“That’s what I’m trying to bloody figure out.”
“Youlostmy sister?”
The accusation was not only galling, it was damned ironic:Hadleigh, of all people, was accusing Wick of not looking after Beatrice’s welfare? When it had been Hadleigh’s actions, his lust for revenge, that was at the root of her troubles?
Wick didn’t blame Beatrice for wanting nothing to do with her brother. He knew she feared that Hadleigh would wreak even more havoc were he to get involved. Wick was not afraid of the bastard, however.
“Your sister left, and yes, I accept some responsibility for that,” he clipped out. “The papers are full of lies, and I should have protected her better against them. But you, Your Grace, bear your share of blame as well for her situation. I think you and I both know what I’m referring to.”
Hadleigh stared at Wick, his gloved hand tightening on his walking stick. Although the duke was still a young man, his life of dissipation had left its mark. Deep lines were carved around his mouth, and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, drink, or drugs—probably all three. Hollows stood out beneath his cheeks, and his well-tailored clothes did not hide the gauntness of his tall frame.
“That is between my sister and me,” he said with lethal softness. “You had best not interfere.”
Wick couldn’t be bothered to mince words with the pompous ass. “Your sister has been subjected to countless attacks because of Grigg,” he said flatly.
The mask of loftiness slipped. A stricken look came into Hadleigh’s red-rimmed eyes.
“H-how is that possible?” he stammered. “Grigg’s dead.”
“I don’t have time to get into the details,” Wick said with disgust. “Suffice it to say, Beatrice was not safe at her estate. I brought her to London to protect her—and to track down clues to her enemy.”
“Why didn’t she come to me? I would have helped. I would have done anything to make up for…”
Hearing the pain in the duke’s voice, the remorse of a man who knows he’s done wrong even if he can’t admit it, Wick would have felt compassion, under ordinary circumstances. But now he was impatient: he didn’t have time for the bastard’s soul-searching…he needed to find Beatrice.
“Those clues led us to Grigg’s only child: his son, Thomas Franklin Grigg, who we believe is using the alias of Frank Varnum. Varnum is the curate of the church close to Beatrice’s estate, and she may have gone back to protect her people from him. I have men out looking for her, but if they don’t find her, I’m going straight to Staffordshire so I would appreciate it if you didn’t delay me any further.”
Hadleigh stared at him. “Varnum isn’t Grigg’s only child.”
“Pardon?” An icy hand gripped Wick’s nape, premonition prickling through him. “Our investigator said that he had only the one heir.”
“One legitimate child, yes. But he had a by-blow with his French mistress…a daughter. Her name was Marie, I believe.”
The frost spread to Wick’s gut. “What do you know about Marie?”
“Not much. After what…happened with Grigg, I sent money, anonymously, to the wife. I tried to find the mistress, but she’d disappeared, taking the girl with her.” Hadleigh swallowed. “I know that Grigg’s son eventually went into the Church, and a couple of years ago, my man briefly picked up the daughter’s scent. She disappeared before he could approach her, but I suppose it was too late for that. At any rate, she’d found herself a respectable trade.”
“Doing what?” Wick asked…but he already knew.
“She was in service. A lady’s maid, I believe.”
38
Bea opened her eyes.Her vision was fuzzy, her mind too.
All she registered was dimness, the overwhelming acridity of coal.
Where am I?she thought groggily.
She tried to remember where she’d last been…the coach heading for Camden Manor. Was she in a carriage now? She attempted to move, realizing with a jolt of panic that she couldn’t. She wasbound…to a column, rope winding around her chest, arms, and legs. A handkerchief was tied around her mouth, muffling the fearful cry that rose in her throat.
What is happening?Who did this to me?
She gazed wildly around, her skull rocking against the pole as she scanned her environs. There was just enough light to make out the long rectangular room with blackened brick walls and windows covered with soot. She made out vague shapes through the glass; it seemed like she was above the level of the street. The ceiling was high, some sixteen feet above her…and for some reason it had a large rectangular hole cut into it, framing a patch of dusky sky.
She squinted upward: were those…railway tracks running along the edges of the opening?
Closing her eyes, she listened, trying to gain additional clues to her whereabouts. She heard…waves? Ambient sloshing against the banks, distant cries—human or gulls, it was difficult to tell. But it seemed that she was near water, the Thames or a canal perhaps.
