. Ginny shivered beneath his coat.

“I’ll walk you in.” Brock kicked back the carriage door and jumped down before Punkle could manage the carriage steps. He didn’t bother with the steps, taking Ginny by the waist and lifting her down.

No words spilled from the trees, Brock realized as he followed her onto the portico. Kipling met them, in all his professional glory, with an open door. Good thing too. If it had been locked, Brock would have broken it down with his bare hands.

He followed Ginny inside, but she stopped, angling her head, as if listening.

“Ginny,” Brock spoke sharply. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Something’s wrong. I have to check on the girls, Brock. I’m sure they’re fine, but…” She flew up the stairs. Brock stayed fast on her heels. Her trepidation was palpable, arcing through the air and hitting his very soul with a keen-edged point.

The closer to the schoolroom they drew, the more his own apprehension spiked. He felt the stab like a jagged blade, ripping through his chest. He pulled her back. “Let me,” he spoke softly but firmly. She called him arrogant, and perhaps he was, but if ever there was a time for arrogance, this was it.

She froze at his tone. He slipped around her and glanced inside. There was little light. Just that from the moon through sheer window coverings. He went in and lit a candle.

The girls’ rooms. They reached Celia’s first and found the governess sitting on the floor, shaking her head from side to side.

“Miss Lambert?” Ginny’s horrified voice whispered across Brock’s goose-raised skin. “What happened?”

Brock took in the unrumpled bedclothes and, more importantly, the absence of the five-year-old.

“Oh, my lady. I’m so sorry.” Her heart-wrenching sobs tore through Brock. Ginny started to sag, and he caught her before she slid to the ground. “Lady Cecilia was protesting my efforts to get her in bed, when a large man showed up.” Tears poured down the governess’s face, but she kept a stiff upper lip. “He grabbed Celia and then he-he hit me.” She ran a hand over her swelling jaw.

“Celia’s gone?” Ginny’s rising hysteria rippled over him.

“Mama?” Celia’s wobbly voice whispered through the chamber. “I’m here.”

Brock’s heart slammed against his ribs in agonizing relief. He held out his arms, and she ran into them, leaping for his hold from halfway across the room.

“He grabbed my wrist, Lord Brock, but I got away. I did that trick with the elbows. Straight up. It worked,” Celia whispered, burying her head in his shoulder. “Then I ran. I hid.” She started crying, hard gulping sobs that jerked her small body. “But he took Irene.”

Ginny grabbed the chamber pot from beneath the bed and wretched.

Brock set Celia onto her feet and crouched eye level with her. “Did you recognize this man?”

“Yes. He’s the man that Lord Griston gave the boy from the park to. The boy who tried to take my locket.”

Brock rose to his feet, sweeping Celia up into his arms. With his free arm, he assisted Ginny to her feet, then Miss Lambert. “Come. We need to strategize. Harlowe’s disappearance and Irene’s are too coincidental for my liking. Kimpton should be here soon.”

Brock could see that Ginny was shaking through to her bones, but she rallied and led the way down the two flights to the morning room. Her voice trembled, summoning tea. Brock handed off Celia to her mother.

“Might I have coffee?” Celia said.

“And coffee,” Ginny told Kipling.

Kimpton was in the drawing room by the time they arrived downstairs, as were the baron and his wife. “I heard the chants,” Kimpton said by way of greeting.

“That is just the wind kicking up,” the baroness said.

“I find it odd the words are clearer at some times than others,” Brock said, ignoring her. “Irene is missing—”

The baroness gasped and slid down onto the settee, her face turning a chalky alabaster. Ginny poured out two more glasses and took one to her mother.

“Celia said she recognized the man from the park. He works for Griston.” Brock accepted a shot of brandy the baron handed him and tossed it back.

“But Griston was at the Faulks’ soiree,” the baroness said. “I saw him.”

Brock slammed down his glass. “That doesn’t mean Griston isn’t part of this… whatever it is. Lady Wimbley mentioned that Maudsley has a ship at Southwark. Lady Alymer told us that Welton thought he saw Harlowe in the area, but he was too thin and being carried so he couldn’t be certain.” Brock pushed a hand through his hair. “Right now, I believe our only option is following the lead to Harlowe. It’s the only thing we’ve got at this point,” he said.

Kimpton slammed his glass down as well.

So did the baron. “I’ll accompany you.”

“There’s no need, sir,” Brock told him.

“It’s my granddaughter. I’m going.”

Ginny stood at the tall windows, hugging Brock’s evening coat tight about herself, fending off the cool night air that seeped in. After relinquishing Brock’s coat to him, she couldn’t seem to get warm, though a roaring fire blazed in the hearth. The entire household held vigil, praying for Irene’s safe return. Celia moved in front of Ginny, her thumb securely tucked inside her mouth. Ginny wrapped her arm across her younger daughter’s tiny chest, pulling her body against her own.

The tears had dried up, having lodged in a throat no words could pass through.

An arm fell across her own shoulders and pressed. The baroness’s perfume, though subtle, threatened to choke her. “Your marquis seems to hold you in great favor indeed,” she said.

Ginny could only nod.

“His reputation was renowned, you know. When you walked in the house that day all those years ago, it was obvious what had happened. You would have been ruined beyond repair. I’m sorry we didn’t properly scrutinize Maudsley’s character. I never dreamed—”

A small plop sounded as Celia’s thumb came out of her mouth.

Her mother squeezed her shoulders again. “But that’s neither here nor there, is it?” The baroness tugged at her and led them to the fire.

Ginny lowered herself into a wing-backed chair. Celia crawled in her lap, thumb re-tucked, and laid her head on Ginny’s chest. She felt the tears gather again but could do nothing to stop their silent trek down her face as she smoothed Celia’s unbound hair with repetitious strokes.

“As I recall, there was gossip at the time regarding the duke’s young daughter. Goodness, that was a decade ago. I think the girl was around eleven or twelve. She’d been… er, taken, and the marquis was said to have left England to retrieve her.”

Ginny’s attention sharpened, and she turned to her mother, stunned.

“I never learned the results. It was speculated in polite circles that she didn’t survive the ordeal. That’s never been confirmed as the duke managed to keep the information out of the press. Nor has he been seen in society since. I also heard that the marquis did not return to England for several years.”

“Because of my marriage to Maudsley?” Her cracked whisper sounded. Celia shifted restlessly on her lap.

“Your father and I feared you might be with child. If that had happened… well, surely, you can see our dilemma.”

How was Ginny to respond? What would she do if faced with the same situation? Teach her children to fend for themselves, for one. She hugged Celia tighter and let the silence reign.

“We felt we had no choice, Virginia. I’m sorry.”

“I won’t marry anyone but Brock, Mother. Don’t push me at the new earl. I cannot even abide calling the man by his title.”