Chapter 19 #2
Alfie shook his head. “I saw the cook last night, out in the garden. He met a woman down by the fountain. He was meant to be locked in the pantry, calming his temper, only he wasn’t.”
Gabriel’s fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re certain it was Molière?”
Alfie nodded. “And it ain’t the first time, neither. I saw him out there the other night, meeting the same lady who came across the field.”
“From the direction of Wynbury Hall?”
The lad shrugged. “That’s what Mr Kincaid thinks.”
Gabriel laid a hand on Alfie’s shoulder. “You’ve done well. Tell Kincaid we’re leaving in five minutes.”
He turned on his heel, striding back to the servants’ dining room.
The moment he entered, every head snapped up.
He didn’t waste time. “Molière will be leaving us tonight. Though if he’s lucky, he may yet save himself from the gallows.”
Molière’s eyes darted to the door, then back to Gabriel. His fingers fumbled at the edge of his chair, white-knuckled and trembling.
“Raise your hand,” Gabriel said, his gaze sweeping the table, “if you’ve ever seen him slip out of the house at night.”
One by one, the staff slowly raised their hands.
Molière surged to his feet, chair scraping against the floor. “Imbéciles,” he spat. “Stupid traitors!” He bolted for the door.
Gabriel was faster. He caught the cook by the scruff and slammed him against the wall, hard enough to rattle the sideboard.
“You’ve been feeding information to Miss Bourne,” he growled. That woman was the bane of his existence. “I don’t give a damn that you drugged my brandy. Who has my wife?”
Molière’s lips clamped shut.
Gabriel shoved him again, fury coiled tight in every muscle. “Answer me. Or you’ll be begging for the noose.”
Molière winced, hands raised. “Please … I had no choice.”
“Wrong answer.”
“They have my brother,” the cook cried, his accent thickening as panic overtook him. “In Lyon. In gaol. Miss Bourne, she said if I did not help, he would rot there.”
Gabriel’s grip tightened. “Help how?”
“She wanted information. To know when the lady was alone, when the house was quiet.” He swallowed hard. “I never meant for her to be harmed. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”
It took a saint’s will not to throttle the man.
“Where would they have taken her?”
“I don’t know!” Molière stammered, shrinking back, his feet slipping from underneath him. “I was never told. Only when. Only that it must be quick, and at night.”
And to make sure he couldn’t follow.
Gabriel cursed under his breath. “Get up.”
When the man hesitated, Gabriel seized him by the collar and hauled him upright. “You’ll be our guest in the pantry until I decide whether to hand you to the authorities or deliver justice myself.”
He dragged Molière down the corridor, shoved him inside, slammed the door shut, and turned the key, leaving it in the lock.
Facing the servants gathered in the hall, Gabriel’s voice rang like steel. “He doesn’t leave this house. Not for a piss or a prayer. The men are to guard the door until my return.”
The staff nodded, wide-eyed.
God help anyone who defied him now.
He gestured to Rutland. “We’re leaving.” But he was already striding down the corridor when his friend caught up with him.
“Was it him, dead in the watch-house?” Rutland asked. “Was it Lovelace? Gentry said he went to identify the body, but the resurrectionists stole it.”
Gabriel mounted the stone stairs, the image an unwelcome distraction. The similarities were uncanny: bone structure, hair colour, height, frame. Yet he would stake his life that it wasn’t him.
“I want to say yes.”
“But every instinct says it’s not,” Rutland finished.
Gabriel nodded. “Had I looked into his eyes, I’d have known. I’m afraid we’re no closer to knowing whether our friend is dead.”
Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, the truth still shrouded in doubt.
His thoughts turned to Olivia.
Where was she? Was she afraid? Had she fought, cried out? Did she know he would find her, whatever the cost?
Miss Bourne hadn’t taken her in a fit of jealousy. This wasn’t some reckless impulse. It was cold. Premeditated. The work of revolutionaries, not a woman scorned. Molière had used the word they.
But he couldn’t think about losing her. Couldn’t let the fear take hold. If he faltered now, he might never see her again.
They wouldn’t kill her.
Not yet.
Not until they got what they came for.
He had time. Time to get her back.
In the mews, Dalton was the first to press for answers. “Where do we start? We don’t know why they took her or what they’re after.”
“Or why you married her without telling your friends.” Gentry gripped Gabriel’s shoulder. “Why you’ve kept us in the dark.”
For the same reason he did anything. To protect those he loved from the faceless devils who hunted in shadows.
“I’ll explain on the way,” he said, already moving.
He noticed Alfie atop the box, swamped in a heavy coat, cap pulled low. The boy might like to think he was invisible.
“Alfie.”
The boy jerked upright. “Yes, milord.”
“Loyalty is the only currency that matters here. You’ve earned your place, and can ride with us tonight.” The boy’s smile took the chill from Gabriel’s heart, if only for a moment. “Still, you answer to Kincaid.”
“Aye, milord.”
The horses stamped and snorted in the dark, breath clouding in the cold. Kincaid steadied the team of muscled Friesians pulling the elegant black carriage emblazoned with the dragon crest. “Where to?” he asked.
“Wynbury Hall.” He’d strike the obvious places off the list first. There was no time to search the house for swallows and spend hours hunting down the next clue. “Then to World’s End. I have questions for Mrs Hodge, and may want to call on the rector.”
The drive to Wynbury Hall took ten minutes, just long enough for Gabriel to give his friends a quick recount of all that had happened.
Rutland shook his head. “And you think Miss Bourne is part of this fraternity? That means she knew Olivia’s father.”
Gabriel didn’t know what to think. “Without the full picture, we’re groping in the dark. But I’m convinced she took Olivia, and not because she wants me.” The carriage rattled through Wynbury’s rusted gates. “Hopefully her aunt can shed light on the matter.”
“It’s gone four,” Rutland muttered as the carriage wheels crunched over gravel. “They’ll all be abed.”
“Then we’ll wake them,” Dalton said, sneering.
Wynbury Hall loomed ahead. The house was silent, every blind drawn, every window black. An eerie mist clung to the place, creeping low to the ground, weaving up the stone steps like it knew the way.
Gabriel alighted, scanning the facade where ivy clung like rot. Something in the air told him he wasn’t wasting his time. But only an amateur would bring Olivia here. And Kate Bourne was as devious as the snake that tricked Eve.
“Kincaid, keep your eyes peeled. There’s a slim chance Miss Bourne is here. But have a care. Don’t fire blindly in the dark.”
The coachman gave a sharp nod and drew his pistol.
Gabriel mounted the steps, slammed the brass knocker against the plate, each hammer echoing like a summons for the dead.
No response.
Not even a whisper of wind in the trees.
A second knock failed to rouse a sleepy-eyed servant.
Gabriel stepped back from the door and searched the windows for a twitch of curtain or sudden flicker of light.
“Dalton, you and Rutland take the rear. Force your way in if you must. Caesar is the code word. So I know it’s you if I encounter a figure in the dark.”
“You think we’ll need it?” Dalton asked.
“I think we won’t get a second chance to wonder.”
Dalton nodded brusquely. He and Rutland moved off without a word, skirting the house and vanishing into the gloom.
While Gabriel contemplated which windowpane to break, Gentry shifted beside him, face grim. “Something isn’t right. Maybe Miss Bourne wished to draw you away from Studland Park. Assuming she’s the one responsible.”
He had thought the same and dismissed it. “She’s responsible. Everything about her return to Islington feels wrong. Besides, she had Molière drug my brandy. Miss Bourne could have searched every room without my knowledge.”
“But why join a band of revolutionaries? What is she hoping to gain? Certainly not wealth. She’s about to inherit this estate.”
“Is she? Perhaps her aunt had other ideas.” He refused to waste time grasping for answers. “We’ll discuss it during the journey to World’s End. There’s a chance Olivia has been taken there.”
He pictured her, defiant, trying to hide her fear. She wouldn’t have left willingly. The thought of someone hurting her was a slow, sick twist in his gut, and he forced the image away.
The scrape of bolts snapped his attention to the door. He reached for the blade in his boot as it creaked open.
A figure appeared, his candle held high. “Can I help you?” The butler squinted into the dark, hair mussed, his waistcoat unbuttoned.
Gabriel stepped forward. “I know the hour, but this can’t wait. I need to speak with Mrs Culpepper.”
The butler’s mouth thinned. “I’m sorry, milord. Mrs Culpepper passed two days ago. Mere hours after you left. A dreadful coughing fit led to her heart giving out. I thought you’d have heard.”
Gabriel didn’t quite believe it. Not that she’d succumbed to illness, but that the timing was so convenient.
“Then I’d like to see her. I assume she’s been laid out in the drawing room.” He’d have Gentry check the body and look for anything out of place.
A muscle in the butler’s cheek twitched. “No, milord. She was laid to rest in the family plot by the west wall this afternoon. The physician was certain of the cause, and Miss Bourne saw no reason to delay.”
Already six feet under. Why was he not surprised?
“Is Miss Bourne at home?”
“She left after the funeral and hasn’t returned.”
“Then you’ll step aside. I need to search this house.”
Gabriel barged past the butler, took the stairs two at a time, and threw open every door along the corridor. He scanned the armoires, looked beneath the beds, into every damn shadow.