He gestured with the pistol toward the cot. “Sit down, Duchess.”
“Victor will kill you for this,” she said, knowing that he would and hoping he wouldn’t be too late.
“Perhaps,” he conceded, “but he would have to find me first.”
Reynolds pulled the room’s single chair closer to the cot, seating himself while keeping the pistol trained on her. “Now what do you know of your husband’s correspondence? His visitors? Anything.”
“I told you, I know nothing,” Olivia repeated, her mind racing for a way to delay him until Victor could find her, holding onto hope that he was, indeed, searching for her.
Reynolds sighed theatrically. “Such stubbornness. Very well. It would appear that you leave me no choice.” He gestured with the pistol. “Remove your dress.”
Olivia stared at him in horror. “I will do no such thing.”
“You misunderstand, Duchess. This is not a request.” Reynolds’ voice hardened. “I have associates waiting outside who will be happy to assist me should you prove difficult.”
Olivia tried to calculate how much time had passed since she’d left Victor. And she couldn’t be certain.
The look in Reynolds’ eyes told her he was deadly serious in his threat. She needed time. Time for Victor to find her or to think of some way to escape. Unable to do anything different, she began to unfasten the buttons along the back of her dress, moving as slowly as she dared.
“That’s better,” Reynolds said, satisfaction evident in his tone. “Continue, slowly. We are in no hurry.”
Tears welled in the corner of her eyes as her throat constricted. Regardless of what Reynolds did to her body, the most devastating fear of all was that she might never see her husband again.
Chapter Eight
Victor
A sense of unease settled over Victor as the carriage accident scene finally cleared. He had been able to extract a young mother and her child from beneath the overturned vehicle, and it appeared that both were without long-term injury.
Victor immediately turned back toward the shop awning where he had left Olivia. But it was empty. His irritation grew as he scanned the busy street. He had told her to remain there.
When he returned to where their carriage had been, it was gone, too. That realization made his blood boil. That she would depart without his knowledge or permission. Victor flagged down a passing hackney, ordering the driver to take him to Ravenswood House with all possible speed.
When he finally burst through the doors of his home, Simmons approached immediately, but eyeing Victor with curiosity.
“Your Grace?”
“Where is the duchess?” Victor interrupted, scanning the entrance hall.
“She has not returned, Your Grace.”
“Not returned?” Victor repeated, his voice sharp. “What of the carriage?”
“It returned nearly a half hour ago, Your Grace.” Simmons hesitated. “The coachman said he was dismissed by the duchess herself.”
“Bring him to me. Immediately.”
Thomas, the coachman, appeared minutes later, nervously twisting his hat in his hands.
“Your Grace, I?—”
“Tell me precisely what happened,” Victor commanded, his voice controlled despite the growing tension in his chest.
“The duchess dismissed me, sir. Said she had a pressing matter at Harborough House.” The man shifted uncomfortably. “Said I should return home until you summoned me and that she would walk the short distance.”
Victor’s brow furrowed. “Harborough House? But her father is in the country.”
“That’s what she said, Your Grace. Something about an urgent message. She spoke with a messenger boy just before.”
