Her voice was thin. Nothing more than a croak of desolation. “No one knows.”
What the bloody hell?
He ground his teeth so hard his gums ached with the force. “What do you mean, Aunt Hortense?”
Reynolds cleared his throat. “There was an incident this evening concerning Lady Violet. We sent word to you at the Home Office, but apparently it did not reach you.”
A memory pricked his conscience then, and he recalled Swift speaking to someone at the Home Office headquarters. He remembered a missive being handed over, watching as Swift bowed, pocketing the communication.
He had only noticed the exchange from afar, and purely by chance, but now, the oddity of it struck him. As if on cue, Swift produced an envelope from his inner breast pocket, holding it aloft as though it were the key to a great mystery, and he had just solved it.
He frowned. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I was given this, but the message that it was imperative for the missive to reach you was lost upon me.”
Lucien’s gaze narrowed on him, but now was not the time to offer a reprimand. All there was time for was Violet. Aunt Hortense was weeping once more, and Reynolds looked as if he were attending his own funeral.
“Damn it,” he growled, “cease speaking in riddles, all of you. Tell me what happened to Lady Violet, and tell me now.”
Perhaps that was the true key—finding her.
Aunt Hortense issued another violent sob. “She is gone, Strathmore.”
Gone.
The word echoed through him, and just like that, he was a gangly youth, swimming in the North Sea once more, desperate to find his mother, running down the shore hours later, finding her face down in the sand, so still and bereft of life. Scooping her into his arms to carry her home for the last time. His mother had been too broken to fix, too flawed to remain, too caught up in her own passions and troubles and emotions, and in the end, it had killed her.
But not Violet. He knew his sister. He had devoted his life to making certain she lived hers in the best way possible. In a way which would lead her as far away from the decisions their mother had made as he could. Because he could not bear to lose her.
“She did not…” His words died in his throat. His tongue was stupid and huge. Numb. And he could not finish the question for fear of the answer.
“The Duke of Strathmore took her,” wept Aunt Hortense. “Oh, Arden, you never should have allowed that villain to remain here. What can you have been thinking? Now he has our Violet, and Lord knows what he shall do to her.”
He knew a moment of blinding relief, followed closely by a moment of blinding rage. “Strathmore?”
Strathmore.
He should have known. He had never wanted the rogue beneath his roof at all, for there was no love lost between himself and the duke, but Home Office had given him no choice. They had been unwilling to imprison a peer of the realm and a longtime League member with an impressive history of service. Lucien had not suffered such qualms, but his concerns had been summarily dismissed.
And so it seemed fitting the one man he had warned the League about had just committed such a grievous sin.
The man was a plague. A traitor and a plague. Evidence did not lie, and there was a veritable avalanche of it against him. Lucien was going to hunt him down personally, and when he did, he was going to beat him to within an inch of his life, and then he was going to deliver his beaten, bruised, and bloody carcass straight to Newgate himself.
He turned to Swift, anger rising within him, hard and fast and sure. It would tide him over. For now, he could force himself to focus on his rage, to smother his worry with it. Because right now, Violet was as gone to him as their mother was.
“Bring me the guards, one by one. I want statements from each of them. I want answers. I want to know how the hell Strathmore left here with my sister unimpeded. Was everyone asleep on his bloody watch? I want everyone to account for each minute of his time, each action. But most of all, I want to defeat the Duke of Strathmore. When we find him, he will wish he had never been born at all.”
Here was a vow he could keep, a promise he could make to himself.
And when he found Violet, he was going to see her wedded to the Earl of Almsley immediately. He wanted to make certain she was happy and secure. He owed it to her. He could only hope and pray Strathmore would be a gentleman and not attempt to compromise her or—damn it, he could not, would not think it—worse.
Tomorrow loomed before him, dark and endless and hopeless.
I will find you, Violet, he promised inwardly.I will find you.
And he would destroy the Duke of Strathmore. Burn him to the ground if he must. There would be no mercy.
Chapter Twelve
“It belonged tomy grandparents.”
