Loren stopped off for a word with a group of cronies who brought up Harlowe’s name, but nothing was said that could tie Loren to the missing viscount, and he excused himself.
It was by the sheerest luck that he’d seen Lady Maudsley with Brockway on the Faulks’ terrace. Markov’s sudden appearance was deuced inconvenient. But then, the man personified inconvenience. Their heated exchange had at least occurred a ways from the terrace behind a copse of trees.
Loren had watched Brockway and Lady Maudsley carefully, looking for signs they or others had heard the Slav’s threats. Markov had no patience or control to save his life, and Loren vowed to even the score. How tempting and worthy of the cause, even at personal cost. The man was an idiot.
Markov lifted his hand in the direction of Loren’s cravat.
Loren was ready this time and took the Slav by his own loosely tied one and jerked him close. “Do not dare to fuck with me. You’ve already cost me more than one opportunity. I’ll kill you if you touch me a second time.” He squeezed tighter. “Are we clear?”
Markov’s eyes widened.
“I said, Are. We. Clear?”
“Áno,” he choked out.
“Excellent.” Loren shoved him away. “Now, take yourself off. I’ll have this business completed tonight.”
The Slav melted away.
The trees bristled with their confusing dialect so dense, he could barely hear the music above the din of noise. It hurt his head. Dark colors whipped his vision in nauseating swirls. He made his way on the grounds below the terrace and worked his way through an assembly of carriages until he located Sid atop his own equipage. “Stay here. I-I need people to believe I am still about,” he said. “I’ll walk.”
Careful to appear unhurried, the three-quarter-mile trek to Maudsley House took little more than ten minutes, while each step increased the pounding in his head, as if a tradesman did stonework inside his brain. In minutes he stood at the garden gate and thought of the task ahead. The goal inside was to avoid being recognized. By the both the older daughter, her governess, and the servants.
A fleeting thought of his own son wavered through Loren. By his calculations, the children should be abed. He was quite strict on such matters for Winslow. He shook his thoughts away. He had no business humanizing his actions at this juncture. It was much too late for that.
The formal clothes he wore blended into the night, except for his snowy cravat, and would serve his purposes well.
“This way, my lord.” Farcle’s low whisper jarred Loren. The man was quiet as a ghost. His voice reached him through the depth of night.
Loren glanced over his shoulder, spotting the unmarked hackney. “I trust acquiring these accommodations will not impede our plans.”
“No, my lord. They should work nicely.” Farcle didn’t elaborate, and Loren decided it didn’t much matter. “What of the lady of the house and her parents?”
“Lady Maudsley and Lord Brockway were sharing an intimate conversation on the Faulks’ terrace not fifteen minutes ago.” Loren smiled grimly in the dark. “The baron was morosely losing in the card room, while his wife was happily plotting out her daughter’s next marital prospect. I don’t believe she includes the Marquis of Brockway in that lineup. Too arrogant and headstrong for the baroness to control is my guess.”
Loren stepped through the gate and followed Farcle to the servants’ entrance. He went past Farcle in silence and turned the knob on the door. “It’s locked.”
“Step aside, sir. I’ll handle this.”
“Let’s check the nearby windows first. Though I think breaking the glass on one will suit us well before we leave.”
Two windows over, one of the locks was loose, and Loren watched as Farcle used his dagger to jimmy it free. Farcle crawled through then let Loren in at the door. He pulled his gloves tighter and paused at the servants’ stairs. With a short motion, he indicated that Farcle should follow and started up.
The fifth one up squeaked, halting them in their tracks.
After a short wait, and no screams for the constable, they continued on their way. The house was laid out not so dissimilar to his own. It wouldn’t have mattered regardless. Loren was a blessed man. His luncheon with the baron the previous week had allotted him the opportunity to scope out the children’s bedchambers two levels up. He remembered the location of the nursery quite clearly. If all went as it should, they could snatch the sleeping Cecilia without so much as a whimper and be out before the older child and governess were ever made aware.
Once they reached the third level, Loren slowed his steps, almost groaning aloud. He heard the sound of his quarry arguing soundly with someone. It took only seconds to find her. They stood in the bedchamber, not the schoolroom. She was a headstrong little thing, the complete opposite of Winslow. He motioned Farcle in, seeking cover for himself in a shadowed corner. Farcle grabbed Celia’s wrist.
“Hey. I-I know you! You’re Gwiston’s man. You took that boy—”
The governess drew herself up. “Let her go or I’ll scream,” she said. She opened her mouth to do just that, but Farcle’s fist caught her across the jaw, and she dropped in a heap. Nothing graceful about it.
“You-you… scoundrel,” Cecilia gasped, fighting his hold on her. “You hurted her. You hurted Miss Lambert.”
“Let’s go,” Loren hissed.
But the child had other plans. In an abrupt move, she stopped, planted her feet, and moved her arm in an odd position and jerked straight up. Farcle was so shocked, he stood looking at his palm as if she’d evaporated into thin air. Which she very nearly did. Cecilia escaped through a door Loren hadn’t noticed before. “Blast it, Farcle, get her.”
