That frustration, combined with the pain from Sutcliffe’s betrayal, cut her deeply. Sutcliffe’s remorse did seem genuine, but it would not bring Henry home.
Once in her chamber Charlotte quickly changed to a heavy wool petticoat and gown of charcoal wool. She secured her hair at the nape of her neck and grabbed her heaviest cloak.
She paused at the sight of the empty cradle and, for but a moment, permitted tears to fill her eyes. How had her life come to this? At each turn she believed that nothing worse could happen—that she had experienced all the pain one person could withstand.
She retrieved the King’s Prize from the pocket of her apron and dumped them on the bed.
Seven stones of varying refinement. Size. Shades. Shape. Something about these gems made them so valuable that men were willing to steal, lie, and perhaps even kill for. Like it or not,she’d been unwittingly ensnared in this corrupt plot, and yet she could not overlook her own missteps. She had trusted the wrong people. Made the wrong decisions. And while she would be able to forgive the others for their shortcomings, she could not forgive herself.
She gazed at the empty bed where Henry had been sleeping. She would not fail him. Anthony might be content to wait. She was not.
She quickly donned her sturdiest pair of boots, then tied the pouch of emeralds to a pocket in a slit in her gown.
She would not wait for Anthony. She would not wait for anyone.
***
Anthony’s fingers flew as he penned a letter to Mr.Walstead, refusing to give voice to the doubts running rampant in his mind.
How did this happen right underneath him? He had to have missed a sign somehow. Somewhere. He’d failed Charlotte, plain and simple, and for that he would never forgive himself. He would also never forgive Timmons for the betrayal.
But he could not linger on the emotion incited by either fact. After all, he’d been trained to deal with such illicit events. He’d carefully assessed the facts at hand, and his intended plan of action was prudent. Writing this letter was one of the first steps, and with every word he wrote he checked it, making sure he was acting professionally and not as a man in love. He was, after all, still tasked with keeping them safe.
Mr.Walstead,
The Prior baby was abducted during the night, and a ransom note has been discovered. Timmons, Broadstreet, and Rebecca have abandoned their posts, and I suspect their involvement. They are demanding the King’s Prize in exchange for the boy. We have discovered the emeralds, but we need more men before approaching the exchange site. Send at least five men and horses. I will contact the local magistrate. This situation is dire. We must act without delay.
He finished the letter, sealed it, and left his chamber to find Ames in the front courtyard. The watchman was ready with his horse and was clad in his high-collared coat, with tall top boots and a leather satchel hanging from the saddle.
“I’ve just finished the perimeter check,” Ames shared, his tone somber. “Fresh hoofprints, from three horses, lead out the garden gate to the moor, due west.”
Anthony’s gaze lifted toward the indicated direction.ThomsTor.
“Is the letter ready?” Ames pulled Anthony’s attention back.
Anthony extended it to him, and Ames accepted the missive in his gloved hand and tucked it in his coat.
“I’m going to the village to find the magistrate,” explained Anthony. “It will take you several hours, no doubt, before you return, but we will meet here and proceed together. I’ll ride out to the site to stake it out and see what we’re up against.”
After seeing Ames off to Leeds, Anthony needed to get to the village. He had no idea who the magistrate even was, but he didknow that many local magistrates refused to involve themselves in affairs outside of their own jurisdictions, especially ones of this magnitude. Some magistrates would be eager to put their names on a case like this, and others endeavored to keep city business as far from their villages as possible. But one thing was certain: If Mr. Walstead and his men did not arrive in a timely manner, the local magistrate would be imperative.
He gathered his caped greatcoat and hat, but he had to speak with Charlotte before leaving. She’d been angry, and rightfully so, but he didn’t want to depart without checking on her one last time. He climbed the narrow parlor staircase and ducked under a low beam toward her chamber and, once there, knocked on the closed door.
No response.
He knocked again. “Mrs.Prior?”
When no response came the second time, he turned the door handle and pushed it open.
An empty chamber met him.
She was nowhere in sight.
In that moment he knew—she’d gone on her own.
She could be halfway to Thoms Tor by now.
Scenarios rushed him. Did she have a weapon to protect herself? If she did, did she know how to use it? He needed to stop her before another tragedy ensued.
