Chapter One #3
“This is my daughter’s betrothed,” Harrell said offhandedly, “Viscount Grossett.” By the emphasis he placed on “Viscount,” Ian knew Harrell was well pleased with his daughter’s choice. “My lord, Ian Campion, soldier, mercenary, devil’s own henchman when he has the mind to be.”
Ian didn’t know how to react to such an introduction, and was embarrassed to realize all the titles were accurate.
The viscount leaned back in his chair as if not wanting to be any closer to Ian than he had to, and he certainly didn’t offer his hand.
Parker, pulling up a leather-backed chair for himself, stifled a smile—whether over his employer’s wit or the viscount’s fastidiousness, Ian didn’t know, but he didn’t like it.
And so, he paid extra attention to the viscount.
“Congratulations on your betrothal, my lord,” Ian said smoothly, his King’s English as good as anyone’s in the room…and his nails were clean, which the viscount’s were not. “When is the happy occasion?” he asked as if the two of them were members of the same club.
A dull red stole up the viscount’s neck. Apparently, Ian had touched upon a sensitive subject.
However, it was Harrell who answered. “We hope you can help us with that, Campion.” He handed a miniature to Ian. “I have a job for you. I want you to find the young woman in the picture.”
Ian took a moment to study the portrait, taking in the pouty lower lip and the long, dark lashes the artist had given her.
There was no mistaking her green eyes. This was Harrell’s daughter, the much-touted heiress.
The viscount’s intended. It was a pity to waste beauty and money on a bore. “A redhead,” he murmured.
“Very much so,” Harrell agreed proudly. “Her hair is the color of the finest garnets and she has a passion for life to match. There is no in between with my daughter, and I want her back.”
“Who has her?” Ian asked.
“I don’t know,” came the curt reply. “There has been no ransom note, no letter, nothing.” Harrell leaned across his desk. “But when you find them, whomever they are, I want you to make them pay. No one crosses me without receiving like for like. No one.”
His words echoed in the stillness of the room and Ian felt his guard go up. Something was not right. “Why ask me? Why not go to Bow Street?”
“I have been to them. They have been incompetent. They want me to tell them where she is—if I knew, I’d go fetch her myself. I am a man who expects results…and am willing to pay for them.”
Outwardly, Ian was calm, but inside he recognized opportunity. “Do you have any suspicions concerning who might have her?”
“None. There’s been no clue.” Harrell was not a man who liked to admit defeat. He sank into his chair, aging suddenly. “She’s my only link with my late wife. I—” He looked away as if needing to compose himself a moment. “Do you have children, Campion?”
“He’s Irish,” the viscount said under his breath. “Of course he has children.”
“No,” Ian said, ignoring the nobleman. “But I do have a niece and nephews.”
“Then you can understand my fears,” Harrell said. “The thought that Lyssa has been gone this week and more, without a trace…” He looked at Ian. “I want her home.”
“When did you last see her?”
“A week ago Thursday. She left with her maid and a footman to visit the lending library. Lyssa bid them sit in a chair in the front of the store to wait while she browsed the book aisles, and she never returned. She disappeared, vanished, with nothing but the clothes on her back.”
Ian frowned. “Did the Runners find any information?”
“Nothing, not a trace. I put Parker on it and even he, the most resourceful of men, has come up empty-handed.”
Ian hesitated in asking this next question because the idea had obviously not struck her father yet. “Could she have deliberately run away?”
Harrell raised his eyebrows as if shocked by the idea. “Why? Lyssa has always been the most obedient of children. She’d have no reason to run away.”
Ian could not resist sliding a glance at the viscount. If he was a young woman, he wouldn’t want to marry the man, and the woman in the miniature he still held appeared to be anything but docile. Especially if she had even one of her infamous father’s traits.
The Viscount Grossett did not mistake his meaning. “What are you implying, Irishman?” he demanded.
“I imply nothing, my lord,” Ian countered calmly.
“He is suggesting that perhaps our Lyssa has reservations about the marriage and has taken matters in her own hand by running away,” a feminine, musical voice said from the doorway. The men turned to find a blonde, beautiful woman standing there, one hand still on the door she’d quietly opened.
She blushed, the color becoming to her face.
“Please pardon my interruption, gentlemen, but sometimes a woman must eavesdrop if she is ever to know what is going on.” She had the most charming lisp.
This was the former duchess of Lackland, who upon the ancient duke’s death had married Harrell and provided him an entrée into Society.
She walked into the room, jewels sparkling in her hair and on her fingers, her movements smooth in spite of her advanced stage of pregnancy. Obviously, money was a significant inducement for a duchess to choose a commoner’s life.
The men all rose to their feet, Harrell coming around the desk to meet her. “My dear, you should be in bed.”
“You worry too much, Dunmore, and I wanted to meet the gentleman who is to find our Lyssa.” She looked to Ian and offered her hand. “You will find her, won’t you?”
Ian took her hand, flattered that she treated him with a modicum of respect.
“I will endeavor to try—” He hesitated, uncertain of how to address her.
Even though she was married to a commoner, he thought she still retained her title.
He’d heard her referred to only as “Duchess,” whether because of fact, or the speculation surrounding her marriage, he didn’t know.
It was apparent Harrell took pride in his wife’s station, yet Ian decided to err on the side of caution.
“—Mrs. Harrell,” he finished, and she nodded, letting him know he was correct.
“Especially if I pay him well enough,” Harrell answered, and Ian wondered if matters always came down to money with him.
Mrs. Harrell smiled. She was half her husband’s age and a true catch.
“You are not quite what we expected, Mr. Campion. Is he, Dunmore?” She did not wait for her husband’s response but provided her own, “Find Lyssa, sir, find her so she can discover happiness, as I have, with a husband and a child.” She removed her hand from Ian’s and proudly rested it on her stomach, and he found himself wondering if it was money or love that had persuaded her to marry the “Pirate.”
“He will, he will,” Harrell said, clearly worried. “Now please, go lie down. I don’t want anything to happen to my son.”
Mrs. Harrell laughed, enjoying his concern. She slid her violet-blue gaze toward Ian. “My husband longs for a son, but he also loves his daughter. And Viscount Grossett—he, too, is most anxious. Are you not, sir?”
“Absolutely,” the viscount echoed although Ian was certain his concern stemmed from the fear of losing Miss Harrell’s fortune more than true worry for her well-being. The man lacked the anxiety of a lover. He met Ian’s gaze with defiance. “My family is pleased with this match.”
“Even your mother, my lord?” Mrs. Harrell asked archly.
“Especially my mother,” Grossett returned evenly.
“Well…then it is settled.” Mrs. Harrell walked to the door. She paused. “I believe, Mr. Campion, you will have your work cut out for you. Lyssa is as headstrong as her father.”
“Do you believe her kidnapped?” he dared to ask.