Chapter Twenty
Raven stared at the ledger before him, but the numbers might as well have been written in ancient Greek for all the sense they made. Three days. Three interminable days since he’d sent Ashley to her own bed, since he’d asked her to trust him the way he’d trusted her.
Three days of watching the woman he loved withdraw further behind her walls.
He’d been a fool. A self-righteous, arrogant fool who’d demanded honesty while ignoring the very real fear in his wife’s eyes.
Ashley had tried to tell him the investigation was dangerous, had begged him to leave the past alone, and he’d bulldozed forward anyway, convinced that justice mattered more than her concerns.
Now she barely spoke to him. Took her meals in her room. Made excuses to avoid him in the corridors of their own home.
For me, there can be no love without trust.
God, what had he done? He’d made love and trust conditional, given her an ultimatum when what she’d needed was patience. Understanding. The same compassion he’d hoped for when he’d shown her those silk scarves and admitted his darkest desires.
Raven pushed back from his desk with enough force to send his chair scraping across the floor. He couldn’t focus on estate business, couldn’t think about anything except the growing chasm between them. If he didn’t find a way to bridge that distance soon, he feared it would become permanent.
Perhaps he should go to her. Tell her the investigation didn’t matter. That whatever secret she was keeping, he could live with it. That their future together was more important than punishing whoever had hurt her in the past.
Because it was, wasn’t it? Three years of her suffering couldn’t be undone by exposing the truth now. But three more years—or thirty—of a marriage poisoned by his stubborn pride and her justified fear? That was a tragedy he could prevent. That was something he could fix.
Raven stood, decision made. He would find Ashley right now and tell her—
Movement in the garden caught his eye. He glanced toward the window, expecting to see a servant or perhaps one of the gardeners.
Instead, he saw his wife.
Ashley sat on the stone bench near the rose arbor, her morning dress a pale blue against the darker greens of the garden. Even from this distance, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself as if carrying an enormous weight.
Raven’s hand moved to the window latch. He would go to her now. Would tell her everything he’d just realized. Would beg her forgiveness for being such a damned fool.
But then another figure appeared at the garden gate.
A man. Tall, well-dressed, moving with the kind of casual arrogance that set Raven’s teeth on edge even before he recognized who it was.
Lord Edmund Carstairs.
Ice flooded Raven’s veins. What the hell was that bastard doing in his garden? How dare he approach Ashley on private property?
Ashley had risen from the bench, and even through the window, Raven could see her body language shift—shoulders pulling back, chin lifting in defiance. But also fear. He could see the fear in the way her hands clenched at her sides.
Raven was moving before he’d consciously decided to, striding toward the door of his study. But something made him pause, some instinct warning him to watch. To see what Carstairs wanted before charging in like an avenging angel.
He returned to the window, watching as Carstairs spoke. Too far away to hear the words, but close enough to see Ashley’s face pale. To see her take an involuntary step backward.
Then Carstairs moved.
Fast. Shockingly fast for a gentleman. His hand clamped over Ashley’s mouth, his other arm locking around her waist as she struggled.
“No!” The word tore from Raven’s throat as he spun toward the door, his heart hammering with terror and rage. He crashed through his study door, down the corridor, toward the garden entrance yelling for his servants to help—
Too slow. He was too goddamned slow. By the time he’d reached the garden, it was empty. Only the rose Ashley had been holding lay on the ground, abandoned.
Raven ran to the gate, throwing it open. The mews beyond were quiet, but he caught the sound of rapidly retreating hoofbeats, and saw a dark carriage disappearing around the corner.
Taking his wife.
Taking Ashley.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. Carstairs had Ashley. He must be the man who’d destroyed her reputation, who’d terrorized her into three years of silence. And he’d just abducted her from her own garden.
And it was Raven’s fault. His bloody investigation had forced Carstairs’s hand. Ashley had tried to warn him, had begged him to stop asking questions, and he’d arrogantly dismissed her concerns. Believed he knew better. Believed justice was worth the risk.
Now she was paying the price for his stupidity.
Not again. God, please, not again.
The thought slammed into him with the force of a runaway carriage.
Kitty. Kitty had died because of circumstances beyond his control, killed by a madman while Raven had been powerless to stop it.
He’d lived with that guilt every day since, the knowledge that he’d failed to protect someone he cared for.
And now Ashley—his wife, his partner, the woman who’d become essential to his very existence—was in danger because of him. Because of his arrogance. Because he’d insisted on digging into a past she’d begged him to leave buried.
“Your Grace?” Simpson appeared in the garden doorway; concern etched across his butler’s usually impassive face. “I heard shouting—”
“My wife has been taken,” Raven said, his voice deadly calm despite the panic clawing at his chest. “Lord Edmund Carstairs abducted her from the garden moments ago. Send a footman to the Marquess of Wolfarth’s residence immediately.
Tell Wolf his sister has been taken, and I need him and Rockwell at my townhouse now. Then have my horse saddled. Quickly.”
Simpson’s eyes widened, but to his credit, he didn’t waste time with questions. He simply bowed and ran.
Raven stood alone in the garden, his mind racing. Where would Carstairs take her? Somewhere isolated. Somewhere he could…what? Threaten her? Hurt her?
Kill her.
The thought sent ice through his veins. If Carstairs was desperate enough to abduct a duchess in broad daylight, he was desperate enough to do anything. And Ashley knew his identity. She could expose whatever secret he’d been hiding for three years.
She was a liability now. A witness who could destroy him.
Unless he eliminated the witness.
“No.” Raven’s hands clenched into fists. “No, you bastard. You will not touch her. You will not hurt her. I will find you, and I will make you pay for every moment of fear you’ve caused my wife.”
He forced himself to breathe. To think. Blind rage wouldn’t help Ashley. He needed to be smart about this. Strategic.
Where would Carstairs go?
Not his own residence—too obvious. Not any of his clubs or known haunts. Somewhere outside London, perhaps. Somewhere quiet and abandoned where screams wouldn’t be heard.
Think, damn you. You’re the Duke of Blackstone. You have resources, connections, information at your fingertips. Use them.
Raven ran back into the house, taking the stairs to his study two at a time. He grabbed paper and ink, his hand steady despite the terror churning in his gut as he wrote rapid notes.
One to his man of business, requesting immediate information on any properties Carstairs owned or had access to. One to his solicitor, demanding every scrap of intelligence on Carstairs’s financial situation. One to his contacts at the Home Office, calling in favors he’d been saving for years.
If Carstairs had taken Ashley somewhere, someone would have seen them. Carriages couldn’t just vanish into thin air.
A commotion downstairs announced Wolf’s arrival. Raven met him in the entrance hall, where both Wolf and Rockwell stood breathing hard, clearly having run the entire way.
“What happened?” Wolf demanded without preamble. “Where is she?”
“Carstairs took her.” Raven’s voice was hard as steel. “From our garden, not fifteen minutes ago. I saw it happen from my study window but couldn’t reach her in time.”
“Carstairs?” Rockwell’s eyes widened. “Lord Edmund Carstairs?”
“You know him?”
“By reputation only.” Wolf’s expression had gone grim. “He’s been courting the Harrington sugar heiress. There were rumors of an engagement announcement soon.”
“Then he needs money,” Raven said, pieces clicking into place. “Desperately, if he’s willing to marry a merchant’s daughter. And my investigation into Ashley’s scandal threatened that. If the Harringtons discovered he’d tried to abduct another woman three years ago—”
“They’d withdraw the offer,” Rockwell finished. “A merchant family desperate for a title might overlook many things, but not that kind of scandal.”
“So he took her to silence her.” Wolf’s voice was deadly quiet. “He’s going to kill my sister to protect his marriage prospects.”
The words hung in the air, too terrible to fully contemplate.
“No,” Raven said with absolute conviction. “He’s not. Because we’re going to find them. All of us. We have resources he can’t possibly match. Connections, money, men who owe us favors. We will find Ashley, and we will bring her home.”
“Where do we start?” Rockwell asked.
“I’ve already sent for information on Carstairs’s properties,” Raven said, leading them to his study. “We need to think about where he’d take her. Somewhere isolated but accessible. Somewhere he could reach within an hour or two of London.”
“He has a hunting lodge,” Wolf said suddenly. “North of the city. I remember hearing about it at White’s—he was complaining about the upkeep costs last Season.”
“Where exactly?” Raven demanded.
“Near Barnet, I think. Off the Cambridge road.”
The Cambridge road. Where Ashley had been found three years ago, frightened and alone. Carstairs was taking her back to where it all began.