The leader was silent for a moment. Then, finally, he said, “We want to know how much Fitzwilliam Darcy knows.”
She blinked. “About… what? Politics? I think you overestimate the things a gentleman tells the lady decorating his arm. Or if you mean to ask about manners, I daresay he knows hardly anything, a thing I have been attempting to—”
“Stop your foolishness, woman.” He strode closer. “About the shipments. About the strongbox. About the dealings of the earl with our business. We need to know what you told him. I am no fool, Miss Bennet. You gave him the key, did you not?”
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. “Are we back to that silly thing? I think I lost it when I was out walking.”
The leader’s gaze flicked toward the scarred man, then back to her. “Then it would be… unfortunate.”
She lifted her chin, staring the man in the eye. “If you think Mr. Darcy concerns himself with anything beyond his own affairs, then I am afraid you have miscalculated. He is a selfish dolt who has no interest in matters that do not directly involve him.”
The leader studied her for a long moment, his gaze weighing her words. “Is that so? You seem to have a rather pronounced… fondness… for selfish dolts, Miss Bennet. At least that one, in particular, for you spend a rather excessive amount of time in his company.”
She lifted one shoulder carelessly. “He is wealthy. And he buys me things.”
“Ah! The mademoiselle’s true character revealed!” He snorted as he turned to the younger man. “Move her to the other room. Keep her…comfortable.”
Elizabeth clenched her jaw as the younger man nodded and gestured for her to stand. She rose, straightening her gown, smoothing her sleeves. If she was to be moved, that meant they still had a use for her. She glanced at the leader one last time, memorizing his face.
He had made one mistake.
He had let her see him. Hear his voice. She knew who he was, now, and who he was connected to.
And if she ever got out of here, she would make certain Fitzwilliam Darcy knew exactly who had taken her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You are certain sheis not here?” Darcy’s voice was cracking, his patience stretched thin.
The warehouse foreman shrank under his glare, wringing his cap between his hands. “No sign of any lady, sir. We checked every room.”
Darcy exhaled sharply, barely resisting the urge to shove past the man and search again himself. The air in the dimly lit warehouse was thick with dust and salt, the scent of old timber and damp canvas filling his lungs. Stacks of crates lined the walls, each one marked with Gardiner’s merchant seal—but none of them held Elizabeth.
Richard stood at his side, his posture rigid. “Someone knows something. We find the missing invoices, the prisoners, we find Miss Bennet. There must be a record of movement here. Who has been in and out of this building today?”
The foreman hesitated, then gestured to a worn ledger on the nearby worktable. “Only the usual dock shipments. No names that would mean anything to you.”
Gardiner stepped forward, flipping through the pages with increasing speed. “This is my business,” he snapped. “I will decide what means something.”
Darcy turned away, his gaze sweeping over the empty floorboards, the crates, the shadows beyond. “Where could they have taken her, blast it?” His pulse hammered in his ears. They were not far behind—he could feel it. And yet, they were already too late.
Richard exhaled sharply. “Somewhere secure. They will not take her to a boarding house or an inn. Too many eyes, too many questions. If she is still in London, they need a place to hold her—somewhere discreet, somewhere temporary.”
Gardiner was still poring over the ledgers, but he looked up. The man’s face was ashen—had been since Darcy first arrived at his house with news of Elizabeth’s disappearance. “I keep an office near the docks, on Thames Street,” he admitted. “A smaller storage house where we receive high-value shipments before transferring them to thelarger warehouse. If anything illegal passed through my company, it is possible it went through there.”
Darcy nodded jerkily. “Then we start there.”
By the time theyreached the storage house, the streets had grown quieter. The sound of lapping waves against the docks and the distant creak of rigging in the harbor filled the night air.
The storage house was a squat, unimpressive structure, barely distinguishable from the warehouses flanking it. Richard pushed open the door, leading the way inside. The scent of damp wood and stale air filled their noses as they stepped into the dim interior. Darcy’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, scanning the room. Empty crates were stacked against the walls, the remnants of past shipments strewn across the floor. At first glance, it appeared abandoned.
And then he saw it.
Against the far wall, an iron-barred holding cell stood empty. The heavy lock on its door hung open, the key still lodged in place.
His stomach twisted.
Richard crossed the room in three strides, gripping one of the iron bars. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “They were keepingpeoplehere.”
