Cold and confused, she’d had no idea how she’d got there. Nor did she have any memory of the person who’d done this to her. But a note had been pinned to her skirts:
Friends of the Bitch beware.
It didn’t take a genius to surmise who the “Bitch” was. And if the note wasn’t enough of a clue, then what Knighton told Bea was: when he’d found Fancy, she’d had a red line painted on her right cheek—a crude replica of Bea’s scar. Afraid of increasing Fancy’s distress, Knighton had wiped it off her cheek on the pretense of removing dirt.
The message was clear: whoever had hurt and terrorized Fancy had done so to get to Bea.
Why? Who would do such a heinous thing…just to punish me?
“The fault is not yours.”
Wick and Knighton had both spoken at the same time. Now they were staring at each other, eyes narrowed.
“O’ course this ain’t your fault, Miss Bea,” Mr. Sheridan said. “You’ve always been a friend to us Sheridans and Fancy especially. If I know me daughter—and I do, seeing as I raised ’er since she was a babe—she would not be wanting you to feel responsible for the actions o’ the bastard who did this, pardon my plain speaking. She’d be telling you to concentrate on ’ow to keep yourself safe from this sneaky coward.”
“Mr. Sheridan is correct.” The Duke of Knighton leaned forward in his chair. “We must plan for your safety, Lady Beatrice, and the safety of Miss Sheridan.”
When he’d returned with Fancy in his arms, he’d been disheveled, his dark hair ruffled, a rip in his jacket, his boots covered in mud. Now he was back to his usual elegant self, although a dangerous glint lingered in his grey eyes. Beatrice was grateful beyond words that he’d stayed to aid in the search for her friend.
“Knighton and I have a plan,” Wick said curtly.
“What sort of a plan?” She canted her head.
Wick rose, stalking before the fire. “It’s not safe for you or Miss Sheridan here at Camden Manor. In London, I have the resources and men to ensure your proper protection. Let me finish,” he said, when she opened her mouth to argue.
His stern tone startled her into remaining silent, and he continued on.
“If you stay here, you compromise your safety and the safety of those around you. Whoever is trying to hurt you will continue to strike—and next time the results could be far worse than the barn fire and Miss Sheridan’s kidnapping.” He held up a hand when she again tried to speak. “It’s time to stop this dastardly villain. The clues we’ve found thus far all lead to London. We know the pocket watch was made there; we can have it looked at by watchmakers, try to track down its origins and owner. We can also investigate Randall Perkins, see what we can find out about his past. He may even be in the city, along with another suspect, Reverend Wright. Going to London is the logical course of action.”
His lecture apparently coming to an end, Wick faced her with his shoulders drawn back and his jaw set. He had the look of a warrior ready to fight for what he believed was right. She realized he was ready for her to dispute his plan. Thathadbeen her initial impulse. To say that she couldn’t leave her estate or the people under her care. That she wouldn’t run from some cowardly attacker.
Yet she had to admit that Wick’s logic was sound. She was, at this moment, a liability. If her foe’s aim was to terrorize her, then her very presence threatened the welfare of her tenants, who could get caught in the crossfire, the way Fancy had. The sooner Bea identified the villain and saw to his capture, the sooner everyone around her would be safe. And her instincts told her Wick was right: the answers lay in London.
London, where Wick had the resources to keep Fancy and her safe.
London, where she’d have to face the ghosts of her past.
“What do you think of the plan?” Wick asked.
His jaw had a stubborn line, and his posture was braced, prepared for a battle.
She lifted her brows. “When do we leave?”
23
It tookBeatrice two days to get ready for the trip to London. Since Wick had expected much more resistance to his plan, he was happy to let her take her time. Her decision to trust him was a gift, and he wanted her to feel good about it. Where he could, he helped her cross tasks off her lengthy checklist of preparations.
Her main concern was the welfare of her tenants in her absence; accordingly, he went into the village to hire men to guard her estate. He also briefed the farmers on the situation, setting up a patrol system whereby the tenants themselves took turns keeping watch. Although his former harvesting comrades had been less friendly since discovering he represented Great London National Railway, their concern for Beatrice, Fancy, and the immediate threat to the estate made them amenable to his suggestions.
Wick also had his own arrangements to make. He’d sent a discreet letter to his colleagues, Garrity and Kent, informing them of his imminent return and promising to fill them in on the situation in Staffordshire. He’d also written to Richard and Violet, who by this time had arrived at his house in London, and told them he’d be bringing back house guests. Knowing his angel’s anxieties about being accepted by his family, he’d spent several paragraphs extolling Bea’s virtues.
Finally, he’d sent a rush order to his preferred jeweler, Rundell, Bridge & Co.
The day before they were set to depart, Mr. Sheridan paid a visit to Beatrice. Wick and Knighton were in the drawing room as well.
“We won’t be going to London with you, Miss Bea,” the grey-bearded tinker announced.
“Why not?” Beatrice asked with clear surprise.
