Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Victor
A sense of unease settled over Victor as the carriage accident scene finally cleared. He had been able to extract a young mother and her child from beneath the overturned vehicle, and it appeared that both were without long-term injury.
Victor immediately turned back toward the shop awning where he had left Olivia. But it was empty. His irritation grew as he scanned the busy street. He had told her to remain there.
When he returned to where their carriage had been, it was gone, too. That realization made his blood boil. That she would depart without his knowledge or permission. Victor flagged down a passing hackney, ordering the driver to take him to Ravenswood House with all possible speed.
When he finally burst through the doors of his home, Simmons approached immediately, but eyeing Victor with curiosity.
“Your Grace?”
“Where is the duchess?” Victor interrupted, scanning the entrance hall.
“She has not returned, Your Grace.”
“Not returned?” Victor repeated, his voice sharp. “What of the carriage?”
“It returned nearly a half hour ago, Your Grace.” Simmons hesitated. “The coachman said he was dismissed by the duchess herself.”
“Bring him to me. Immediately.”
Thomas, the coachman, appeared minutes later, nervously twisting his hat in his hands.
“Your Grace, I—”
“Tell me precisely what happened,” Victor commanded, his voice controlled despite the growing tension in his chest.
“The duchess dismissed me, sir. Said she had a pressing matter at Harborough House.” The man shifted uncomfortably. “Said I should return home until you summoned me and that she would walk the short distance.”
Victor’s brow furrowed. “Harborough House? But her father is in the country.”
“That’s what she said, Your Grace. Something about an urgent message. She spoke with a messenger boy just before.”
The cold certainty that settled in Victor’s gut only intensified as he learned more details from the driver.
There was a boy with a note about her dying father, a carriage without markings that had pulled away after Olivia began walking, the fact that Harborough House would be empty since he wasn’t aware of her father returning to London.
“She’s been taken,” he told Simmons. “Send for Atherton, immediately.”
Every fiber of his being knew that someone had taken his little one. And he couldn’t afford to waste a single moment, if that were true. Not until she was back in his arms. The emotions that coursed through his veins were unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.
Hurrying to his study, Victor unlocked the drawer containing his service pistol, checking that it was loaded before securing it inside his coat. His mind worked to reason out where she might have been taken, even as his heart pounded. But he refused to allow his fear to control him.
When James Atherton arrived, he also found merit in Victor’s suspicions. From the time Atherton had spent tracking the man, his men knew of three different locations that Reynolds frequented.
“We’ll check them all,” Victor decided, already reaching for his coat. “Starting with the nearest.”
“I’ve rarely seen you so affected. So on edge,” James observed as they headed for the door. “Not even in Spain—”
“This is different.” Victor cut him off, unable to examine the depth of his feelings while Olivia remained in danger. “This is my wife.”
Their journey to find Olivia led them first to a Southwark boarding house, then to a Covent Garden studio where they discovered many of Reynolds’ belongings.
As they rode hard through the darkening city, Victor could not escape the visions that tormented him. Thoughts of Olivia in danger, frightened, possibly hurt. The realization that he might lose her forever . . . he couldn’t allow that to happen.
When had she become the very air he breathed?
The countryside swallowed them as London fell behind, moonlight illuminating the rough road. Every minute increased Victor’s dread that they might find her too late. Or worse, not at all.
“We’ll find her,” James assured him as they changed horses at a posting inn.
But Victor was unable to speak.
“The oak,” James called suddenly, pointing to a massive tree silhouetted against the night sky, its trunk split down the middle by some ancient lightning strike. “There’s the turning.”
They secured their horses to a hedgerow and continued on foot, Victor circling behind the small building while James approached from the side. Crouching beneath a window, he listened intently, hearing voices from within.
“Your continued resistance is admirable, Duchess, but ultimately futile.”
It was Reynolds.
Victor shifted to peer through the grimy glass. The sight that met his eyes sent ice through his veins.
Olivia sat on a narrow cot, her face pale but composed, her posture straight-backed despite her obvious fear. The bodice of her dress was around her waist, exposing her bare breasts to the men. Reynolds paced before her, a pistol dangling from his hand.
“My husband will find you,” Olivia said, her voice steady and certain. “No matter where you think to go.”
Reynolds released a wild laugh. “Your faith in the duke is touching, though perhaps misplaced. He’s likely still searching London, assuming you’ve run off with another lover. He knows exactly what kind of whore wife he married.”
“You’re wrong,” Olivia screamed back at him. “He’ll come for me. And when he does . . . God won’t even be able to help you.”
The absolute certainty in her voice struck Victor like a physical blow. After the way he’d been toward her the past week, she believed in him. Believed him to care for her.
He did. But he had been trying his damnedest to keep her from knowing that.
“Enough of the pointless chatter.” Reynolds moved closer, using his free hand to reach for his falls. “Perhaps we try a different way to jog your memory.”
“I’ve told you repeatedly, I know nothing of such matters,” Olivia replied, clutching at her gown.
“Then consider this a preview of what awaits you in Paris, where my patrons will find you most . . . useful in extracting information from captured British officers.”
As Reynolds reached for Olivia, rage exploded within Victor. With a nod to James, who had positioned himself at the side door, he burst through the cottage door, pistol raised.
“Step away from my wife,” he commanded, his voice loud enough to echo in the room.
Reynolds whirled, fear igniting in his expression as he registered Victor’s presence. In one fluid motion, he grabbed Olivia, yanking her against him as a shield while pressing his pistol to her temple.
“How unexpected, Your Grace,” Reynolds said, trying to maintain a casual tone.
Victor held his gaze, seeing the desperation in the man. But it was Victor who was desperate to get the barrel of the pistol away from his little one. “There’s nowhere for you to go. Release her, and I may permit you to leave England with your life.”
Reynolds gave a brittle laugh. “A generous offer, but unconvincing. We both know you’ll kill me the moment she’s free.”
Victor settled his gaze on Olivia. In her gaze, he saw her fear, trust, and emotion that made him ache for the moment that he could cradle her in his arms and keep her safe.
“Let her go,” Victor said, his voice roughening. “This is between us, Reynolds. She’s innocent.”
“Innocent?” Reynolds scoffed, tightening his grip on Olivia. “The scandalous duchess? I think not. Besides, I stand to make a fortune from whoring her out if I don’t have military secrets to sell.”
“Your plan has one fatal flaw, Reynolds,” Victor continued, lowering his pistol slightly.
“And what might that be?”
“You underestimate the accuracy of my aim and willingness to fire my pistol even with my wife before you.”
The statement hung in the air for a single heartbeat. Olivia took her opportunity and went limp in Reynolds’ arms, dropping her weight downward just as Victor raised his pistol and fired.
The shot cracked through the small room. Reynolds staggered backward, blood blooming across his shoulder as his pistol clattered to the floor. James rushed to secure Reynolds as Victor rushed to Olivia, falling to his knees before her.
“Are you hurt?” His hands cupped her face, his eyes scanning her features with frantic intensity. All pretense of control had vanished, leaving only fear, relief, and another overwhelming emotion he’d never expected to name.
“No,” she whispered, her own hands rising to grasp his wrists. “But I am so very glad to see you.”
“Olivia.” Her name emerged as a prayer. “I thought I’d lost you.”
She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “You found me.”
Victor pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his hands trembling as they framed her face. “Do you know what it did to me? When I realized you were gone?”
“I’m here,” she soothed, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “I was so frightened I would never see you again.”
His hands moved to her shoulders, then slid down her arms. “Tonight . . . when I thought I’d lost you, I realized what I’ve been fighting since the moment I saw that painting.”
“What?” she whispered, hope and fear mingling in her expression.
“That I love you,” he said, the words emerging broken yet perfect. “I love you, Olivia. Your spirit, your mind, your heart. Everything about you. That is why I made you mine.”
Tears spilled freely down Olivia’s cheeks. “Say it again,” she pleaded, her voice catching. “Please, Victor.”
“I love you.” The declaration gained strength as he repeated it. “I love you with a force that terrifies me.”
A sob broke from Olivia’s throat as she surged forward, her hands clutching his face as she pressed her forehead to his. “I couldn’t allow myself to hope that you might . . . I feared you would never—”
“I know,” Victor interrupted, his thumbs catching her tears. “I gave you no reason to hope.”
“But you’re saying it now,” she whispered, looking up at him through her teary lashes.
“I nearly lost you,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “And I realized tonight that if Reynolds had taken you from me, nothing else would have mattered. I would have destroyed the entire world until I had you again.”
Olivia’s breath caught on a sob as she pressed her lips to his, the kiss desperate and claiming. Victor responded with equal fervor, one hand tangling in her hair while the other pulled her closer, erasing any space between them.
“I love you too,” she confessed when they parted, her eyes shining. “I tried to tell myself not to. But I do.”
“I don’t deserve your love—”
“Daddy,” she interrupted where only he could hear, placing her fingers against his lips. “Your little one is ready for you to take her home.” A faint smile curved her mouth.
A startled laugh escaped him, rusty with disuse.
“James,” he called loudly over his shoulder, “see to Reynolds. I’m taking my wife home.”
Victor swept Olivia into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he carried her from the cottage. She nestled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, her hand resting over his heart.
“My little one,” he whispered against her hair. “First, I am going to remind you who your Daddy is, and then . . . I’m going to make up for all of the times I haven’t allowed you to come.”
She clung tighter to him. “Please, Daddy.”
“That’s my good girl.”