Richard folded his arms, sending a glance to Darcy. “You thought correctly, for my father hired those men. Where did they take her?”
“To one of the old warehouses near the south end. Not Mr. Gardiner’s property,” he added quickly when Gardiner bristled beside him. “Belonged to a man named Asher, but it has been empty a few months now. It ain’t on the main road, so there ain’t many eyes on it.”
“How many men did you see?” Darcy asked.
The dockworker furrowed his brow. “Four. Maybe five? Could be more inside. They were in a hurry.”
Darcy exchanged a look with Richard, who gave a curt nod. “That is something, at least.”
The dockworker hesitated before speaking again. “I… I am sorry, sir. If I had known—”
Darcy did not answer. He turned on his heel and strode back toward the waiting horses.
The darkness in thisroom was absolute.
Elizabeth leaned back against the damp wooden wall, the coolness against her skull doing little to dull the persistent ache at the base of her head. She had tried the door. She had tested the window. She had scraped her fingers raw against the hinges of a rusted crate, searching for something—anything—she could use to pry her way free.
Nothing.
She drew her knees up to her chest, forcing herself to take slow, even breaths. She could not afford to panic. Panic made people careless. Panic made people stupid.
But what else was there to do?
Fear? No. She refused to succumb to that.
Think.
She pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging lightly. If she could not escape, she would plan. If she could not act, she would reason.
Except her thoughts would not stay in line. They wisped to smoke at the edges, curling into nonsense. The dull pain at the back of her skull had begun to worsen, not sharpenough to be truly alarming, but enough to make her vision swim if she moved too quickly.
Her throat was dry. She had not had water since—when? Sometime before she left the house? That seemed like another lifetime. Now, with each passing moment, the dull throb in her head pulsed harder, exhaustion weighing heavy on her limbs.
It was only fatigue, she told herself. Nothing more. She just needed to rest. Just for a moment.
Just long enough to think.
She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against her knees.
Darcy.
The thought came unbidden, slipping into her mind with the quiet familiarity of something she had long tried to suppress.
If she had just stayed at his house.
She had been too eager to leave, too determined not to impose and cause a scandal, and where had it landed her? In a dark, damp room that smelled of rotting wood and stale air. How foolish she had been. How utterly ridiculous to care about decorum when the alternative had been… this.
If only she had asked to stay. Not that she could have anticipated any of this, of course! But that impulse had been there, all the same. The urge to turn to him, seek shelter under his protection. If only she had waited inside his study, let the servants bring her tea, allowed herself just a little bit longer in the safety of his home.
It would have been scandalous, of course. A lady alone in the house of a bachelor—unthinkable.
But she would have been safe.
She always felt safe with him.
Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her skirts, her chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with fear. Darcy…
Had he even noticed she was missing yet? Had he been told? Was he searching for her? He had been protective before, but that was for appearance’s sake—was it not?
