She had enough money to get her back to London, where she’d throw herself on the mercy of the one person who might take pity on her, the closest thing she had to a friend.
Gemma Cross.
* * *
THE MOMENT LUKE AWOKE, he knew something was wrong. He reached for Serenity, only to find the sheets where she’d lain cold to the touch. With a muffled curse, he pushed out of bed, his head pounding with shock and fury.
“Serenity,” he cried.
As he’d feared, he was met by only silence.
Undaunted, he prowled through the suite, screaming her name over and over, until the proprietor banged on the door, demanding to know what was wrong.
He wrenched the door open, staring the man down. “My companion,” he yelled. “When did she leave? Did you see her go?”
The man stepped back, obviously taken aback by Luke’s wild-eyed appearance. “She left just after dawn, my lord. I don’t know where she was going.”
Luke sagged against the doorframe, all the anger leaving him in a rush, replaced by despair. “What time is it now?”
“A bit past noon, my lord.”
“Bloody hell,” he cursed. How had he slept so long? She’d be halfway back to London by now, no doubt. And he had absolutely no idea where to look for her. Now he was missing both a sister and a lover, and he’d never felt so helpless.
“Are you all right, my lord?” the innkeeper asked quietly. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Luke shook his head, the storm inside him fading as though it had never been. “Thank you. I’m fine. Can you send for a hack to take me to the train?”
“Of course, my lord. Right away.” As the man disappeared down the hall, Luke resisted the urge to slam the door, closing it with careful precision.
She’d left him. Snuck out like a thief in the night without a word of explanation, just as she’d done last time. Part of him thought he should probably let her go, but he’d never been one to play it safe. There was more going on here than he knew. Something horrible had happened to the woman he loved. Something so horrible that she’d never quite recovered from it. He wasn’t going to judge her actions today until he knew the reasons behind them.
He had to find out what happened all those years ago in order to fix what was going on now. And the only way he knew to do that, the only lead he had, was his mother.
He grimaced as he packed up his things. He would return to London and speak to the countess. And he had a sinking feeling that it would probably be the last conversation he ever had with her.
* * *
“WHY MUST WE STAY HERE? It’s ugly! I don’t like it! I want to go home!”
Roger glowered at his lovely spoiled half-sister, wondering what he’d possibly been thinking when he’d decided to bring Allison with him to Paris. He’d expected her to be fine company during his exile, but she’d done nothing but whine and complain for three solid days. He’d like nothing more than to send her back, but his stepbrothers were probably going mad with worry for her, and that almost made the irritation of having her here worth it.
“Our lodgings are only temporary,” he reminded her for at least the tenth time. “Once my funds are available, we’ll move somewhere much nicer. I promise.”
She glared at him, then flounced over to the lone sofa that their admittedly shabby hotel suite boasted. “You’d better not expect me to put up with this more than another day or two,” she told him darkly, then went back to reading the novel he’d fetched her earlier in the day.
Once she’d quieted, he poured himself a glass of whisky and downed half of it, annoyed by the tremble in his hand.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the look Adrian had given him when they’d caught sight of each other in the hallway of that warehouse. If it hadn’t been for the bastard’s wife spilling out of the basement and diverting his attention, Roger knew he’d be a dead man.
In fact, ifanyof his stepbrothers caught up to him, they’d probably kill him, so he had to come up with a way to destroy them first. As things stood, he’d never be able to return to London, which was unacceptable. His businesses were there. Hislifewas there.
With a sigh, he sat back in his chair, wishing he’d taken care of all three of them back when they’d killed his father. He still couldn’t believe they’d gotten away with it, but no one had believed that such young boys could be responsible for such a heinous act. Ever since, he’d been trying to figure out which one of them had done it and how. His father had been strong and brutal. It wouldn’t have been easy for one of those little weaklings to push him off that roof.
That was why he’d finally concluded that the three of them must have worked together.
Taking Lucien’s child all those years ago had assuaged some of his fury. Kidnapping Adrian and Morgan’s wives had been an attempt to hurt them the way they’d hurt him, but he’d honestly never meant for either of the women to die. Now that Morgan’s wife was dead, this dangerous game he’d been playing with Adrian for years had intensified to a deadly one.
He finished off his whisky and poured himself another, full of dark fantasies of revenge.
