Chapter 10
Ten
Rain has begun to fall softly at first in a gentle tapping against the mullioned windows of Lionston House, but the sound soon grew into a steady, insistent rhythm.
Almost as though nature itself sought entry.
Leander Ashby, Duke of Lionston, scarcely noticed.
He sat at his desk in the library, pen in hand, though he had written the same sentence three times without progress.
His thoughts were fixed on Sabrina.
Every hour that passed without word scraped against his nerves like a dull blade.
She had disappeared without explanation two nights earlier, and though he had mobilized half the county to search for her, not a whisper of a clue had surfaced.
He should have had someone watching her, but he had thought she would remain safe at home.
How wrong he had been. He still could not believe she had gone missing and had no way of discovering who could have taken her.
If she had been taken… There was always a possibility she had gone off somewhere on her own, but he doubted that.
His instincts had never steered him wrong before.
Something inside of him knew she was in trouble and he had to find her.
He just needed something to help him ascertain where to look…
A sharp knock cracked through the quiet of the room snapping him out of his own thoughts. He shot his gaze toward the door. Leander straightened and barked, “Enter.”
The door opened—not to admit one of his footmen, as he expected—but a woman he recognized with a cold jolt of displeasure.
élise Marchand. He had learned much about her ever since he had seen her with Sabrina’s brother at that ball—including her full name.
French-born, quick-witted, sharp as glass, and a woman he had immediately distrusted at first glance.
She held a parchment in her hand and he stared at it with distaste.
Any message carried by her hand was certain to be poison.
She dipped into a calculated curtsy. “Your Grace.”
Leander stood slowly, his every instinct sharpening. “Mrs. Marchand. Why are you here?”
“Is that anyway to greet someone with information you seek?” she said lightly, stepping forward with the grace of a cat. “I am to give this to you.” Her gloved hand extended a sealed missive.
He did not take it at once. “Who sent you and what is this regarding?”
“It will become clear enough who sent me after you read it.” Her lips twitched in a twisted smile.
One that made him uneasy. “It is from someone one who holds something you value most dearly,” she murmured, her dark eyes gleaming with knowledge she should not possess. “You will find your answers within.”
A cold dread unfurled in his chest. He snatched the letter and broke the seal. The handwriting was precise, unfamiliar, but the content—God, the content—ignited terror and fury in equal measure.
We have your lady.
Come at once to the ironworks on Hollowbridge Road. Bring no guards. Bring no friends. If anyone accompanies you, she dies. Mrs. Marchand knows the way. Follow her.
No signature. No explanation. But the meaning was carved in blood. Leander’s pulse roared in his ears. Sabrina had definitely been taken and she was in grave danger. Was this because of him or was it somehow regarding her brother? He had little information to go on.
He lifted his gaze to élise. “Who sent this?” He hoped she would answer him, but he doubted she actually would.
He needed something to go forward with. Especially considering the note’s demands.
He knew it was a trap. They wanted him for some nefarious reason.
He just didn’t know what it was or what they hoped to achieve.
Her smile was thin, evasive. “One who believes you owe a debt, Your Grace.”
“Why Sabrina?” His voice was dangerously low. There was only one woman that missive could have been referring to. She was the only lady anyone could believe was his. Because she was his in all but name. He would rectify that soon enough. He wanted her to be his wife. His duchess. Just his…
“Because hurting her,” she said, “hurts you.”
He had half a mind to throttle her where she stood. But Sabrina’s face—her laughter, her softness, the way she had looked at him as though he were better than the man he feared he was—rose before him, shattering every instinct but one. He had to save her.
“Very well,” he said tightly. “You will take me to her.”
élise inclined her head. “As the letter instructed—you must come alone.”
He almost laughed, a bleak, humorless sound.
Alone. Surrounded by enemies. Walking directly into the hands of those who had already plotted his ruin.
He knew precisely what awaited him. A trap, likely death, and yet…
There was no choice. If the entire world closed its jaws around him, he would still walk into the dark so long as Sabrina stood somewhere within it.
He strode past élise, pausing only to take his greatcoat from a hook by the door.
He strolled out of his study and toward the foyer.
He would ensure that Sabrina came out of this without any lasting harm.
She was more important than anything else in his life.
He didn’t care if he died. Not really. He had long ago resigned himself to an early death.
He had to, with the sort of work he had done on the continent.
War often led to a shortened life. It was only a miracle death had not greeted him sooner than this.
Her voice drifted after him. “Are you certain, Your Grace? You may not return.”
He did not look back. “I would die,” he said quietly, “before I let them harm her.” But they had already harmed her, hadn’t they?
She had been missing for a couple of days now.
What had they already done to her? Was she all right?
Did they cause her any sort of pain? For that alone he wanted to murder them all.
He took a deep fortifying breath and prayed he would not be too late.
With that, Leander followed his enemy into the storm.
The rain had become far more torrential and wasn’t that a sign of what was to come…
The air inside the ironworks was thick—hot, metallic, and stifling.
Smoke curled through the rafters like restless phantoms, drifting above the clamor of hammers striking molten iron.
Sabrina Fairfax had never set foot in a place such as this, had never imagined that work so brutal, so blistering, could exist. The workers were shadows moving through firelight, their harsh voices echoing against the stone walls.
She understood none of their trade, but she understood fear—and it had become the very rhythm of her breathing.
She sat on a rough wooden chair in a dim corner; her wrists chafed from the coarse rope that bound them.
The iron rails behind her radiated heat like some monstrous furnace-breathing creature.
Somewhere deeper in the factory, the great bellows groaned, feeding flames that hissed and spat as though alive.
Her captor’s men barely spared her a glance as they passed, though she wished they would keep walking forever.
The one who frightened her most was the brute who oversaw the factory—a massive, boulder-shouldered man with a face hewn from stone and eyes that held no kindness.
He spoke very little, but when he did, his voice rumbled like distant thunder.
Bastien called him an associate. Sabrina suspected the devil himself would have found better company.
Yet even that giant did not chill her blood half as much as Bastien.
There was something wrong about him—something in the smooth curl of his smile, the softness of his tread, the way his eyes gleamed like polished obsidian. Evil did not always need to roar; sometimes it whispered. Sometimes it smiled.
Earlier that morning, élise Marchand had come gliding across the iron-scarred floors with a grace wholly unsuited to such a place. Her blue silk gown had looked like a mockery amidst soot and flame.
She leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I am off to visit His Grace.” élise stood and met gaze, her eyes cold. “I will ensure he receives the news of your impending demise.”
Sabrina had only shaken her head, her voice broken and raw. “I pray he never does.”
Because she knew what Bastien planned. She had overheard enough, he had confessed much and the whispers of retribution, of traps set years in the making had left her rigid with fear.
If Leander came, he would walk into certain death.
And she—she would be the blade Bastien used to deliver the final wound.
She had prayed—desperately, frantically, silently—that the letter would be intercepted, lost, burned, anything that would keep Leander away.
But her prayers shattered like glass the moment she heard the great doors of the factory groan open. Bootsteps, two sets, echoed around her. Her heart stopped.
No—no, it could not be…
But then he emerged through the hazy smoke.
The only man that she would ever love stood before her next to that evil woman.
His tall frame cut through the gloom like a blade through fog.
His expression was controlled—too controlled.
As though he stood at a ball rather than at the mouth of danger.
Leander kept his head held high, but she was not fooled.
He was afraid. Not of what might happen to him, but what might befall her.
élise strolled forward with her lips curved into a satisfied smile. Sabrina’s breath caught, her body trembling so violently her chair creaked beneath her. No. No, you foolish man. You should have run. You should have saved yourself.
Bastien appeared from the shadows opposite them, slow and triumphant. The smile he offered was the kind wolves showed lambs before the bite. “Well done, élise,” he purred. “Just as I promised, he came the moment you tugged the leash.”