Lucas’s throat tightened as he choked out the single word, “When?”
“Only a short time ago.” The butler replied, frowning. “The curate came in a pony cart to take them. Miss Trewent was irritated as well, as she was rather sleepy, but Mrs Mitchell has become a friend to her and so–”
The man was left talking to air as Lucas ran back out to the stables, his brown cape billowing behind him.
“Stone,” he roared, as he charged around the stable door.
“What in God’s–”
“Curate’s been here. He took Rosalind to see Mrs Mitchell.”
“That’s not possible. The woman has gone to visit her sister in Knutsford. O’Carroll told me last night.”
Stone’s face bleached white; Lucas was sure his was equally ashen.
The steady, calm voice of Ridges brought both men from their shocked stupor. “They’re in a pony cart, saw them leave. We have the best horses in England. They won’t get far, and Miss Trewent is a canny lass. We’ll find them.”
“Stone, check the outbound road first and then… You know your own estate. Ridges, hunt the east boundary and the inner road. I’ll go in the direction of that cottage to the west. Take as many men as you can. I don’t care if they limp and have ninety years, get them on a horse.”
“Aye, Major,” Ridges replied, sending the stable lads scurrying with instructions to tack all horses. Lucas watched them with a featureless expression.
A hand landed on his shoulder.
“We’ll find her, Mainwaring.”
He swivelled to meet Stone’s determined gaze and realised hehadbeen thinking the worst. He’d been imagining his Rosalind, lifeless, blood covering her body, and her face cold and still in the snow.
Wrenching his thoughts from the pessimistic evil, he clasped his own hand to Stone’s shoulder.
“Alive.”
