“One displeased old dowry hunter, Lord Mabryton, approached me at the club to confirm the rumor, and two other drowning-in-debt lords mentioned it during the recess at yesterday’s session.” Monty’s concerned scowl hardened even more. “I fear such discussions may cause issues when we bring the letters patent to Parliament.”
“We shall have to bide our time, then. Wait for thetonto shift their attention elsewhere.” Elias hated the thought of delaying their carefully plotted course. He wanted Celia legally safe and proclaimed the legitimate heir to the empire she and her mother had created.
Monty clapped him on the shoulder. “Forgive me. I should not have brought up such troublesome worries on today of all days.” He adjusted the ruffles at Elias’s wrist. “And all is well now between yourself and your lady love?”
“Not entirely well, but much improved.” Elias offered a rueful look and sadly shook his head. “I have learned a painful lesson, brother. Trust must be earned over time, and once lost, it is even more difficult to reclaim.”
He squared his shoulders, pulled his timepiece from his pocket, and checked it again. Almost time. An excited edginess filled him. The wagging tongues of thetonwere right—Lady Cecilia was most definitely above his station. But no one could ever claim to love her more than he did.
“Mother’s ring will bring you luck.” Monty patted his pocket while admiring himself in the mirror.
“Are you quite certain you wish me to use it?” While he appreciated his brother’s offer of their mother’s ring, Elias couldn’t help but feel undeserving of the honor. By rights, the ring should go to Monty’s future wife—whenever the rogue decided to choose one.
“Absolutely, old boy.” Monty smoothed back his hair, then turned toward the door with a curt nod. “I may never marry.” He ushered Elias forward. “However, it is now time for you to do so.”
Elias led the way, forcing himself to maintain a composed demeanor when he would much rather dash down to the drawing room and sweep Celia up into his arms.
When he and Monty stepped through the double doors of the room, a hint of disappointment filled him. His precious lioness had yet to descend from her suite. A subtle glance revealed everyone else was already seated and beaming with happiness. Lady Rydleshire and the dowager Marchioness of Ardsmere flanked the dowager duchess. Celia’s chosen sisters, as she always fondly referred to them, Lady Sophie and Lady Ardsmere, excitedly perched on the edge of their seats closest to the drawing room doors.
The retired Reverend Neville, his wife, grandson, and grandson’s wife lined up in front of the windows. They greeted Elias with happy nods, then returned their attention to the entrance flanked by a pair of large vases filled with sprays of ivy and delicate pink rosebuds just beginning to open.
An excited expectancy filled the room, but as each minute ticked away, the waiting took on a life of its own, changing into a worrisome uncertainty. The reverend cleared his throat and barely tipped an inquisitive nod in the duchess’s direction.
“Nervous bride.” The duchess leaned forward and eyed the doorway as if willing Celia to appear. “I feel sure she will join us soon.” She resettled her clasped hands in her lap and looked to Lady Sophie. “Sophie, was she nearly ready when you left her?”
Lady Sophie gave a quick nod. “Yes, Your Grace. Lady Cecilia said she would be right down after she changed her shoes for the third time.” She cast a congratulatory smile Elias’s way. “She wanted everything to be perfect for her husband-to-be.”
Perfection was one thing. This waiting was unnecessary torture. Elias resettled his stance and glanced toward the hallway again. Had she changed her mind? Decided to jilt him for revenge? No. Surely not. Her kisses and the wistfulness in her pale green eyes had confirmed her willingness to forgive and start again.
Monty cleared his throat, disappeared into the hallway briefly, then returned to his place beside Elias with a shake of his head. “No sign of her, brother,” he said quietly.
Elias had had enough. “I’m going upstairs to see about her. Something is terribly wrong. I feel it.” He exited the drawing room and charged up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. A glance back told him Monty, Lady Sophie, and Lady Ardsmere followed, but he didn’t slow. An increasing dread pounded through him, warning that all was not well.
He rapped on the door to her private sitting room, hitting it so hard it rattled the hinges. “Celia?” When only silence answered, he pushed inside, fears mounting higher at the emptiness he found within. He strode to the bedroom door and pounded on it. “Celia! Are you all right?”
Still no answer. He tried the latch and discovered it locked. “Celia! At least answer so I know you are not unwell.”
“She was fine earlier, and quite excited,” Lady Sophie called out from behind him.
“Something is wrong.” Elias waved them off. “Stand back. I am breaking it down.”
Monty shielded the ladies as he shuffled them away.
Fueled by a raging protectiveness he had never known before, Elias kicked the door open, splintering the frame and leaving it hanging by a single hinge. “Celia!” he bellowed as he surged into the room.
It was empty and entirely too disheveled for his liking. He turned to Lady Sophie, and his gut clenched with a certainty he wished he could deny. The young woman’s pallor and wide eyes confirmed that the room had not been this way when she left Celia a short time ago.
“I want everyone in this household brought to the drawing room. Now. Every servant. Every guest. Every person who darkened the halls of this townhouse since we last saw Celia. No one is to leave this property under any circumstances.”
“I shall see to it,” Monty said. He nodded toward the exit. “Ladies, after you.”
Elias carefully moved around the bedroom, then checked the dressing room, scrutinizing every detail. The curtains hanging from the frame of the four-poster bed were not neatly tied back, as would be usual for this time of day. At least, only one of them was. The other hung at an odd angle, as though almost yanked down. The windows were shut and would not be a feasible entry or exit from this height. And, as usual for London, it was raining. Neither the curtains nor the floors were the least bit wet. Whatever had become of Celia had originated from within the household, and from the state of the room, it had not happened with her consent. Fury set his blood boiling.
He examined the door latch closer, noting it could be locked from either side, but only with a key. Celia and the housekeeper should be the only persons in possession of one. A forlorn satin slipper of the palest pink lay on its side beside the shattered opening into the sitting room. He crouched beside it, clenching his jaw until it ached. One side of the precious shoe was frayed as though it had been dragged on the floor and treated roughly. A black mark stained the toe. He snatched it up and studied it closer. A pungency identified it. Shoe polish. With a rub of his thumb, the mark smeared across the material. Whoever had taken Celia had just polished their boots or shoes.
With the dainty shoe in hand, he stormed downstairs and strode into the drawing room. All eyes turned to him. He showed the slipper to Lady Sophie. “Was she wearing this when you left her?”
Her eyes filling with tears, Lady Sophie clutched a handkerchief to her mouth and sobbed. Confirmation enough for Elias.
