Chapter 18 #2
Martha smirked before following her grandmother.
Roger leaned down close enough that Charlotte could feel the heat of his breath.
“This isn’t over,” he stated. “I will get you to spill your secrets.” His tone had no patience for games.
It held only the inevitable cruelty of a man accustomed to taking what he wanted.
Charlotte forced herself to stand taller than she felt. She wouldn’t show fear. She watched them go and the iron door slammed behind them.
The instant privacy reclaimed her, Charlotte’s knees failed her. She sank to the cold floor and the stone bit through her gown. She felt tears form in her eyes and she allowed herself to cry, knowing that she had been bested.
And then she thought of Luca. He had to be safe. He must be.
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, her resolve strengthened.
If they wanted secrets, they would be disappointed.
She would not betray Luca. If she could not reach him by wit and word, she would hold her silence like a shield.
For now, she would gather what strength remained—breath by measured breath—and wait for the moment she could act.
Luca sat in the coach, his knee bouncing despite his best effort to still it.
Every clatter of the wheels against the cobblestones grated against his already fraying nerves.
They were no closer to finding Charlotte, and each passing moment felt like a nail being driven into his chest. He tried to draw a steady breath, but worry pressed down like a weight he could not shake.
Where was she? Was she frightened? Hurt?
He clenched his fists in his lap, forcing himself not to imagine the worst.
Across from him sat Alcott, his features taut with fury and fear.
His friend’s jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscle ticked near his temple, and his hands rested in fists upon his knees.
Luca didn’t need to ask what he was thinking—they were united in purpose.
Whatever it took, they would find Charlotte. They couldn’t fail. They wouldn’t.
When the coach rolled to a stop before the Duke of Brackenford’s townhouse, Luca looked up at the tall, imposing structure.
The white stone facade gleamed beneath the streetlamps, cold and pristine—much like its owner’s reputation.
Before either man could move, the door opened and Rupert stepped up into the coach, the sharp scent of horse and cold night air following him.
“I got your message,” Rupert said without preamble, taking the seat beside Alcott. “What would you have me do?”
Alcott lifted a brow. “How did you know we were bound for the duke’s residence?”
Rupert smirked faintly. “Your butler told me as much. I rode ahead since it is much easier to maneuver a horse through London traffic than a coach.”
“Fair enough,” Alcott muttered.
Luca leaned forward, his tone clipped but purposeful. “There’s something I need you to do. A maid by the name of Martha—she worked at Alcott’s townhouse. She was the one who betrayed Charlotte’s trust, allowing her to be taken.”
Rupert’s brow furrowed. “And she’s not in prison because…?”
“She claims a man threatened her family,” Luca replied. “But she insists she never saw his face.”
Rupert tilted his head. “And you don’t believe her?”
Luca hesitated before answering. “It feels… too convenient. A frightened maid, an unseen man, and an abduction that was executed far too efficiently. Something doesn’t add up.”
“Then why didn’t you press her harder?” Rupert asked.
Luca met his gaze steadily. “I should have, but we needed to get to the duke’s house before he retired for bed. You have a talent for extracting the truth where others fail. Use it.”
Rupert gave a short nod. “I’ll find her and I’ll make her talk. How long has Miss Winslow been missing?”
Alcott’s voice was hoarse when he answered. “Hours. And no ransom note. That tells me this isn’t about money.”
Luca nodded grimly. “No, it’s about the investigation. Someone wants to silence her.”
“Or you,” Rupert countered. “You must have gotten too close to the truth.”
Alcott shot him a sharp look. “You knew about the investigation, too?”
“I did,” Rupert said. “I was asked to assist. My methods are less… diplomatic.”
Alcott muttered under his breath, “Apparently, I’m the last to know anything in my own household.”
Rupert opened the door, one boot already on the cobblestones. “I’ll find Martha. You two handle the duke. But be careful—he’s not a man known for civility.”
“Nor am I in the mood for it,” Alcott said.
“After you find Martha, I need you to do one more thing for me,” Luca said. “There is a chance that Charlotte is being locked away at The Chelmsford Asylum.”
“Good gads, no!” Alcott exclaimed.
“We don’t know for certain, which is why I was hoping Rupert would go speak to the staff and use his particular set of skills for interrogation,” Luca said.
“I will do it,” Rupert responded.
Once Rupert disappeared into the night, Luca climbed down and lifted his gaze towards the townhouse.
The three-storied residence loomed like a fortress.
Two towering columns flanked the entrance, and the golden glow of candlelight spilled from the windows.
It was the home of a man who believed himself untouchable.
They mounted the steps, and Luca knocked sharply.
After a pause, the door opened to reveal an elderly butler whose white wig was slightly askew. His expression was as frosty as the evening air. “May I help you, gentlemen?”
Luca drew himself up to full height. “We are here to speak with the Duke of Brackenford.”
“And you are?” the butler demanded.
Luca produced his calling card and handed it over. “Lord Luca Dexter.”
The butler’s gaze flicked to the card before returning it, unimpressed. “His Grace is not receiving callers this evening.” He began to close the door.
Alcott’s foot shot out, wedging in the gap. “His Grace will receive us. Now.”
The butler’s nostrils flared. “I beg your pardon?”
“Inform him that Lord Alcott is here,” Alcott growled. “And tell him I will not be turned away.”
The butler sighed in long-suffering exasperation. “His Grace will not appreciate the intrusion.”
“I don’t care,” Alcott said flatly. “We will not leave until we’ve spoken with him.”
The man stepped aside. “Very well. Wait here.”
Luca and Alcott entered the marble-floored hall. It was all cold elegance—black and white tiles, gleaming columns, and portraits of grim ancestors watching from the walls. The butler’s footsteps echoed down the corridor until they faded entirely.
Alcott leaned closer. “You’re certain about this?”
Luca’s eyes flicked towards the far end of the hall. “Completely. The Duke of Brackenford is no innocent. He sent his wife to The Chelmsford Asylum and I suspect he knew exactly what would happen to her there.”
Alcott’s expression darkened. “Then I won’t hold back.”
“Good,” Luca responded. “Because neither will I.”
Moments later, the butler returned and gestured stiffly. “His Grace will see you now.”
They followed him into a richly appointed parlor. The duke sat before the fire, a blanket draped over his legs. His thin white hair caught the firelight, his sharp eyes gleaming with irritation rather than frailty.
“What,” he demanded, “is so important that you must burst into my home at this ungodly hour?”
“It’s not even nine,” Alcott remarked with a glance at the long clock in the corner.
“Which is ungodly for a man of my age,” the duke retorted. “Now speak your piece or be gone.”
Alcott didn’t hesitate. “Where is she?”
The duke blinked. “Who?”
“Do not insult me,” Alcott snapped. “My sister—Charlotte Winslow.”
The duke’s brows lifted. “I’ve no idea where your sister is.”
Alcott stepped forward, fury radiating from him. “We know about The Chelmsford Asylum and what you did to your first wife.”
A muscle twitched in the duke’s cheek. “That’s in exceedingly poor taste. My wife was quite mad. Her death was tragic but inevitable.”
“In an institution you own,” Alcott bit out.
Luca inwardly cursed. Alcott was leading with accusations instead of evidence. He needed to steady the conversation before it turned into a shouting match.
The duke gave a thin smile. “I own no such establishment.”
Luca stepped in, his voice calm but hard as steel. “You do. Through the Ravenhurst Trading Company, of which you are the sole proprietor.”
The duke’s face blanched. “How do you know that name?”
“It wasn’t difficult to uncover,” Luca said. “So let’s dispense with the lies. Tell us where Charlotte Winslow is.”
“I have nothing to say,” the duke replied.
“Then we’ll compel you,” Alcott said, drawing his pistol from beneath his coat.
The duke regarded the weapon with an almost amused disdain. “Would you truly shoot an old man?”
“If it brings my sister back to me,” Alcott said evenly, “then yes.”