“You’ll never get away with this,” Ashley hissed, backing up as the men approached. “Her father will have you hanged.”
“Only if he catches me before we wed, so get a move on,” Lockwood countered.
In a sudden movement, Ashley seized a heavy crystal vase from a nearby table and hurled it at the scarred man, catching him in the shoulder. “Run, Courtney!” she shouted.
Courtney bolted for the door, but the second man—younger, leaner, but no less menacing—intercepted her, grabbing her around the waist and lifting her off her feet. She screamed and struggled, kicking wildly as she was dragged back toward the broken terrace doors.
Ashley launched herself at Lockwood, her small fists pummeling his chest as she tried to impede his progress. The baron backhanded her across the face with shocking force, sending her crashing into a delicate rosewood table that splintered beneath her weight.
“Ashley!” Courtney cried, watching in horror as her friend crumpled to the floor, a thin line of blood appearing at her temple where she’d struck the edge of the broken table.
“Regrettable,” Lockwood commented dispassionately. “But she should have known better than to interfere.”
“You monster,” Courtney seethed, renewing her struggles as the man holding her tightened his grip painfully around her ribs. “You’ll hang for this!”
“I think not,” Lockwood replied calmly, producing a small cloth from his coat pocket. “Now, I’m afraid we must expedite our departure before someone investigates that little fire in the kitchen.”
Before she could protest further, the cloth was pressed against her face, its sickly-sweet smell flooding her nostrils. Courtney held her breath, trying to twist away, but the man’s grip was unyielding. Eventually, her lungs burning, she was forced to inhale, and immediately the room began to spin around her.
Her last conscious thought was of Lucien, of the promises they’d made to each other just hours ago. As darkness claimed her, she prayed he would find her before it was too late.
*
Ashley regained consciousnessto the sound of frantic voices and the acrid smell of smoke. Her head throbbed viciously, and when she tried to move, pain lanced through her skull, making her gasp.
“Lady Ashley! Oh, thank heavens!” Graves appeared in her blurred vision; his usually impassive face creased with worry. “Don’t move, my lady. You’re injured.”
“Courtney,” she managed, her voice a rasp. “Where is Lady Courtney?”
The butler’s expression confirmed what she already knew. “She’s…gone, my lady. There was a small fire in the kitchen—a distraction, we now realize. By the time we discovered it was deliberately set, it was too late.”
Ashley struggled to sit up despite the butler’s protests and the room’s alarming tendency to tilt around her. Blood had dried on the side of her face, pulling at her skin uncomfortably.
“Baron Lockwood,” she said, gripping Graves’ arm for support. “He’s taken her. We must find Lord Furoe and my brother immediately.” Using the remains of the rosewood table to steady herself, she forced her legs to cooperate as she rose unsteadily to her feet. “And send someone for the Duke of Blackstone and Viscount Milburn. Tell them it’s a matter of life and death.”
She’d faced this exact situation several years ago and she knew the gravity of the situation. A woman’s reputation was destroyed—her life irrevocably captured by circumstances. If Lockwood got her to Grena Green before they were found….
As servants scurried to obey her commands, Ashley sank onto a nearby chair, pressing a handkerchief to her bleeding temple. Courtney was gone, spirited away by a man whose cruelty she had witnessed firsthand. A man desperate enough to commit abduction in broad daylight.
“Please be safe,” she whispered, watching as a footman raced toward the stables to send messengers to Lucien and the others. “Please hold on until we find you.”
She refused to consider any other possibility. Not when Courtney had finally found happiness again after years of grief. Not when so much depended on her safe return.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lucien rode throughthe early morning mist, his mind racing with plans and strategies. The memories of his night with Courtney made every inch of his body heat and he was even more determined to ensure Lockwood didn’t ruin anything for him—for them.
London was just beginning to stir, shops opening their shutters, servants sweeping doorsteps, and milk carts rattling over cobblestones. The heavy weight of responsibility and determination propelled him toward Blackstone House, where he hoped to find the first thread that might unravel Lockwood’s schemes.
The Duke of Blackstone was not known for receiving callers at such an unseemly hour, but Lucien’s situation left no room for social niceties. As he approached the imposing Mayfair mansion, he steeled himself for what would likely be a frosty reception.
To his surprise, the duke’s butler informed him that His Grace was already awake and in his study. Lucien was shown in with minimal delay, finding the austere nobleman seated behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing correspondence with a severe expression that seemed permanently etched onto his aristocratic features.
“Lord Furoe,” Blackstone acknowledged without rising, his dark eyes betraying only mild curiosity at the unexpected visit.“What brings you to my door at this hour? I trust it must be a matter of some importance.”
Lucien bowed slightly. “Your Grace, I apologize for the intrusion, but I find myself in need of your assistance with a rather delicate matter.”
The duke set down his letter opener with precise movements. “Indeed? And what might that be?”
