Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Gabriel woke to a pounding in his skull, his friends Dalton and Gentry gathered at the foot of the bed, Mrs Boswell fussing, and the unmistakable taste of betrayal on his tongue.
He was naked beneath the sheets, the space beside him cold and undisturbed. His wife’s name hovered on his lips, a question he couldn’t quite form.
“It’s the brandy,” Gentry was saying, amid the faint clink of crystal and the sound of someone sniffing. “It’s the only thing he’s touched since returning home from the theatre.”
Yes, he remembered.
Passionate kisses on the carriage seat. Swallow wallpaper. Brandy. The heat of anticipation. The slow haze that had dulled his senses as he waited for Olivia.
“Do you think she did this?” Dalton asked, never one to soften a blow. “Did she drug him?”
Mrs Boswell bristled. “Of course not. Lady Rothley went straight to her chamber to change for bed.”
“Then where the hell is she?” Dalton shot back.
A spike of panic split the fog in his head. Gabriel tried to sit up, but his limbs were sluggish and leaden, his skin clammy, and the room tilted like a boat with a broken keel. His stomach lurched at the effort.
“O-Olivia?”
His mouth was dry. His pulse raced. Was this some fractured dream? Voices in the room. The space beside him vacant. The weight of absence where she should have been.
Where was she?
Why wasn’t she here?
And why the devil were his friends in his bedchamber, watching him like a man on the brink?
“My lord.” Mrs Boswell was at his side, wringing her hands, the same anxious expression he’d seen countless times before, back when his parents entertained. “Thank heavens. You’re awake.”
Barely.
“There was no need to send for the doctor.” He met Gentry’s gaze and saw the tension pulling every muscle tight. “I’m alive. Now will someone tell me what the blazes is going on?”
Mrs Boswell’s mouth twisted. “I’m sure it’s not how it looks.”
“Then tell me. How does it look? Because we clearly have company. It’s a half-hour ride to town, which means I must have spent at least two passed out in bed.”
“Someone drugged your brandy,” Gentry said.
Gabriel’s blood turned to ice.
“Someone?” Bile stung his throat. Fury surged like a second heartbeat. “Someone with a death wish. There’s a traitor in this house.”
He tried to rise but froze, remembering he was naked beneath the sheets. Mrs Boswell averted her eyes, hovering like a hen.
“Assemble the staff.” He forced the words through the rasp in his throat. “In the drawing room. And fetch me a robe.”
No one moved, except Mrs Boswell, who fetched the silk robe and tossed it onto the bed.
“Who’s going to tell him?” Dalton said.
Mrs Boswell raised her chin. “I’ll tell him. It’s best he hears it from me, but you might want to leave the room.”
Gabriel stilled. “Tell me what?”
She drew a breath. “Lord Rutland is questioning the staff, my lord. He’s in the servants’ dining room. Threatening them all with the full weight of the law.”
A few drops of laudanum, and the whole household was in uproar? “Good God, woman, you summoned my friends because someone tampered with my brandy? I’m quite capable of handling my own affairs.”
She didn’t answer right away, but winced as if called before the magistrate. “No, my lord. I summoned them because Lady Rothley hasn’t been seen since I left her upstairs … three hours ago.”
He blinked, praying he’d misheard.
“Three hours ago?”
Three damn hours.
The words echoed through his mind, tolling like a bell that wouldn’t stop. He stared at Mrs Boswell, waiting for her to retract them. She didn’t.
He was already on his feet, robe barely tied, the floor tilting beneath him. “Where’s her maid? Has anyone searched the house?”
Hang it all. That alone would take a day.
“Lady Rothley was distressed, my lord. She believes you weren’t entirely truthful. That you married her because all your friends have settled, and you felt obliged to do the same.”
Dalton and Gentry stepped back.
Was this some sort of ill-timed joke?
“She knows exactly why we married.” His voice rang with disbelief. She was his wife. His lover. His dearest friend. There could be no doubt. Not after tonight. Not after the way they had touched each other.
“Daisy mentioned you offered for the countess before she married the earl. To save her from the noose. To protect her. A marriage of friendship.” Her words were clipped, her eyes sharp with censure.
“Lady Rothley was upset you hadn’t told her.
And now that knowledge has tainted any blossoming feelings. ”
Gabriel opened his mouth to explain, but every sentence that formed rang with uncomfortable similarity. The same promise. The same protective instinct. With one distinct difference.
He had never wanted Joanna.
He’d wanted Olivia almost from the moment they met.
“It’s not the same. If she’d come to me, I would have told her.” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Joanna was a friend in trouble. Nothing more. I love Olivia. From the moment I saw her, it’s always been her.”
If he’d hurt her by not explaining sooner, then the fault was his.
But his heart had never been divided.
“She’s taken her clothes,” Gentry said, regret plain in his voice.
Mrs Boswell was quick to contradict him. “Not all her clothes. Just the grey dresses, undergarments, and half boots.”
“Everything she came with, then?”
“She didn’t take her books.”
“You’re certain?” It was like saying she’d left her soul behind.
Perhaps she’d left them for him. A reminder of what he’d let slip through his fingers. Or worse. To torment him with morbid lines of poetry.
“She confessed to loving you,” Mrs Boswell added, rubbing salt in an already raw wound.
But the comment triggered another memory. Their blood pact. The sting of the hatpin. Her solemn vow never to profess love and leave the same night.
After everything they’d endured, she wouldn’t walk away without confronting him. Without demanding he account for his lapse in judgement.
But as doubt gnawed at him, a colder thought settled over the heat of regret.
“No.” Something fierce ignited in his chest. “She didn’t leave.” He looked up, voice hardening. “My wife was taken. By this damned fraternity.”
It was all he could do not to grip the bedpost and curse his own stupidity. Why hadn’t he insisted she come straight to his room?
The devil’s own fury rose inside him.
There was a reason he could kill a man with his bare hands.
And that reason was now.
“Summon Kincaid. I’m going out. Tell him to ready the carriage. The one bearing my crest.” He faced his friends. “Go home. Protect your wives. These people will stop at nothing to hide their identities. No one is safe.”
They didn’t stare as though he belonged in Bedlam.
Dalton spoke first. “We’ll not leave you to deal with this alone. But you’ll need to tell us what the blazes is going on.”
Gentry nodded. “Don’t make us list the times you’ve saved our necks.” He turned for the door. “I’ll send my coachman to collect our wives and take them somewhere safe—the home of the Earl and Countess of Berridge.”
“I won’t have you die on my account.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” Dalton said.
“You’ll need weapons.”
“We have them.”
With no time to spare, Gabriel dressed in black, pulled on the Hessians with the concealed blades, and marched to the servants’ dining room.
He entered the dimly lit room to find the entire household gathered around the long table, most dressed for bed. The maids still wore their white caps, the footmen their dressing gowns, all of them staring blankly, as if awaiting judgement.
They froze at the sight of him.
His head still swam faintly, the edges of the room softening before sharpening into focus. He braced a hand against the doorframe, just for a moment, then straightened to his full height.
Daisy sat near the end of the table, her eyes red and puffy. She was wringing her hands and muttering between sobs, “I never meant to upset her ladyship. I didn’t think—”
Her voice cracked and faded when she saw him.
Not one of them moved. Not one dared speak.
Gabriel’s gaze swept the room of familiar faces, loyal staff, people who’d served this house and his family for years. But tonight, trust was a fragile thing. Tonight, anyone could be the traitor.
“No one leaves here until I have answers.” His voice betrayed none of the panic that thrummed beneath.
Rutland turned to him, arms folded, expression grim. “No one packed Lady Rothley’s clothes. No one saw her leave.”
“She didn’t leave. She was taken.” Gabriel’s voice was like steel, measured only by force of will.
“And someone here is an accomplice to kidnapping.” His gaze cut from one servant to the next, searching, judging.
“You may wish to consider that abducting the wife of a marquess is punishable by death.”
Jane spoke up, voice shaking. “I overheard the earl and countess talking when they came for Mr Gentry’s wedding, milord. I told Daisy you’d offered marriage. It’s me what’s to blame, not her.”
No, he was to blame. For not realising it would matter.
Gabriel gave a tight nod. “Thank you for your honesty. But that doesn’t answer the question. What the hell has happened to my wife?”
Rutland drew him aside, lowering his voice. “None of them know. Is it possible she left of her own accord?”
Gabriel didn’t hesitate. “No.”
He’d stake his life on it.
A discreet cough drew his attention.
Alfie hovered in the doorway, cap clutched in his hands. “Mr Kincaid sent me, milord. I need a quiet word about the carriage. Outside, if you’ve a moment to spare.”
Kincaid knew better than to interrupt without good reason.
“No one is to leave,” Gabriel barked, before striding after Alfie down the basement corridor. They stopped outside the pantry door. “I assume this isn’t about the carriage.”
“No, milord. But Mr Kincaid said I’m to tell you what I’ve seen.”
His pulse stuttered. “You saw Lady Rothley?”