The Heiress of Winterwood (27 page)

She licked her lips before speaking. “The man in the yellow waistcoat is Mr. Singleton, the constable, and the men with him are from the village.” He followed her eyes to a small cluster of men gathered by the window that included George Barrett. She dabbed the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. “Edward is here.”

Under any other circumstances, Graham would have been furious. Now concern for Lucy dominated every thought. He scanned the room and saw Littleton seated in the far corner of the room with two other men. The scoundrel reclined in the settee with one leg crossed over the other and his arm extended across the furniture’s back.

Littleton looked up and nodded. Graham’s jaw twitched. “What is he doing here?”

“You were right.” Amelia lowered her voice and leaned in. “He was still here when we returned from the vicarage.”

“Who’s that?” Graham nodded toward a middle-aged man who stood alone near another window.

“That is Mr. Charles Dunne, Mrs. Dunne’s husband.” She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “One of the footmen rode out to his farm as soon as we discovered that Lucy and Mrs. Dunne were missing.”

Missing.
The word rang in his head. The word made it sound like they were looking for a lost trinket or animal. But they were searching for a person. Persons.
Lucy and this poor man’s wife.

“Are there any signs of them at all?”

Amelia didn’t answer, just shook her head and looked down. Her hair, which earlier in the evening had been pinned up so elegantly, now curled wildly around her face. He wanted to offer her comfort, but the memory of their argument earlier in the evening gave him pause. But still he stepped closer, not wishing their conversation to be overheard. Propriety would say he stood too close. But what did it matter? She would be his wife in two days. And since when did he even care what these people thought? “We’ll find them, Amelia.”

She wrung her hands together, intertwining and then releasing her fingers. “But what if . . . ?”

Her words faded before she completed her sentence, but with a little imagination he could finish the sentence for her. The same thoughts raced through his mind. Perhaps she was right to not verbalize the possibilities. To do so would only make them all the more real.

Laughter burst from the men by the window. Graham grimaced. The sound of amusement was salt on a wound.

He took Amelia’s arm. “Will you accompany me to the nursery? I need to inspect it.”

A
melia led the way up the broad staircase. Graham followed closely, holding the tin lantern up high enough to light the path for both of them. With each step the voices below faded.

He’d been up to the nursery once before, but the visit had been brief. He’d accompanied Amelia to fetch Lucy for an afternoon in the drawing room. But everything appeared different at night. Graham recalled snippets of a conversation when William had told him of the labyrinthine twists and turns of Winterwood, especially in the west wing . . . the oldest wing. He could only assume that was where they now were.

The stairwell jutted and arched at strange angles, and once they reached the landing, narrow alcoves and window wells notched the stone walls. If someone abducted Lucy and Mrs. Dunne, that person would need to know where they were going in this maze.

“How many stairways lead to this floor?”

Amelia responded without looking back. “Just the stairs we came up and the servants’ stairs.”

Graham paused at a window and looked down to the ground below. The climb would be treacherous, if not impossible.

He had to duck through the low exposed beam of the door frame to step into the nursery. After his eyes adjusted to the fire’s glow, he lifted his lantern to survey the room. A long, narrow space served as a common area for a suite of three or four additional rooms. A rectangular table sat in the middle of the space. Two rocking chairs flanked the fireplace. Bookshelves lined the opposite wall. Across a threshold to the right there appeared to be a neglected classroom. To the left were two open doors.

“Everything is as you found it?”

Amelia nodded, stepping forward to place her candlestick on the table. “Both of the bedchamber doors were open. The fire was about out, but it has since been stoked. Other than that, everything appears as it ought.”

“Which chamber is Lucy’s?”

Amelia pointed to the farthest doorway. His pulse quickened as he approached it. How many times had he rushed headlong into a dangerous situation? Summoned courage for a bloody battle? None had prepared him for what he faced now.

An empty room. An empty crib. The eerie absence of a child in such a room overwhelmed him. He stepped closer to the crib. This was where his daughter was supposed to be sleeping. This was where the darling redhead slumbered and dreamed.

He jogged to Mrs. Dunne’s chamber, lantern in hand. He sensed Amelia behind him and turned.

“There doesn’t appear to be any sign of a struggle, but see there?” He pointed to a book that appeared to have been knocked off the table. “And look at this.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you think someone, I mean, that someone—”

“Kidnapped them?”

He finished her sentence but didn’t answer the question. “Look in the wardrobe. Does anything appear to be missing?”

Amelia dropped her shawl on the bed and pushed the wardrobe open farther. The candlelight glowing on her long, bare arm distracted him, but the alarm on her face when she turned around snapped him back to the present. “No, it all seems to be in place.” She moved to a chest, pulled open the top drawer, and stood on her toes to peer in. “Her reticule is here. Letters too.”

Graham rubbed his hand over his face and behind his neck and stared at the book on the floor. He needed to go talk to the constable and see what he knew. George Barrett too. And he would interrogate Littleton. The fact that the man was here in the building didn’t make him innocent.

“Where’s your brother?” Amelia asked. “Did he come with you?”

Graham lifted his head. William. He had been desperate. Drunk.

Would he? Surely not.

He swallowed and adjusted his collar. No need to alarm her unnecessarily. “Will you lead the way back down? I’m not sure I could find my way out.”

He scanned the hall as she led him out. Could someone be hiding here? Ahead, a door stood open. “What’s that room?”

Amelia stopped so abruptly he almost ran into her. “It was Katherine’s room.”

The words rang hollow and empty in the damp, cold hall. The air around them grew still.

She lifted the candle. “Lucy was born there.”

And Katherine died there.

Graham couldn’t resist the temptation. He took the candle from Amelia and stepped inside. The room was dark. Dusty. Cold. He moved to the window. Below and across the lawn torchlight flickered on the terrace where he and Amelia had talked during her
engagement dinner to Littleton. An eternity had slipped by since that dinner. He was no longer the same man, and he would venture to assume Amelia had changed as well.

He was no stranger to difficult times, to situations that tried his mental strength and physical endurance. But the thought of Lucy, perhaps alone and frightened, and the image of his wife buried in a cold grave proved to be almost more than he could endure. His soul was empty, and he hadn’t even recognized it until the people who filled it were gone.

He felt Amelia’s presence as she stepped closer. He didn’t want to look at her for fear that even in the darkness she’d read his thoughts. Mutual grief bound them now. He wanted to reach his arm out and pull her close. To feel her warmth. Her goodness. If she took one step closer, he would do it. But she stood still.

Amelia brushed a tear away with the back of her hand. “We should return to the drawing room. Someone may have news.”

Graham shook emotion from his limbs and stretched his hand toward the door. “After you.”

He was a captain, was he not? He knew how to organize men in times of fear, in times of chaos. He’d do so now. He knew his charge, to find his daughter and Mrs. Dunne. He’d not be distracted again.

Amelia bolted upright on the drawing room settee. How long had she been asleep?

She turned to look around the room, and a sharp pain shot down her neck. She grimaced and lifted her hand to massage the spot.

The drawing room was empty. As the recollection of the night’s events emerged from sleep’s fog, she sagged in grief.

Lucy. Mrs. Dunne.

A shout echoed from the lawn. At the sound, she jumped up and hurried to the window, her limbs still sluggish. Outside, the first long rays of dawn peeked from over Sterling Wood and filtered through the bare trees. It was not the yellow light of a pretty morning, but a dull gray light as mournful as the emotion churning within her. Last night’s snow had turned to a chill drizzle.

A dozen or so men were clustered on the lawn in caped greatcoats and low, wide-brimmed hats. The light from their torches and lanterns swayed in the wind. Hunting dogs barked as they circled the group, tails wagging.

She snatched her shawl from the settee and hurried from the room to the front door. A gust of wind whipped her hair wildly around her face as she stepped outside.

Ignoring the rain and the bitter cold, she scanned the grounds. As she did, two men ran past her to the group, followed by more hunting dogs. Two men broke away from the cluster and jogged toward the stable.

Her heart leapt at the commotion. Perhaps by some miracle, they’d found Lucy and were surrounding her now. But as she drew closer and pushed her way into the gathering, she saw that a young boy, not her darling Lucy, had drawn their attention. The dirt-covered lad sat on the ground, his eyes wide in sheer terror as he stared at the men towering over him. Captain Sterling knelt on one knee next to him, and the constable knelt behind him, his hand fixed firmly on the lad’s collar.

Amelia found her voice. “What’s going on here?”

The constable thumped the boy on top of his soiled cap. “This boy knows who kidnapped the child and the nurse, don’t you, lad?”

The boy shook his head, tracks from his tears cutting white streaks down the dirt on his face. His wide eyes darted from face to face. “’An’ how would I know? I ain’t done nowt’, I’m tellin’ ye!”

The constable jerked the boy’s collar. “Do you, now? Where’d you get that letter, then, boy? Answer me that!”

“That’s enough!” ordered Amelia, disgusted at the constable’s rough treatment of the child. She stepped forward and brushed past two men. “That boy knows no more about who kidnapped Lucy and the nurse than you do, Mr. Singleton. Can’t you see that he is frightened?”

The constable smirked. “He’s not frightened. Are you, boy? He’s just mad he got caught.”

Captain Sterling stood and stretched to his full height, towering over the boy. “I’ll know if you are lying, so don’t try it. Who gave you this letter?”

The boy tugged away from Mr. Singleton and scowled when the man jerked him back. “I done told ye. A man on the road give it to me. Don’ know who he were. He just give me money and told me to take the note to the kitchen, quick, like I done. So let me go!”

Amelia pushed even closer. “What letter?”

They all ignored her question. Singleton stood and pulled the boy to his feet. “You’re going to show us right where you saw this man, am I clear?” He motioned to the other men to bring horses around.

Amelia chimed in again, louder this time. “What letter?”

After Singleton mounted his horse, Captain Sterling flung the boy up on the saddle in front of the constable as if he weighed no more than Lucy. He waited for Singleton to secure him before walking over to Amelia. She searched his face for any indication of emotion, but the lines of his tanned face were hard, determined, and his turbulent gray eyes were cold. Dark whiskers covered his chin and cheeks, his very presence intimidating.

But Amelia would not be intimidated, not where Lucy was concerned. “I demand to know what is going on.”

“The boy has delivered a ransom letter.”

She positioned herself in front of him, insisting on his attention. “What did it say?”