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T
hunder roared, lightning sizzled, and darkness consumed her. Fear nipped, making a cry want to tear from her throat.

But her throat wouldn’t work. Brook couldn’t make her body obey the command to run, flee, get away from the danger behind her.

Then the words began. Some in French—Maman’s words, but in Brook’s own voice as she read the pages of the journal, softly. Some in English, filling in the gaps.

Pratt and Rushworth had told Mother that Papa was dead—and that Brook was next. That’s what had sent her out into the night, into the storm. Why she had the letters from Papa with her . . . and why she was wearing the pearls and gold she had thought were the last gift she would ever receive from him. When the storm raged, when the carriage tipped . . .

That was where Maman’s journal had begun. With watching the accident from the distance and rushing up. Hearing the wail of a baby. The groans of a dying woman—the driver was already dead. She recorded Mother’s words, her pleas to take the babe, her Elizabeth Brook, and see her to safety. Somewhere far away, she said.

She had no one left in England. Her husband was dead, and her family . . . How was she to know whom of her family she could trust, when it was a cousin who had done this to her?

In the darkness, Brook felt tears gather. How alone Mother must have felt in those last moments. Giving away her child, mourning the husband she didn’t realize would soon be mourning her. Thinking her whole family turned against her.

Collette recorded her own fears too—suddenly having a child she didn’t know how to care for. Fearing that whatever had sent the woman to her death would chase after her if she took the child . . . but being unable to leave the babe to the elements. She’d found nothing on the lady to offer identification—no doubt purposeful on Mother’s part, if she were running away. But she took what she could for the baby. The box of letters. The necklace.

And she had devised the best plan she could come up with for seeing to the girl’s future. She went to the man she’d been involved in an affair with a year before—Prince Louis of Monaco.

Prince Louis, who had never wanted to be Brook’s father. Who had never loved her, never accepted her. But Grand-père had. Grand-père, always at odds with his son, had believed Maman’s story. Had arranged for their care. Their flat. Had promised to provide for Brook’s education.

No wonder Maman had made him promise never to tell her. To destroy the journal with the story written inside it. She no doubt feared that if Brook ever returned to England, the violence would find her as it had her mother.

And so it had.

Her fingers curled into the damp mattress, closing around something warm and hard. Metallic. Her fingertips ran over it, tracing its contours . . . slipping into it. A convulsion rippled through her. Not just Maman and Mother. Justin, too, was gone.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the darkness. They were all gone.

Brook tried to sit, but her head pounded too hard, and her limbs all felt so heavy. How could she feel so tired, and yet as if she hadn’t moved in an eternity?

She used her fingertips to turn the large ring of gold around her finger. If Justin were here, he would prod her. Poke her if necessary, but he wouldn’t let her lie about. He wouldn’t let her weep away her life. He wouldn’t let Pratt win. He’d tell her to get up and fight.

She didn’t want to fight. It hurt. And what was the point? Pratt had already won, had avenged his father’s death, had taken what mattered most. Why fight anymore over the diamonds? Why should anyone else lose their lives over the Fire Eyes?

“A fire goeth before
him, and burneth up his enemies round about . . .”

“
Mon
Dieu
.” She opened her eyes again, and the lamp seemed brighter than it had before. “Are you here in this? You must be, because you promise you are. But I can’t feel you now. I can’t see you.”

“His lightnings enlightened the world
.
”

She shuddered. The lightning had always been there, hand in hand with the darkness. They had seemed, somehow, of the enemy, not of God. But He was the author of that story. It was from His treasury that the winds came. By His hand that night overtook day.

By His command that they died?

No.
“Ye are all the children of light, and
the children of the day.”

Men made their own choices. And as some of them chose life, others chose death, chose evil. God could stop all the evil, all the violence, but if He did, He’d be rendering their choices for Him meaningless. But God did have a hand in this world.
He was the one who had brought Brook home. Back to Papa. He was the one who had led her that day to Justin, in the abbey. He had led them to reconciliation before Pratt found her.

She must praise Him for that. Papa was right. The hurt was unfathomable, the hole gaping. But it would have been even worse if they had still been at odds.

And she knew, with every fiber of her being, that Justin would tell her to buck up. To mourn later. To focus, now, on beating Pratt. Getting free, somehow. Finding justice for him . . . and gathering close what family she had left. As William had taught him.

Gritting her teeth with every contraction of muscle, she pushed herself up.

“My lady!” The door’s squeak must have blended with the cot’s—but Deirdre flew through it and was on her in a moment, scarcely taking time to put down the tray in her hands before pulling Brook close in a hug so exuberant it made her head throb. “You’re awake! Praise be to God, you’re awake!”

She pushed aside the pain and squeezed Deirdre back. “What day is it?”

“You’ve been out almost an entire day, and sure and you scared a decade off my life.”

“Sorry.” Brook pulled away and managed what she hoped was a smile. She gripped her friend’s hands. “We need to get out of here. Somehow, some way. We’ll lie in wait at the end of the hall if we must, and spring on him when next he comes, but—”

Deirdre’s laugh, light and a bit incredulous, cut her off. She shook her head. “I knew you would come up with something like that, once you roused. But the Lord has provided. There’s a groundsman what heard your shouting yesterday. He’s coming back in two hours to help us.”

Brook sagged in relief. “Two hours.”

“Aye. Enough time to eat and for it to revive us. Here, sit at the desk. You need water right off, and then some food.”

“You, too, from the looks of you. Have you slept at all?” Brook took slowly, carefully to her feet.

Deirdre steadied her and then bent for the tray. “You were sleeping enough for the both of us.”

“You’ll eat and then must rest. You’ll need your strength.”

“Aye.” Deirdre slid the tray onto the desk and gave her a smile. “It’s good to have you back, my lady.”

Brook returned the smile and took the chair before her legs gave out. The bread smelled of heaven, and the water that Deirdre poured into a dented tin cup tasted of ambrosia. She took a slow sip, let it settle, and picked up the newspaper. “Really?”

Deirdre held out her hands, palms up. “I asked him for reading material. Mostly to irritate him, but he tossed that at me.”

Tugging at the string with one hand, she reached with the other for a slice of cheese. Then she unfolded the paper.

Her own picture stared back at her. This one was from the night of her debut, but the camera had caught her in an odd moment. She was looking over her shoulder at something, no smile on her lips. Rather, concern etched her brow—had she been wondering, in that moment, where Justin was? Not a picture they would have run then, but now it suited the headline.

B
ARONESS
B
EAUTY
K
IDNAPPED
!

A startled breath escaped and brought Deirdre to her side. She quickly read through the paragraphs. Her lungs closed off when she reached the fifth one, and she jabbed a finger at it.
In an interview given last evening, the Duke of Stafford
stood with Lord Whitby and Lord Worthing and pronounced that
he would match the reward . . .

“What time?” Was it hope that fluttered, or new fear of it being dashed? “What time did Pratt come in with the ring?”

“Morning.” Deirdre’s fingers dug into her shoulder, but she scarcely felt it. “This had to have been after. He’s alive!”

A sound came from Brook’s throat that was half laugh, half cry. She pressed a hand to her mouth—the one that still had his ring slung loosely around one finger. “Pratt was lying.”

Justin was alive—which meant all she had to do was get to him.

She read the rest of the article as she ate, her heart pounding with every word. The reward her father offered was substantial—and the fact that Justin had offered to match it would make it mighty tempting for anyone who had caught a glimpse of her. They’d done what they could to swing the tide. To win her allies.

She would use them.

When they finished eating, she banished a protesting Deirdre to the cot and let the words run through her mind time and again.
The Duke of
Stafford
. Alive and giving quotes to the press. She stood, stretched, paced until her legs didn’t feel so wooden and the tension in her neck eased a bit. She prayed and she praised and she plotted.

They would have a considerable trek ahead of them, when they got free. They had to be at Delmore, and once the groundsman got them out of the house, she could find her way home easily enough. Find the sun, find the south, and go. Pratt land would lead straight to Eden. She had only to avoid him, and she would be home.

Then she had to read the article again . . . and shake her head.

He had used the same trick on her that his father had used on her mother—and she, too, had fallen for it. Had been mourning one who hadn’t been lost at all . . . but who would be concerned about losing
her
.

Well, it was time for the pattern to reach its end—and for Papa to finally have the answers he’d needed for nearly nineteen years. She retrieved the journal from the floor and made a makeshift sack for it and the canteen.

Had it been up to Justin alone, they would have been out again the moment dawn streaked the sky. But they had waited for the paper, and he was glad of that too. As he finally strode out into the cool morning air, certainty settled in his chest. They had done right. They had given her what she needed.

Even if the magistrate wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t let them search Delmore, they would find her. She would find a way out, find someone to help her, and they would be there when she did.

“Stafford, Whitby! Wait!”

Justin paused with one foot on the macadam and the other on the stair. Whitby was ten paces ahead of him, but he turned too.

Worthing stood at the door, motioning to the footman who had been assigned as his valet. “Tell them, Hiram.”

Hiram seemed to be clinging to composure by no more than a thread as he waited for Whitby to join them. “Forgive me for not speaking sooner, my lord, but I tried to tell myself it was unrelated.”

Whitby shook his head. “Speak, Hiram.”

“It’s Deirdre. She swore she’d wire at every stop, and she hasn’t. I was worried, so yesterday afternoon when the search took me to town, I telegrammed her family. She never arrived in Kilkeel—and what’s more, her mother isn’t sick, they never sent her a message. Pratt must have taken her too.”

Justin felt his brows pull together. His thumb moved to his ring finger to twist the signet around, but its empty state made him want to utter a few choice words. He’d worry with that later, though. “Why would Pratt take her too?”

Hiram glanced at Worthing, who gave him a helpful prod forward, his face stern. “Tell them.”

The footman swallowed. “She’d been giving him information. He’d threatened her family.”

Whitby pivoted away, muttered something unintelligible, and spun back to him. “Why did she not come to me?”

Hiram spread his hands. “She sees the mistake now, my lord, which is what’s to the point. She won’t help him in this, though he might think she will. She must be with her ladyship. She’ll help her. I know my DeeDee, and she’ll help her get free.”

Justin wasn’t so sure about that, but he didn’t know the woman. Whitby, after a long moment of clenched fists and ticking jaw, nodded.

So then. Justin headed for the stables once more and nearly drew his pistol when he caught sight of the rider who trotted their way.

“Easy.” Worthing stayed him with a hand on his arm. “No doubt he’s keeping up appearances. Let him, for now. We’ll have the noose around his neck soon enough.”

There was no “soon enough” when it came to bringing down Pratt. Justin planted his feet outside the stable door, folded his arms over his chest, glared. And took no small amount of satisfaction from the bruises and gashes on Pratt’s face.

And scratches—Justin hadn’t scratched him.

Pratt nodded at Whitby. “I’ll head toward Eden Dale, Whitby. Are we meeting back here at noon?”

Whitby shook his head. “We need you on the road toward the town, not the village. Those on foot will cover that area.”