Chapter 19 #3
Miss Bourne wasn’t upstairs. Neither was his wife.
He did the same on the ground floor and in the cellar. Nearly demanded they dig up the grave, afraid of what he’d find beneath the earth.
He stormed from the house with Gentry in tow, heading for the west wall. His stomach churned as they neared the garden and its cluster of old headstones. As God was his witness, he’d never read another graveyard poem again.
He stood before the mound of freshly turned earth and the homemade wreath of lavender, rosemary, and sprigs of bay, bound with torn muslin and thrown together in haste.
Reading his mind, Gentry crouched and pressed his hand to the soil. “It would take an hour to reach the coffin. And if what you say is true, the fraternity needs something from her.” He stood, brushing the dirt from his palms. “Olivia’s not here. I’d stake my life on it.”
“I know.”
He felt it in the marrow of his bones.
They returned to the house. He had one last question before they left for World’s End. A thought that came from nowhere but took root fast.
He found the flustered butler in the front hall. “Fetch Carrow. He was the coachman here when my father was alive, and I believe he still serves you now.”
A few minutes later, Carrow appeared in a nightshirt and trousers, grey hair flattened to one side, eyes still fogged with sleep.
“Answer one question. Do so honestly, and you’ll be spared prosecution when the magistrate learns of Miss Bourne’s criminal deeds.”
Carrow paled. “I’ll do my best, milord.”
Gabriel prayed the man had a good memory. “Ten years ago, the night Miss Bourne left Islington, did she leave with someone? Did you take her to the stage? Or ferry her to Dover?”
Carrow gave a half-shrug and stared at his boots.
“She didn’t just disappear. You took her somewhere. I advise you answer. I’ve no desire to whip an old man. But I’ve reached the end of my tether.”
“She met a fellow at a coaching inn in Rochester. I left her there.”
“And this fellow? Do you know him?”
Carrow shifted, clearly rattled. “I never got his name, milord. But he wasn’t a stranger.”
Gabriel firmed his jaw. “I’m in no mood for games.”
“No.” The coachman’s hands twitched at his sides. “He was a friend of yours, milord. Handsome fellow. A visitor at Studland Park.”
Gabriel cursed inwardly. Yet relief slackened his shoulders like a rope cut from a winch. “Justin Lovelace?”
“I didn’t ask no names.”
And he didn’t need to hear more.
Minutes later, he was back in the carriage with Rutland, Dalton, and Gentry. The door slammed, Kincaid cracked the reins, and Wynbury Hall disappeared behind them.
No one spoke.
Gabriel looked between them. “Did anyone here know Lovelace and Miss Bourne were lovers? Say now, and I’ll stop the carriage. You’ll have my forgiveness—God knows it wouldn’t have been easy to tell me—but you’ll no longer have my friendship.”
Too much had already been lost to silence.
He’d lived with half-truths while the rest of it rotted in the dark.
He couldn’t stomach more lies.
Not from those he trusted most.
Rutland met his gaze without flinching. “Had I known, I’d have told you. Loyalty is everything between friends.”
Dalton scoffed, shaking his head. “Do you think I’d keep something like that from you? I know the price you put on betrayal.”
Gentry held his gaze, a shared pain behind his eyes. “I’d have dragged him through gravel if I had.”
The ache in Gabriel’s chest eased.
He hadn’t doubted them.
“Then we’ll not mention it again.”
The rest of the journey passed in silence.
They arrived at Mrs Hodge’s cottage to find the front door open, the frame splintered, a side table overturned, and the woman sprawled on the floor, clutching her middle.
A silver hilt jutted from her abdomen, glinting faintly in the dark. Blood soaked her white nightgown, the crimson stain spreading fast, the coppery scent already rising in the still air.
She was alive—barely. Her chest rose in shallow jerks, her lips parted in a faint, breathless moan.
Gentry tore off his cravat and crouched beside her, gently moving her trembling hand aside to press the bundled silk to the wound. “Hold this,” he said quietly. “Keep the pressure. Let me see what we’re dealing with.”
Her hand slipped. Gabriel dropped to his knees, catching the silk and pressing it down. “Who did this?”
Her eyes fluttered open, vacant at first. Then they found his and filled with fear. “No,” she muttered through cracked lips.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
She looked beyond him, her voice a croak when she uttered Olivia’s name. “Where is she? You didn’t leave her … not at the house?”
Pain burned low in his gut. The blade of fear was still lodged there, impossible to ignore. “They’ve taken her.”
Mrs Hodge cried, a soft, broken sound, Olivia’s name lost in the pain. “No. No. No. Do they have the file?” She gasped. “Did you find the evidence?”
“No, on both counts.”
Rather than dismay, her sigh carried relief. “Then all is not lost. There’s still time.”
Hope flickered to life. He didn’t trust it, but clung on, refusing to let it die. “Do you know where they took her? Do you know where her father hid the evidence?”
She reached for him, a trembling hand on his coat sleeve. “Follow his clues. He was convinced you would help her find it.” Another ragged breath. Her hand slipped from his sleeve, her eyes glassy with pain. “They’ll kill her once they have it … you too. They’ll not risk your wrath.”
Gentry leaned over her, voice low but firm. “Conserve your energy, ma’am. If we’re to save you, the blade has to come out.” But when he looked at Gabriel, he gave a slight shake of his head.
Mrs Hodge’s gaze drifted. She knew every second counted. “All you need is the file … but I don’t know where it is. No one does.”
Gabriel bent lower. “You must know where they’ve taken her. Who’s involved. For heaven’s sake, woman, give me something.”
Seconds passed.
“The man in the bed … it wasn’t Mr Lovelace.”
The truth hit like a punch, but there was no time to dwell.
“The watchman … he did this. He was paid to get rid of the body.”
The devil’s own fury rose in Gabriel’s chest.
“Sir …” Her voice rasped. “Sir Randall. His sister knew.”
Gabriel stared at her, blood thundering in his ears.
But the woman had one final message as her life ebbed away. “Trust no one. Go home, my lord. Find the file before it’s too late.”