Lucas’s eyes darkened. “Then we prepare as though it were so—but we move carefully. Every decision from this moment must be precise.”
Margaret stepped forward and placed a trembling hand on his arm, her eyes bright with tears. “Your Grace, please—be cautious. She is precious, and rashness could endanger her further.”
Lucas met her gaze evenly, voice low but resolute. “I understand, Lady Trenton. But I cannot wait. She is alive—and she is being moved. Every precaution I take will be for her safety. But there will be no delay.”
Lord Trenton stepped forward, voice strained. “You must bring her back.”
“I will,” Lucas replied, low and certain. “I promise you she will be brought home.”
The maid clutched his sleeve. “Can you truly find her, Your Grace?” she whispered.
Lucas looked at her—at the fear edged there—and his answer was plain. “Yes. We will find her. Tell us everything—the carriage’s direction, the men’s voices, any detail, however small.”
Agnes nodded, swallowing, and began once more. She spoke until Lucas had every angle sketched in his mind.
“Good,” Lucas said firmly. “We start now. William, map likely carriage routes. Lord Trenton, prepare the house and keep servants to the rear—do not let word of our movements spread. Lady Trenton, remain here with the other staff. Do not attempt to follow. We cannot risk them learning our plans.”
Margaret gripped his arm, white-faced. “And you, Your Grace? You’ll go alone?”
Lucas shook his head. “I will not go alone. William and I will move together. But my focus is on her, not myself. Every moment counts.”
Eric’s voice broke again, heavy with emotion. “Please, Lucas, do not fail her.”
“I will not,” Lucas said, his voice low and firm. “She will return to you. Alive. Safe. That is all I will accept.”
He moved to the door, command in his every pace. Outside, he drew a breath and studied the street. “They have chosen narrow lanes and discreet paths. Start with the routes Agnes named; cross-reference them with Cherrington’s known associates and lodgings. Intercept them before they can move her farther.”
William pressed his lips together and gave a curt nod. “Agreed.”
They mounted a waiting carriage chosen for speed. Lucas took the reins in hand, every sense taut with purpose.
“Whatever it takes,” he breathed to himself. “I will bring her home. Whatever the cost, whatever the danger… she will return safely.”
The carriage lurched forward, and with it the first step of a hunt begun in haste and dread.
Chapter Twenty
Elowen blinked in the darkness, her senses heightened despite the fog in her mind. Her eyelids felt heavy, as if they had been sewn shut while she was unconscious. When she tried to move, pain shot through her shoulders and a throbbing headache demanded her attention.
Where am I?
The question came slowly as her mind fought through the haze. She caught her breath at the strange air around her—the dampness mixed with the salty, tarry smell, alongside something rotten and decaying. Her stomach twisted as she realised she could smell the Thames—or something that had lingered beside it for too long.
She tested her hands cautiously, flexing them. A sharp sting ripped through her wrists. Rope. Rough rope. Looking down, she saw that she was tied to a chair, her body stiff from pain and shock. She tugged gently, feeling the fibres, and a small spark of determination broke through her panic—they would hold, but not forever.
Moonlight streamed through a grimy window, casting shadows that danced like fleeting moments of her own life. The pale light fell across crates stacked in disarray, each one labelled with shipping manifests.
Water dripped in the shadows, each drop echoing against the wood, marking time with a cruel rhythm.
Then she heard the sound she feared: the scrape of a latch against cold metal.
The door swung open.
Victor.
The polished, charming man she had known was gone. In his place stood a predator, the veneer of civility stripped away.His grey eyes, once soft, now gleamed with calculation. His boots struck the floor in deliberate rhythm, each step echoing through the vast, dim space.
He stopped a few paces away, fingers tapping against the pistol at his side—a restless, uneven beat betraying his tension. “You’re awake,” he said. His tone was flat, factual.
