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“The Duchess of Hardcastle’s son has been taken.”
Jane gasped, and her hand flew to her lips. “Is…is Nicolas alive?”
“That is what I am trying to ascertain.”
Her face crumpled and tears slid down her cheek. “How was he taken?”
“While at Meadowbrook Park he disappeared.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said hoarsely, hugging herself. “That is why I left and hid myself away from everyone. I did not even tell my parents where I was…and in the cottage the squire set me up in, I went by a different name. I thought…I thought if he couldn’t find me and if I wasn’t there, no one else would help him.”
“Lord James?”
She nodded.
“Start from the beginning, and be quick. Time is of the essence.”
She hurried to speak, her words tripping over themselves, but Rhys got the gist of it. Lord James had been pressuring her to help him abscond with the young duke from the estate. She had been resistant, and he had gotten mean. In fear, she had accepted the squire’s protection as his mistress, hoping Lord James would then leave both her and the duke alone.
“Why did you not inform the duchess?”
Eyes wide with fear and guilt peered into his. “I…” She wetted her lips. “I simply thought if I disappeared, Lord James’s leverage would vanish.”
He stared at her coldly, picturing snapping her selfish, scrawny neck in his hands. “I’ll allow you to leave.”
She gasped in relief.
“If harm befalls the boy, you’ll see me again.”
Without awaiting a reaction from her, Rhys walked from the room and descended the stairs to outside the gaming club. He sifted through the information he’d gleaned on Lord James from when the earl had come to him. Lord James was heavily in debt, but he had still opened his townhouse in Mayfair for the season.
Less than thirty minutes later, Rhys was slipping through the small side gardens of the man’s townhouse. He tested the back door that led to the kitchens and found it locked. He retrieved a pair of picklocks from his coat pocket and slid them into the lock. They clicked a couple of times, to his satisfaction, and with a deft twist, he opened the door, and padded soundlessly into the house. He waited in the darkened kitchen, letting the still, warm night air wash across his senses.
His knife held low by his thigh, he moved through the house silently, checking a few doors and finding the sitting room and several other rooms empty. He entered what he thought must be the library and closed the door. The floorboard groaned, and a few seconds later the door to the library opened. A man strolled in, a candlestick in his hand, the light illuminating his dissipated features. His hair was disheveled, his cravat unknotted, his eyes darting around the room with a frenetic kind of worry. Lord James paced to the mantel, where he poured some liquor with strong fumes into a glass and swallowed. A cough jerked from him, and it was as he spun around that he noticed Rhys standing in the shadowy corner.
“Who the bloody hell are you, and why are you in my house?” Lord James demanded.
Rhys said nothing for a few moments, taking the lord’s measure. “You sent word you needed a man to take care of a problem you have,” Rhys said softly. “I’m that man.”
“How in damnation did you find me? My connection said when they found someone they would set up a meet at Vauxhall.”
“I always make it my duty to find out about my employers, to avoid being squeezed out of my blunt. It didn’t take much to find you. A word here and there, a coin here and there. The job promised two hundred guineas.”
The fear leaked from the man’s eyes to be replaced with hope.
“Thank God,” he muttered, sounding desperate, “I was beginning to worry I would have to do away with the blighter myself. Very unpleasant business.”
“Is it now?” Rhys said, a cold rage working though his bloodstream.
“Yes, nasty business, I fear I do not have the stomach for it. Come, he’s this way.”
The man led the way down the hall, and then down the stairs to what appeared to be the servant’s quarters, conspicuously absent of all servants. A door was pushed open, and atop a narrow bed lay a small boy asleep. He was curled on his side, a dark smudge that looked suspiciously like a bruise visible on his cheek.
“Who is he?”
“I’m not paying you to ask questions,” Lord James snapped.
“What exactly are you paying for?”
A breath huffed from the man, and he held the candle high, casting the light in Rhys’s direction. Lord James wetted his lips. “I…I want him to disappear.”
“And never be found again?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “His body needs to be found. I need him to be declared dead. I would prefer if it looked like an accident and his body was dropped near where he was taken. Maybe a broken neck? Or just drown him. I will pay you when the deed has been completed.”
To speak so casually of taking the life of a child. Rhys stared at the man, noting his nervous tension.
“And if I insist on payment now?”
Lord James flushed. “I’m a gentleman, a man of honor. You will get your money and a bonus as soon as he is found. You have my word.”
A whimper came from the room, tugging their gazes to the bed. The boy stirred restlessly, but he still slumbered.
“Did you drug him?”
“Laudanum. I should have given him the whole bottle,” Lord James muttered. “Take him away and be done with it.” He scampered over to a small table wedged into a corner, grabbed a knife, and handed it to Rhys. “This is what I’ve contemplated using for the last few hours. If a weapon is more to your liking, have at it.”
A dark feeling stirred in the pit of Rhys’s stomach. “You’ll always be a threat, won’t you?” he murmured.
Lord James lowered his hand, the knife still held in a firm grip. “I beg your pardon?”
“Even if I whisk the boy away and return him home, you’ll keep trying. Even if you were called before the courts, what evidence is there to implicate you? The words of a blackguard like me over those of a gentleman of honor like yourself?”
There was a short silence. Fear settled on Lord James’s face as he recognized all was not as he expected. “Who the bloody hell are you and of what do you speak?”
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Hardcastle, sends her regards.”
Lord James whitened and dropped the candle, dousing them in darkness. He lunged, slashing at Rhys’s throat, but he was already moving away from the arc of silver slicing through the air. The lord had some training, perhaps fencing, but Rhys had been fighting in the gutter most of his life. He blocked the stab at his gut, dipped low, and slashed his knife upward to sink it into Lord James’s stomach while slamming his forehead into the man’s face to prevent any possible cry of alarm. A groan tore from Lord James, and blood gushed from his nose. Without giving him the time to rally, Rhys clasped his hand over the man’s mouth and ended their affray with a quick plunge of the knife deep into his heart.
He slid soundlessly down the wall, and Rhys helped him down. He checked for a pulse. He was dead, and no remorse stirred inside for the man who would have callously taken a child’s life. Leaving his body, Rhys slipped inside the room, and shrugging from his coat, he bundled the boy inside. Rhys moved silently through the house to the back entrance he’d come through. A moment later he whistled low, and a shadow appeared from near a gas lamp.
Riordan prowled over. “You knew I followed,” he said flatly.
“There is a body on the lower floor, servant’s quarters. See that he is found outside his house, the victim of a footpad.”
Rhys didn’t need to wonder about his friend’s loyalty or love—their friendship was uncompromising and had traversed all roads. He’d known Riordan would follow, and Rhys had trusted his friend would protect his back without knowing the full of the situation.
“I’ll see it done,” Riordan said softly.
Rhys hugged
his cargo closer and hurried though the fog-filled night to the waiting carriage several houses down.
Chapter Nine
A few hours after Georgiana had arrived on Rhys Tremayne’s doorstep, she held her precious boy, sobbing, her relief so deep she was shaking. She had only been back at Meadowbrook Park for about thirty minutes before the housekeeper’s shout had Georgiana rushing down the stairs rather recklessly, to spy Rhys standing with her son in his arms. She hurriedly lifted Nicolas and carried him to his room, ignoring Simon, who reached for him. The weight of her son as she climbed the stairs did not matter. He was in her arms, alive. She reached the chamber, and a maid rushed ahead to open the door. She spilled into the room and laid him gently on his bed. The doctor rushed over.
“May I, Your Grace?”
She nodded mutely, unable to speak past the tears clogging her throat. A hand touched her shoulder gently, and she peered up at her brother. The relief in his eyes mirrored her own, and she offered him a wobbly smile.
“I’ll head downstairs and deal with Tremayne,” Simon said gruffly. “I hate to ask this now, but what did you promise him?”
She squeezed his fingers and looked back at her son. Her brother seemed to understand, and he waited by her side while the doctor removed her son’s dirtied clothes and stripped him. Her Nicolas was then tenderly examined.
“Why isn’t he awaking?” she demanded hoarsely.
“It seems he was given laudanum, Your Grace. The gentleman who brought him told your housekeeper.”
A cry slipped from her, and she hurried over, clambering atop the mattress, to place her son’s head in her lap. She stroked his forehead, before pressing a kiss to his brows.
“He will be well, Your Grace,” Dr. Monroe said kindly. “His heart is steady and strong, and he is only sleeping. He will be disoriented when he wakes and may suffer from a mild headache and be very thirsty, but my experience tells me he will be asleep for at least another few hours.”
She wanted to keep on touching him, assuring herself that he was here.
The doctor spent several more minutes with him before he went down to the dining room for supper. Dr. Monroe would be her guest for the night so he would be available to check upon Nicolas when necessary. With his nursemaid’s assistance, Nicolas was washed and dressed comfortably in his sleeping apparel and settled into the center of his bed. His chest rose strong and sure as he slept soundly. A fierce rush of love clutched her as she watched her child slumber. “Ensure several candles remain lit,” she ordered.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
