“I’m not sure. It’s possible.”
“And this boy he may have run off with …?”
“I don’t know if there even is a boy. He hasn’t talked to me about anyone recently. He brought boys around occasionally, but it’s been a while.”
I was nodding when I caught the scent of something familiar. A delicate whiff, stale and faint. With a frown, I stood, staring at the bed’s comforter, before I pulled it aside, along with the linens beneath, exposing the bare top of the mattress.
While the sheets were pristine on top, the mattress was stained with blotches of brown, the scent stronger now that they were exposed.
Maxwell swallowed. “That’s a lot of blood.”
“Hardly. It could have been from a bad cut. It’s not nearly enough to kill a man.”
Maxwell looked at me sharply. “Okay, but what does this mean?”
I touched the bloodstains as Zachariah approached to get a better look. “It’s actually relatively fresh. Maybe from within the past two weeks.” I considered. “I assume Emmett didn’t make his own bed.”
Zachariah offered a short chuckle. “Have you seen the state of his room?”
Maxwell sank into a chair. “I’ll need to check with the maids. Someone saw this.”
I watched him staring off into the distance for a moment before I reached out hesitantly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “This doesn’t mean he’s …” I let my voice trail off, the unspoken word hanging in the air.Dead.“He may have been injured though,” I added.
“If those robed men came for him in his sleep, I doubt he had much of a chance,” Maxwell said softly.
“No, but they also didn’t try to kill you. They intended to kidnap you. Which means they wanted you alive. Plus, there’s the note. It was a reply, which indicates there was an original note from Emmett.”
At Zachariah’s puzzled look, Maxwell handed him the note to peruse. “So, my brother might be alright.” Maxwell lowered his head and rubbed his temples. “Notes can be forged, however, can’t they?”
I didn’t reply, already having come to such a conclusion myself. I briefly considered a more sinister explanation, such as a vampire attack, but the kidnapping attempt would be too much of a coincidence. Plus, the risk of witnesses was much more likely seeking an invitation into this house, when there was a vast expanse of darkness in the gardens outside.
“I don’t know what to do with this, Lucian. I need to know who those men are and why they’re targeting my family. Someone we know has to be connected with them in some way, or they couldn’t have gained access to the grounds in the first place.”
“We need to continue following the clues,” I told him.
“I know. It’s just …” He glanced over at the stained mattress. “He’d been spending a lot more time by himself lately. He wasn’t sad or melancholy or anything, just … distant. He wanted time to himself. Maybe if I’d been there for him, forced my company upon him …”
“You can’t do that. What-ifs will lead nowhere. Let’s move forward and get your brother back, alright?”
Maxwell smiled softly. “Alright.”
We turned our attention to Emmett’s studio, which was in the room next door. It wasn’t much more organized than his bedchamber had been. Paintings crowded the walls and were stacked in neat rows, leaning on one another for support. Brushes were left strewn about a table, although they were clearly well cared for, while canisters of paint were piled upon each other in the middle of the space. There were more blank canvases and easels heaped together at the back of the room.
“He spends a lot of time here,” I observed, taking in the scenes Emmett had crafted, mostly of landscapes. Isabel was in quite a few of them, leaning on a tree or looking out over a stream with a parasol shading her face. “He’s quite skilled.”
“I think so,” Maxwell nodded as he walked around the room.
Zachariah tutted, leaning over a painting of Isabel laughing on a swing strung from a tree. “He’s missing her horns and pointed tail.”
Ignoring him, Maxwell grazed an unused frame with his hand. “I always encourage him, even if Father gives him a hard time.”
“The duke doesn’t like him painting?”
Maxwell shuddered. “Hardly. He thinks Emmett’s time should be dedicated to more serious matters, like the church and this community. He has no tolerance for art. It’s why Emmett’s right hand is …” He stopped, as if remembering himself. “But Father rather liked to hunt and those sorts of pastimes before he become an invalid.”
Emmett’s right hand? My eyes narrowed as I mulled over the implications. The duke didn’t seem the sort of upstanding family man he presented himself to be. If the duke was his role model, no wonder Ambrose acted as if everything in the world was there solely for his convenience. “I would think life miserable without art,” I said conversationally.
Maxwell looked relieved. “My thoughts precisely. And while I haven’t an artistic bone in my body, Emmett makes up for the entire family’s shortcomings in that department, wouldn’t you agree?”
