Terror seized her, making her words strained. If she could not give the men what they wanted, then what means would they resort to?
“I… I cannot help you. I have not seen my husband for four days. His whereabouts are just as unknown to me as they are to you.”
“See, I don’t entirely believe you,” the man said, sliding his hands into his pockets. He glanced to the side, addressing the others. “Search the parlor. Seize anything that can lead us to Kerrington.” He paused, his smile turning more sinister. “Take anything of value, too. We’re not here for information only, after all.”
His eyes met Sibyl’s.
“No!” she cried. “No, please, you cannot?—”
The footsteps she had heard finally reached her, and her butler rushed in front of her. She could sense he was trying to shield her by pretending to do his job of stopping the guests from going where they shouldn’t.
“Banwick,” she said, drawing his attention, “please return to your quarters. You do not need to be here.” Her voice was kind, pleading, but firm.
She had to protect those who protected her, too. She had learned that by witnessing Hermia’s kindness towards her servants.
“I heard the noise and voices,” Mr. Banwick muttered, looking at her with a frown. “I must?—”
“You must stay safe,” she whispered. “Please, let these men take what they need.” Her voice shook, for she had no idea what sort of information they were seeking or what they would even find.
She had lived in Kerrington House for just over a year, and she had never come across anything amiss.
“Lady Kerrington?—”
“Please, Banwick,” she insisted, aware that the intruders were watching her.
“Yes, Banwick,” Mr. Vance echoed, his tone mocking. “Do as your mistress says now.”
It took another few seconds of the old butler looking at Sibyl with so much concern it hurt her to see, but she nodded, hoping her plea was visible enough in her eyes.
“Then I will not be far, should you need anything,” he promised, before retreating.
He glanced over his shoulder before disappearing around the far corner.
As he did, four men branched out towards the parlor, and Sibyl was torn between following them and keeping her eyes on Mr. Vance, who simply stood there, his arms folded over his chest. His eyes didn’t move away from her.
“Please… please be quiet,” she begged. “My servants?—”
“Your servants are not our concern,” he interrupted. “Let my men do what I need them to do. Your lack of cooperation will not be well-received.”
The threat had Sibyl shutting her mouth. She had been on the receiving end of enough threats, had seen Isabella go through similar things, and could only curl her fingers into her palms, forming useless fists that a lady would never use.
Still, the nervous habit kept her distracted as she listened to the carpet being turned over, furniture hitting the wall, and frames knocked to the floor. With each crash and thud, she didn’t dare wander into the parlor. She flinched, listening to the destruction of one of her favorite rooms in the townhouse.
For too long, she stood there, facing Mr. Vance, thinking of her husband’s disappearance, thinking of why the Gilded Key would have an issue with him.
She wanted to pace, suddenly feeling like a caged animal, blindfolded, uncertain of what was happening, but she didn’t. She felt trapped in her own house.
The feeling was rather familiar, but this time, it came with terror rather than old pressure from her parents.
Eventually, Mr. Vance strode to the parlor, and Sibyl followed. Her heart clenched at the sight of the wreckage. The sofa she had been sitting on barely twenty minutes ago was overturned, every drawer in every cabinet yanked out and emptied, and the frameshad indeed been torn off the walls, as if they were searching for something hidden behind them.
“This is not necessary,” she said sadly, hating that her servants would have to tidy everything up later. That they must have heard the commotion and must be fearing for themselves, too. “This is not?—”
“Search the kitchen,” Mr. Vance ordered.
Without a second’s hesitation, the men all stalked down the hallway, heading for the kitchen. Sibyl raced after them, her pleas falling on deaf ears.
When they entered, the men’s eyes greedily narrowed on the food prepared for dinner, wrapped and plated.
