Prologue #2
It was as dark as pitch in the room. No fire or lamp of any kind was allowed, not since Michael Vane had tried to set himself ablaze.
Sebastian hobbled to the window and threw open one of the shutters.
Benedict made a noise of quiet shock at the sight of the bars crossing the windows, too closely to allow even a hand through them, but Sebastian was staring at the bed.
The empty bed.
He grabbed Benedict’s coat. “Why are you here?”
“To—to find my sister.” Benedict seemed rattled as well.
“Why the devil did you think she was here?” he demanded.
Benedict stared at him. “Because she said nothing would stop her from marrying you.”
Sebastian cursed again. “If her father wouldn’t—and I strongly assume he would—I would.” He thumped his crutch in illustration. “But why did you think she was here tonight?”
“I— She went missing,” said Benedict, finally appearing to grasp how thin his logic had been. “I couldn’t find her . . .”
“She’s not here—she never has been.” Sebastian limped from the room, the crutch digging into his arm.
“And now, neither is my father.” His brain still felt a bit fuzzy from the laudanum; damn it, he must have forgotten to lock the door.
How long had it been since Michael escaped?
Between the cold and the darkness, time was of the essence in finding him.
He turned back toward the stairs. Behind him he could hear Benedict opening the last few doors, all of which led into rooms that were completely empty.
Benedict caught up to him in the hall below, as Sebastian was putting on his hat and coat.
“Where else could she be?” he asked, only slightly subdued.
“I’ve no idea. She’s your sister.” Sebastian pulled open the front door and gestured. “Go home, Ben. She probably went to the library for a book, or to the kitchen for some warm milk.”
Benedict scowled, although with real worry this time. “I looked there. I looked everywhere. She was gone, I tell you. And you—and she—”
Sebastian shrugged. He was fond of Samantha .
. . as a brother or a cousin might be. With her promise of beauty and her father’s position and wealth, she would marry much better than he, a crippled soldier whose father had laid waste to his estate because he thought the devil was after him.
Sebastian himself had told Samantha that he wouldn’t be a good husband; he’d only meant to let her know, gently, that her affection for him was misplaced.
He was needed at home to care for his father, and now he’d been proven negligent even at that.
“Why were the windows upstairs barred?”
Sebastian raised his eyebrows at the hesitant question. “Because he’s gone mad—hadn’t you heard? He’s a danger to himself and must be locked in every night.”
Benedict glanced up the stairs. “But the door was unlocked. Perhaps Samantha . . .”
“Crossed the river, in the dark, climbed the hill, found a way into the house, unlocked his door, and then left, without anyone seeing her?” Sebastian finished when Benedict didn’t.
“How likely is that? And what would it gain her, in any event?” He shook his head, fumbling with his buttons, cursing the laudanum that made him clumsy—and forgetful—tonight.
“No,” murmured Benedict. “I know that even if she thought . . . That is to say, there would still be . . .” He flushed, stopping short of saying what they both knew.
“Even if he died, it wouldn’t change anything?” Sebastian gave him a hard look. “I suggest you go home to find your sister.”
Benedict hesitated, then jerked his head in a single nod. He went out and untied his horse from the post. With a quick, easy motion that gave Sebastian a pang of useless envy, he swung into the saddle and wheeled his horse around. “Good luck,” he said after a moment’s pause.
Sebastian nodded once. “And to you.”
Benedict disappeared into the night. It would take him close to an hour to get home on horseback.
He would have to ride through Richmond and rouse the ferryman, although perhaps he’d paid the man to wait when he came across the river the first time.
He’d be cold and stiff by the time he reached home—which must say something about how strongly he feared his sister had been persuaded to run off with Sebastian.
Just another bit of proof that their friendship was irrevocably over.
Sebastian glanced longingly toward his dark and empty stables, wishing he, too, had a horse.
It would make searching for his father much easier, if he had to go into the woods.
Of course, he couldn’t ride anywhere. Thanks to his ruined knee, mounting a horse would be agony, and thanks to his father’s delusions, they didn’t have any horses anyway.
He went to rouse the Joneses, unable to answer their alarmed queries about how Mr. Vane had got out.
When a quick search of the house and stable revealed nothing, he struck out for the woods.
As he limped down the uneven path, the echo of his own words followed him.
Even if he died, it wouldn’t change anything.
That wasn’t quite true. If his father died, he wouldn’t have to sleep in his chair, ready to spring into action if another fit seized Michael.
He wouldn’t suffer any more injuries trying to keep his father from harming other people.
He wouldn’t have to watch his once intelligent, practical parent become a distorted shell of himself, filthy and insane and raving about the demons pursuing him.
In many ways, Sebastian knew it would be a mercy when death finally claimed his father.
But it wouldn’t make him any more eligible.
Samantha had to know that as well as anyone.
Benedict would find her safe at home, and feel like an idiot for rushing to Montrose Hill.
For a moment Sebastian wondered if his onetime friend would apologize for his accusations, and then he shrugged it off.
The odds were highly against it, and if not for Benedict’s visit, he wouldn’t have known his father was missing until morning.
Perhaps he should thank Benedict for being so suspicious.
He raised his lantern higher and tried to think where his father might have gone.
At dawn, Mr. Jones found Sebastian and half carried him back to the house for a few hours of sleep. Together he and Mr. Jones combed the meadow and dragged the pond, an exercise which put Mr. Jones back into bed with chills and a cough.
Two letters arrived that day. One was from Benedict, apologizing for troubling him.
Samantha had indeed been safe at home. The other letter was from Samantha herself, urging Sebastian to call on her.
He supposed Benedict had told her what happened, and she also wanted to apologize.
He hoped that was all she wanted to say; the sooner she redirected her affections, the better for all of them. Sebastian threw both notes on the fire.
But no trace of Michael Vane was ever seen again. And instead of making anything better, his father’s disappearance only made everything much, much worse.