“Nightingale Lane,” she said aloud, as she took up the pen once more and drew a circle around the street upon the map.
If she was right, The Nightingale was not a person at all. Rather, it was a place. A street, to be specific, which meant it was the source for Fenian funding and dynamite. And if her instincts did not fail her, she had no doubt the conspirators would be found somewhere on Nightingale Lane, near the docks.
There was no time to waste.
Calmly, she located her pistol and tucked it inside a reticule, along with enough coin to see her about the city. Hired hacks would do, and she would worry about Lucien’s disapproval later.
He wanted to protect her, she knew, but she did not need his protection. If anything, she wanted to protecthim. He had already suffered enough in his life. He had a sister who loved him, and a niece or nephew who would love him as well all too soon. She was no one, just as she had always been, with no family of her own. No place she belonged.
Yes, she decided with a bittersweet smile. If either of them was to invite danger into their lives and put themselves at risk, it would be her. But with a little luck and some clever sleuthing, she would not need to worry about danger at all.
At least, that was what she hoped.
Lucien arrived atStrathmore’s townhome later than he had intended. He had spent the bulk of the evening conferring with Scotland Yard and sitting in upon interrogations of his staff. At dawn, one of his youngest footmen had finally broken and confessed he had enabled entrance to a man with an American accent, who had claimed he was a family member of Miss Montgomery’s and that he wished to surprise her with a gift.
Conal, the lad in question, was vehemently apologetic. Not that it mattered one whit. He had allowed a stranger—and not just any stranger, but a Fenian madman who intended to harm Hazel—into Lark House. Lucien had been obliged to sack him, for in this climate of danger, he could not allow a domestic susceptible to outside interference to remain upon his staff. Conal had been a diligent worker by all accounts, so Lucien had cut him free with six months’ worth of wages and letters of reference.
Exhausted, he had fallen into his bed upon a pillow which still smelled faintly of Hazel. But he had been alone and miserable without her, and with the heavy weight of dread sitting upon his chest, he had tossed and turned, unable to obtain the rest his body required. When he had finally fallen asleep, it had been mid-morning, the sun streaming through a gap in the window dressings.
Upon waking, he had rung for his valet, only to discover an urgent summons had come for him from Strathmore. Fear and rage had locked his heart in a fervent, unrelenting grip for the entirety of his punishing ride to Strathmore’s address. He did not even bother to knock. Instead, he strode through the front door, much like a lion stalking its prey.
He had not far to roam, for Strathmore appeared instantly, his expression pinched with worry. Lucien’s gut clenched. “Where is she?” he demanded, not bothering to elaborate.
Strathmore knew. “Miss Montgomery is…missing, I am afraid.”
“Missing,” he repeated, his mouth going dry.
One word, his greatest fear. Hazel. Gone.
He could not speak.
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. Perhaps it was the intensity of his feelings for her. But all of a sudden, he went dizzy, as if he had suffered a powerful blow to the head. He was not even certain he could stand on his bloody feet. He staggered under the weight of it. Nearly stumbled and fell.
Strathmore was there to catch him with a steadying hand. “Good God, man, are you ill?”
“Tell me,” he gritted, “how it is possible that she ismissing. Did someone take her? Did she leave of her own free will? Was there a struggle? Did your domestics or any of the guards witness anything? Jesus Christ, man, I know you loathe me for what I put you through, but have mercy. I need answers. I need to know more.”
The world was still spinning. He focused on Strathmore with great care.
Strathmore had not looked this grim when he had been facing the prospect of prison and the hangman’s noose himself. “If I had answers, I would offer them. All I know is that she was already gone when her lady’s maid went to attend her this morning. Nothing is out of place, and there is no hint she left in any way other than of her own free will. No one saw her departure, I am afraid, but her chamber is immaculate, nothing but a map and a list on the writing desk.”
The notion of the Duke of Strathmore in Hazel’s chamber rankled, but he could not dwell upon it now. “Take me to her chamber,” he said hoarsely.
He ought to have known better than to leave her here while he remained at Lark House. He ought to have damn well never strayed from her side. Self-recriminations flooded him as he followed in Strathmore’s wake, striding through the entry hall and up the elegant, twisting staircase.
“Lettie and Aunt Hortense,” he asked of Strathmore as they walked down the upstairs hall, “they are well?”
“Perfectly.” Strathmore slanted a glance in his direction. “I know you do not wish to hear this, Arden, but all signs point to the lady leaving of her own volition. I have no desire to be the one to point out you are an arrogant, overbearing arsehole, but—”
“You have already done so on more than one occasion,” he interrupted Strathmore coldly. He had done his penance for wronging his brother-in-law, and if there was ever a day when he could not withstand Strathmore’s mockery, this,by God, was that bloody fucking day. “She would not leave me.”
He said the last with more conviction than he felt. In truth, Hazel Elizabeth Montgomery was a law unto her own. No one could tame her. Nor should any man dare. Least of all, Lucien himself.
“Leaveyou?” Strathmore asked pointedly, as they reached a door and he opened it.
Lucien stormed past him, ignoring the raised brow and the question both. He hadn’t time for games. He was single-minded now. He needed to find Hazel. Immediately.
The chamber was, as Strathmore had described, immaculate. No sign of disturbance. No overturned furniture, nothing out of place, nothing broken. Her valise lay at the foot of the bed, and the chamber still smelled faintly of her scent. He stalked to the writing desk situated by a window and found a map opened over its polished surface.
