“And Fancy? What did she do to earn your vengeance?”
Lisette gave her a reproving look. “She chose to be your friend.”
Anger built in Bea, edging out fear. On principle alone, she couldn’t let this lunatic win.
“What about the fire at the Ellerbys?” she pressed. “They’re good people, just trying to make a livelihood—”
“Get off your high horse, you bitch. There was no fire. I forged that note from your butler to get you to leave with me.”
Bea allowed herself a moment’s relief that Mrs. Ellerby had not been harmed.
“What about Frank Varnum?” she asked. “He’s your half-brother, isn’t he? Was he involved?”
“You think that pious twit could have come up with this plan?” Lisette scoffed. “Varnum has nothing to do with this. He doesn’t know about me, although I know plenty about him. Papa always said his son was a useless milksop, and Varnum proved it by shedding Papa’s name and legacy, as if it were something to be ashamed of.”
Bea sent silent apologies to Mr. Varnum for doubting him.
“Wick will be looking for me,” she said aloud. “I left him a note, and he knows I left with you—”
“This note, you mean?”
Lisette removed Bea’s letter from the hidden pocket of her skirts. She tore it in two, letting the halves plummet…Bea’s hopes along with them.
“I’m afraid Mr. Murray will think you quite rude for leaving without saying goodbye,” the maid said. “But given the brouhaha about the two of you in the papers, he’ll probably assume that your departure is your way of ending your affair.”
“He knows I wouldn’t do that to him.” Bea’s throat clenched. She couldn’t bear for Wick to think that she could be so callous with his feelings, not when he meant everything to her.
Why, oh why, didn’t I tell him I loved him?
“If I were him, I wouldn’t bother looking for a scarred lover who just ran off—and who destroyed my company before doing so,” Lisette said with a sneer. “I might just have a drink, lick my wounds, and seek solace in other ways. London has so many lovely diversions.”
Bea pushed back despair.Don’t let her poison your thoughts. Concentrate.
“What do you plan to do with me?” she demanded. “Why am I here?”
“Alas, my game, as enjoyable as it has been, cannot last forever. It’s time to end it.” Lisette’s smile was sweet and deranged. “To end you.”
* * *
Wick received news from the men canvassing the area. A pedestrian had seen a travelling coach drive into the lane behind the house around the time Bea had gone missing.
The witness said he’d seen a maid descend, stopping to exchange a rather lurid embrace with the driver, who had a distinct red mark on his face like a burn, which he then covered with a scarf. The maid had disappeared into the house, returning a few minutes later with a young lady, the two of them dashing into the coach. The witness added indignantly that he’d nearly been run over by the vehicle as it barreled out of the lane.
The account solidified Wick’s suspicions. Lisette was the key to his beloved’s disappearance, and she was apparently in cahoots with that bastard Ralph Palmer. Indeed, she fit the description that Mrs. Palmer had given of Ralph’s sweetheart, Mary Smith—with the exception of her hair color, which could be altered.
Wick conveyed the new description of the coach to the group helping in the search.
Then he went to the maid’s room.
The quarters were furnished simply with a bed, wardrobe, and small table. Given Lisette’s hurried departure, she hadn’t had much time to pack, leaving behind most of her belongings. In the dresser, he found a spare set of clothing and grooming products, his gut clenching when he saw the bottle of black hair dye.
On the table was a folded, day-old newspaper and a stub of a pencil.
“I know you’re behind this, Lisette-Marie-whoever you are,” he said under his breath. “Where did you take Beatrice, what are you planning?”
Part of being a successful negotiator was the ability to step into another’s shoes. He tried to think like the maid. If Lisette’s motive was revenge, then she could have killed Beatrice long ago. She had access; a few drops of poison would have done the trick. Instead of murdering her mistress, however, she’d engaged in nefarious activities designed to inspire fear and uncertainty.
The woman was like a cat toying with a mouse. She enjoyed the game, the suffering she was causing. Perhaps she saw Beatrice’s torment as her true retribution. And there was no doubt Lisette was a show-off: using the surnameCollier,indeed. It was as if she needed to flaunt her cleverness, to rub their noses in the fact that she, the coal miner’s daughter, had outwitted them.
