“When did you last see her?”
“A week ago Thursday. She left with her maid and a footman to visit the lending library. Lyssa bid them sit in a chair in the front of the store to wait while she browsed the book aisles, and she never returned. She disappeared, vanished, with nothing but the clothes on her back.”
Ian frowned. “Did the Runners find any information?”
“Nothing, not a trace. I put Parker on it and even he, the most resourceful of men, has come up empty-handed.”
Ian hesitated in asking this next question because the idea had obviously not struck her father yet. “Could she have deliberately run away?”
Harrell raised his eyebrows as if shocked by the idea. “Why? Lyssa has always been the most obedient of children. She’d have no reason to run away.”
Ian could not resist sliding a glance at the viscount. If he was a young woman, he wouldn’t want to marry the man, and the woman in the miniature he still held appeared to be anything butdocile. Especially if she had even one of her infamous father’s traits.
The Viscount Grossett did not mistake his meaning. “What are you implying, Irishman?” he demanded.
“I imply nothing, my lord,” Ian countered calmly.
“He is suggesting that perhaps our Lyssa has reservations about the marriage and has taken matters in her own hand by running away,” a feminine, musical voice said from the doorway. The men turned to find a blonde, beautiful woman standing there, one hand still on the door she’d quietly opened.
She blushed, the color becoming to her face. “Please pardon my interruption, gentlemen, but sometimes a woman must eavesdrop if she is ever to know what is going on.” She had the most charming lisp. This was the former duchess of Lackland, who upon the ancient duke’s death had married Harrell and provided him an entrée into Society.
She walked into the room, jewels sparkling in her hair and on her fingers, her movements smooth in spite of her advanced stage of pregnancy. Obviously, money was a significant inducement for a duchess to choose a commoner’s life.
The men all rose to their feet, Harrell coming around the desk to meet her. “My dear, you should be in bed.”
“You worry too much, Dunmore, and I wanted to meet the gentleman who is to find our Lyssa.” She looked to Ian and offered her hand. “You will find her, won’t you?”
Ian took her hand, flattered that she treated him with a modicum of respect. “I will endeavor to try—” He hesitated, uncertain of how to address her. Even though she was married to a commoner, he thought she still retained her title. He’d heard her referred to only as “Duchess,” whether because of fact, or the speculation surrounding her marriage, he didn’t know. It was apparent Harrell took pride in his wife’s station, yet Ian decided to err on the side of caution. “—Mrs. Harrell,” he finished, and she nodded, letting him know he was correct.
“Especially if I pay him well enough,” Harrell answered, and Ian wondered if matters always came down to money with him.
Mrs. Harrell smiled. She was half her husband’s age and a true catch. “You are not quite what we expected, Mr. Campion. Is he, Dunmore?” She did not wait for her husband’s response but provided her own, “Find Lyssa, sir, find her so she can discover happiness, as I have, with a husband and a child.” She removed her hand from Ian’s and proudly rested it on her stomach, and he found himself wondering if it was money or love that had persuaded her to marry the “Pirate.”
“He will, he will,” Harrell said, clearly worried. “Now please, go lie down. I don’t want anything to happen to my son.”
Mrs. Harrell laughed, enjoying his concern. She slid her violet-blue gaze toward Ian. “My husband longs for a son, but he also loves his daughter. And Viscount Grossett—he, too, is most anxious. Are you not, sir?”
“Absolutely,” the viscount echoed although Ian was certain his concern stemmed from the fear of losing Miss Harrell’s fortune more than true worry for her well-being. The man lackedthe anxiety of a lover. He met Ian’s gaze with defiance. “My family is pleased with this match.”
“Even your mother, my lord?” Mrs. Harrell asked archly.
“Especiallymy mother,” Grossett returned evenly.
“Well…then it is settled.” Mrs. Harrell walked to the door. She paused. “I believe, Mr. Campion, you will have your work cut out for you. Lyssa is as headstrong as her father.”
“Do you believe her kidnapped?” he dared to ask.
A secret smile lingered on her lips. She shook her head and then shrugged. “I’m not certain, but knowing Lyssa, no one could take her by force without a fight on their hands. She is much like her father. And I do not feel here”—she pressed the tips of her fingers to her breastbone above her heart—“that she is in danger. After all, her books were missing.”
“Books?” Ian looked to Harrell.
“My daughter is a bit of a bluestocking, except, of course, she prefers novels with, well, you know, with romance. She’s also fond of poetry.” He said the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “But to think she ran away just because some books are missing…?” He shook his head. “She could have given them to the library or to friends.”
“Not Lyssa. Her books were her companions,” his wife answered. She looked to Ian. “My stepdaughter packed her favorite books with her every time she traveled. She’d also much rather have a book in her hand than a possible husband by her side.” And Ian knew by her answer that his suspicionswere correct—the viscount was Harrell’s choice for a husband, not his daughter’s. And would a spoiled, petted young woman fond of romantic novels and poetry run away rather than face a betrothal distasteful to her?
Ian almost snorted his answer aloud.
He could feel Mrs. Harrell studying him and knew she shared his suspicions. “Good luck, Mr. Campion,” she said and floated out of the room, Harrell watching her leave with the longing of the truly lovestruck.
