Chapter 16 #2
Clutching the note, she turned down the corridor. The polished floors gleamed beneath her slippers as she crossed the entry hall and stepped outside. A footman stationed near the door followed her onto the veranda, bowing slightly before taking up his post to watch her walk down the gardens’ path.
The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of roses and damp earth.
Charlotte breathed it in, grateful for the fresh air and the solitude.
The gravel crunched softly beneath her feet as she wound through the manicured hedges, following the familiar path towards the rear of the gardens where the tall birch trees formed a secluded screen.
When she reached the back gate, she paused. No one was there.
Her pulse quickened. She looked around, scanning the shaded alcoves and the line of trees. “Luca?” she called softly. No answer.
A flicker of unease rippled through her. Nonsense, she told herself. He was likely being cautious, waiting until he was certain her brother’s servants weren’t watching. That would be just like him—always careful, always thinking two steps ahead.
The breeze rustled through the birch leaves, whispering faintly. She turned her head, straining to listen—
A sharp crack echoed behind her.
Before she could react, a coarse hand seized her arm. A rough fabric bag was forced over her head, cutting off the sunlight.
“Wait—!” she gasped, but the word was strangled by panic. Something heavy struck the side of her skull, and the world pitched violently sideways.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
Luca sat behind his desk in the cramped office of The London Gazette, exhaustion pressing on him like a physical weight.
The faint scent of ink and paper hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid smoke of a candle that had burned too long.
His morning had been a waste—hours standing in the biting wind outside Mr. Dawlish’s modest residence, hoping to catch a glimpse of his mother.
But luck, it seemed, had abandoned him. No sign of her.
No new leads. Just time lost—time he no longer had to spare.
He leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingertips to his temples. How many nights had he spent chasing shadows through London’s alleys and parlors, following threads that unraveled just as quickly as he could grasp them?
A sharp rap at the door broke through his thoughts.
“Enter,” he ordered.
The door creaked open, and Mr. Wright poked his head inside. “Mr. Hillstead wants a word, but if you’d prefer, I can tell him you’re occupied—”
Luca didn’t have the patience. “Send Hillstead in.”
Wright’s disapproving huff was audible even as he withdrew. A moment later, the door opened wider to reveal Hillstead, looking infuriatingly smug, as though he had uncovered the meaning of life.
“I have come bearing news,” Hillstead announced as he strode into the room.
Luca regarded him warily. “What kind of news?”
Hillstead dropped himself into the chair opposite Luca’s desk. “I tracked down that maid again—the one Miss Dawlish dismissed without references. She wasn’t inclined to talk until I offered incentive.” He rubbed his fingers together meaningfully. “By the way, you owe me five pounds.”
Suppressing a sigh, Luca reached into his jacket pocket and drew out several coins, setting them on the desk. “Let us hope your generosity was worth the cost.”
“Oh, it was.” Hillstead scooped the coins up with a grin. “According to her, the Duke of Brackenford visited Miss Dawlish several times. However”—he paused dramatically, his grin widening—“Mr. Dawlish was always there as well.”
That made Luca straighten. “Her son was present?”
“Indeed. And the maid said the three of them acted… familiar.”
Luca frowned, the puzzle pieces shifting but refusing to lock into place. “What do you suppose that means?”
Hillstead shrugged, leaning back. “I don’t know. But there’s a connection here. We just haven’t uncovered it yet.”
Luca’s gaze drifted to the ledger sitting on the corner of his desk. “I have read that ledger a dozen times, and it refuses to yield another secret.”
“If it has any left to yield,” Hillstead replied flippantly.
Luca exhaled slowly. “I can scarcely imagine the conditions Lady Matthew must be enduring being locked away at The Chelmsford Asylum,” he said. “We must find proof before it’s too late.”
“We could go to Lord Matthew,” Hillstead suggested. “Tell him what we’ve learned. It might scare him into freeing her.”
Luca’s head snapped up. “And risk alerting the Duke of Brackenford or Lord Coldwyck? No. Until we know exactly how they are connected, we cannot act. Not yet.”
Hillstead rose with a mock bow. “I won’t argue since you’re the one paying my wages.”
Before Luca could retort, the office door slammed open, the sound echoing off the walls. Alcott stood in the doorway, his expression thunderous.
Luca rose immediately. “Alcott?”
“Where is she?” his friend demanded.
He stared back at Alcott. “Where is who?”
“Do not play coy with me.” Alcott stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides. “Where is Charlotte?”
Cold dread swept through Luca. “What do you mean—where is she? She isn’t at your townhouse?”
“No.” Alcott tossed a crumpled note onto the desk. “I know you have her. This was left where she was taken.”
Luca snatched up the paper, scanning the unfamiliar handwriting and felt his stomach drop. “I didn’t write this.”
“Then who did?” Alcott asked.
“I don’t know,” Luca said firmly. “But it wasn’t me. I’ve been here for hours. Ask anyone.”
Alcott’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering like firelight. “A likely story.”
Luca’s temper flared. “I thought we had moved past accusations. For what possible reason would I abduct Charlotte? I lo—” He stopped himself just in time, his throat closing around the word. Not now. Not like this.
Some of the fury drained from Alcott’s posture, but the tension remained. “Then where the devil is she?” he muttered, half to himself.
Luca stepped around the desk, urgency coursing through his veins. “Tell me everything.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Alcott said, his jaw tight. “A footman saw Charlotte walk to the back gardens. When she didn’t return, he went after her and found signs of a struggle and that note.”
Hillstead interjected. “Who gave her the note?”
“I don’t know,” Alcott snapped. “No servant has admitted to delivering it.”
“Are your servants loyal to you?” Luca pressed.
Alcott hesitated, the answer written plainly in his eyes before he said it. “I thought they were. Now… I’m not so certain.”
Luca’s mind raced, already assessing his next steps. “Have you contacted the constable?”
“No,” Alcott replied grimly. “I did better. I sent word to Warwicke. With his connections at Bow Street, we have a fighting chance.”
Luca nodded, relief mingling with grim determination. “Good. Have you spoken to her lady’s maid?”
“Not yet,” Alcott admitted.
“I’ll come with you,” Luca said immediately, his tone leaving no room for argument. He would not sit idly by while Charlotte—his Charlotte—was in danger.
Hillstead raised a hand. “I’ll stay here and keep digging. Maybe something in that ledger will make sense once I look again.”
“Do that,” Luca said shortly before turning to Alcott. “Let’s go.”
He grabbed his jacket and hat, his pulse hammering as he followed Alcott out the door. They didn’t speak as they stepped into the coach, and it started rolling down the street.
“We will find her,” Luca said, forcing confidence into his voice that he didn’t entirely feel. His throat was tight, and the words tasted hollow, but he needed to believe them—or at least make Alcott believe them.
Alcott turned towards the window of the carriage. “People go missing every day in Town,” he said. “And no one ever finds them.”
“That will not be Charlotte’s fate.”
Skepticism colored Alcott’s tone. “How can you be certain?”
“Because I will not stop looking for her,” Luca responded. His hands clenched on his knees to still the shaking. “Not until I find her.”
Alcott finally looked at him, the anger in his gaze tempered by something else—fear, perhaps. “I know,” he stated. “Neither will I.”
“Good.” Luca drew a breath, forcing his thoughts to sharpen. “She was taken for a reason. We just have to determine what that reason was.”
“Do you think she’s frightened?”
For a fleeting moment, Luca pictured her—Charlotte with that stubborn tilt of her chin and defiant spark in her eyes. His chest ached. “No,” he said. “If I know her at all, she’s irritated beyond measure and arguing with her captors. She’s probably buying us time without even realizing it.”
Alcott gave a faint, humorless smile. “You’re right.”
“I know you’re scared,” Luca said. “I am, too. But we can’t fall apart now. If anything happens to Charlotte…” His voice caught, the words dissolving before he could finish.