“I swear it,” Tristan promised, “But first we need to find her, now go!”
Theo and Tristan flew from one another. In a matter of moments he caught up with Alistair, and together they searched throughthe dark gardens. Tristan felt a painful twist of his panic when he and Alistair found shreds of familiar fabric clinging to some rose bushes. That pain grew worse when he pulled one particular piece off of a thorn, and found it stained with blood.
Ophelia was hurt.
“Tristan, look!” Alistair barked.
Tristan’s head shot up as he rubbed the small piece of ruined fabric, and found Alistair pointing ahead.
“There’s more up here. It is a trail!”
Pushing his fear away, Tristan tucked the bit of ruined fabric into his pocket, and together he and Alistair followed the rest of the tattered pieces. The trail led them to the gravel drive, where they met up with Dominic and Hugo.
“None of these carriages are marked with the Weavington Crest,” Dominic stated gravely. “I fear he has already left with her.”
Tristan rode up slowly to his estate, his mind and heart in worse condition than ever before. Ophelia was gone.Hurt.After the search at Amelia and Dominic’s came up empty, he’d ridden to Weavington’s London estate only to be met by constables.
They’d told him the estate was empty, not even a servant had been left behind. They demanded an explanation from him and after he gave it, he was at least promised that they would continue their search by moving onto the Viscount’s country house. Though, Tristan already surmised they would find it in the same state as the man’s London residence.
After leaving Weavington’s, he rode to Ophelia’s father’s home, where her grieving father broke down with grief and worry the moment Tristan revealed why he’d sent men to the house. He did his best to comfort John, assuring the ailing man over and over that he was determined to find Ophelia. It did little to help, and eventually John’s staff had to take him upstairs and give him a tonic to calm down.
He’d made one last stop at Christopher’s. He briefly thanked the man for the information but implored him another favor: helping him find any clues as to where Abraham might have been able to hide Ophelia. Christopher assured him he would put men on it straight away.
With not much else to do but wait for more information, Tristan decided to head home. Luck thus far had not been on his side, but he was hoping that Abraham, who had posed as Perley, might have sent something with a return address that he could investigate.
“You the Earl?” A deep cockney accent broke through the silence.
Tristan’s head snapped up as he heard the voice, and saw a man standing outside of his estate gates. His muscles tightened with wariness and pent up aggression as he measured the man outside his gates. It was clear from his accent he was no noble, and given his disrespectful smirk, it was obvious that he had a clear disdain for them.
“I am,” Tristan stated, dismounting from the horse.
“What business do you have with me?” He demanded. “I am in no mood for riddles.”
“No riddles here, Lord,” The man snickered, swaggering up to Tristan as he pulled an envelope from his breast pocket, “Just a message.”
Tristan eyed the man suspiciously as he accepted the letter. The man moved to leave, but Tristan grabbed his arm and threw him against the gate.
“You are not going anywhere until I find out what this is,” he commanded.
The man’s eyes were wide with surprise, as if he had not expected a noble to be capable of such strength.
“I- I am just the messenger,” he stammered out. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“We will see,” Tristan bit out, staring the man down as he removed his hand from his arm and drew open the letter.
Inside was a note, along with a Transfer of Ownership contract.
You want your precious painter? Sign your spirit business over to me. Force your friends to give me sole ownership.
If not, not only will I have a new wife, but your secret will be revealed to all of London.
What will it be, Lord? Love or reputation?
You have one day or proof goes to every printer in England.
A
Tristan slowly crumpled the paper in his fist as his rage reached new heights. His other hand shot out, wrapping tightly around the messenger’s throat as he once more shoved him against the iron gates. The man let out a strangled cry as his arrogance drained from his body, and he looked at Tristan with wide, pleading eyes.
