Chapter Thirty-Two
Anastasia sat on the floor in the corner of the sparse chamber and wept. She refused to sit on the bed, knowing exactly how Baron Brett might choose to interpret that when he returned.
She was no fool; she knew the baron could easily overpower her if he wished to. But she wasn’t about to make it easy for him. She had only ever lain with one man—her husband—and she did not intend for that to change without a fight.
But she hoped it would not come to that. She hoped, even if he did not love her—even if he had a queue of mistresses lining up to warm his bed—Laurence would rescue her. That he would discover her whereabouts, somehow, and take her away from this hell.
She did not know where Baron Brett had gone. He had been back twice in the hours since he had taken her from the street outside the pawn shop. Well, she thought it had been hours, but her only way of knowing was from the lowering of the sun that she could see through the small window.
There was no way of escaping. She had tried when he had first left, climbing the chair to reach the window, only to realize that it was far too high to escape through without—
Dying.
Death was possibly a fate she would have taken over whatever Baron Brett had in mind, but she would not do that to her unborn child.
And she was still very much hoping for a miracle; hoping that Laurence would burst through the door and save her.
The door was bolted, thick wood that either muffled her cries or at least allowed anyone on the other side to ignore them. And that was it: a chair, a bed, and a locked door. Nothing she could use as a weapon, and nothing she could use to escape.
She heard the key in the door, the metal scraping against the lock. She sat upright, furiously wiping away her tears. She was sure it was obvious that she had been crying, but she wouldn’t let him see it. She refused to give him the satisfaction.
He slipped into the room and stood there, watching her from under half-lowered lids. “The hours are ticking by, little one,” he said, a smirk on his lips. “It seems you will be my payment, after all.”
She did not understand his words. Why did the time passing mean anything? Had he sent a ransom note? And if so, to whom?
Would Laurence receive demands for money and not pay it to retrieve her? She could not truly believe it. Laurence had money, and he was not afraid to spend it.
Oliver, on the other hand? Unfortunately, she now had no confidence that her brother would ever choose her over money. If he had been sent the ransom demand…she did not think he would pay it. But would his pride allow him to go to Laurence?
Or would he just leave his sister as payment?
She shivered at the thought.
*
Laurence hammered on the Carrington front door, not caring about propriety. When the butler opened the door, he looked a little shocked, perhaps by the expression on Laurence’s face.
“I’m afraid Mr. Carrington is presently unavailable,” the butler said, a strained expression upon his face.
“I will see him,” Laurence growled. “I will charge through this entire house if I have to, or you can lead me to him.”
“I cannot—” the butler said, his gaze darting to the closed door of the study, where Laurence presumed Oliver was hiding.
He stepped forward. “Carrington! Come out now, or I will break down every door in this house to find you!”
The butler turned pale; the study door opened.
“Go, James.”
The butler hurried away, seeming rather relieved to have been dismissed.
“Where is she?” Laurence did not think that Oliver would have hidden from him had he not known something about Anastasia’s disappearance, and so he wasted no time with pleasantries.
“I don’t—”
“My wife is missing. Time is of the essence, Carrington. Is she here?”
Oliver shook his head.
“You know where she is.” It was not a question.
Oliver shook his head once more. “Not where she is. I know who has her.”
Laurence’s blood ran cold. So it was the worst of the options: someone had taken her.
“Oh?”
Oliver reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment, handing it to Laurence.
His eyes dropped straight to the bottom of the missive: Baron Brett. A blight upon their lives yet again.
“How long have you had this?” he asked.
“Not long,” Oliver insisted, Laurence’s tone—and presence—clearly making him uneasy.
“I believe it was delivered two hours ago, Your Lordship,” the butler said, and Oliver’s eyes widened with horror as his lie was exposed.
“Two hours?” Laurence took a step towards Oliver. “You have known that man has my wife for two hours and have done nothing about it?”
Oliver glared at the butler, who was surely in line to lose his job for his honesty. “Not nothing. I was just getting ready to respond. As you can see, he demands money, and it never does any good to give in to blackmailers.”
“He has my wife,” Laurence roared.
“Unfortunate collateral, yes, but—”
Laurence could not control himself any longer. He took one step closer, and his fist flew, landing squarely on Oliver’s weak mouth.
Oliver screamed, recoiled, and clasped his hand to his lip, where blood was already trickling down onto the rug beneath their feet.
“You will tell me what you know, and you will aid me in rescuing your sister—and then you will never darken our doorway again. Do you understand?”
Oliver clasped his lip and did not speak.
Laurence grabbed the man by his cravat and shook him until his teeth chattered. “I said. Do. You. Understand?”
He nodded.
“Good. Now, tell me everything about Brett. What you owe him, what he has said in the past. We need to work out where he is holding her and get her before…before she comes to any harm.” Laurence had to close his eyes briefly to fight the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him at the thought of her being hurt or violated.
Baron Brett was a vile man, and Laurence did not know the lengths he would go to in order to recoup the money he wanted, or to punish Oliver—although Oliver did not truly seem to care about his sister.
“If he hurts her, I’m holding you personally responsible.
I will tear you limb from limb before going on to do the same to him.
” Anger was a far more productive emotion than the terror he was feeling in the pit of his stomach, and even if it would not make sense to beat Oliver into a pulp right now, he could quite happily dole out a warning.
They were going to find her, and she was going to be all right. They had to. He couldn’t imagine his life without her.