2
Richard paced the length of his modest room at the coaching inn, his boots scuffing the uneven wooden floorboards. The walls pressed in on him, the low ceiling and threadbare furnishings doing little to soothe the frustration that churned within. He was tired—tired of staying in this godforsaken village, tired of asking questions that yielded no answers, and most of all, tired of chasing shadows.
He needed the truth.
How had it come to this?
His sister, Olivia, had been preyed upon when she was most vulnerable, and she didn’t deserve this public ruin. She had eloped with a man calling himself Mr. Smith, a man who had whispered vows of forever all the way to Gretna Green, only to abandon her once he had received her dowry. She had returned home heartbroken and humiliated, while thetontore her apart one whisper at a time.
Their mother had taken to bed, inconsolable, alternating between fits of weeping and strained silence. It fell to Richard to restore the family’s honor—tofixthis. And yet, every step forward led him nowhere.
He clenched his fists.I failed them.
A sharp knock at the door dragged him from his spiraling thoughts. He strode over and opened it to find Mr. Crosby standing on the threshold, his expression grim.
Richard didn’t need to ask. “Do come in,” he said with a resigned sigh, stepping aside.
The Bow Street Runner entered, brushing road dust from his coat. “I’ve confirmed what we suspected,” he revealed. “The late Sir Atticus Smith had no sons. Only two daughters—Miss Lucinda and Miss Theodosia.”
Richard muttered a curse under his breath. “Wonderful. Another dead end.”
“Not entirely,” Crosby added, a glint in his eyes. “I made a few inquiries. Slipped a few coins into the right hands. One of Miss Theodosia’s tenants was willing to talk.”
Richard’s head snapped up. “What did he say?”
“The man fitting your sister’s description has been seen leaving Miss Theodosia’s manor at strange hours. Early mornings, late at night. Always alone. Always cautious.”
“And no one knows who he is?”
Crosby shrugged. “Only that he doesn’t belong in the village. Keeps to himself. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to suspect he is an illegitimate son or nephew. But from the description, he could very well be your sister’s mysterious husband.”
“Then I’ll wait for him,” Richard said at once, pacing again. “I’ll stay near the manor. Watch. Eventually, he’ll return.”
“That could take weeks. Months, even,” Crosby warned. “What if he’s already gone? What if he never comes back?”
Richard ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “What choice do I have? We know my sister’s dowry was deposited at the bank in this village. I do not doubt that Mr. Smith will return for the money.”
Crosby hesitated, then said, “There may be another way. Though I doubt you’ll like it.”
Richard turned towards him. “At this point, I’ll consider anything short of murder.”
“We take Miss Theodosia,” Crosby said plainly. “Escort her to London under guard. Leave a note for this ‘Mr. Smith’—whoever he truly is—informing him that if he wants her back, he’ll have to come and fetch her.”
Richard stared at him. “You want me to abduct her?”
Crosby folded his arms. “It would be a means to an end. If she’s truly innocent, no harm will come to her. And if she’s hiding something—or someone—then this will draw him out. Or at the very least, it will draw out her secret.”
“And if he doesn’t come to collect Miss Theodosia?” Richard asked, skeptical.
“Then we let her go. No worse off than she was before. And you’ll have your answer, one way or the other.”
Richard shook his head. “It’s madness. She’s a baronet’s daughter, not a common thief.”
“Which makes it all the more likely she knows something. For all we know, she and this man are in it together. He might be hiding behind her skirts while she plays the innocent hostess.”
“There has to be another way.”
Crosby gave a short nod. “There is. We could ride to Essex to speak to the older sister, Lucinda. She might know more. But it’ll cost us time.”
