Loren started forward—
“Lord Griston? What are you doing here?”
He spun around and found himself facing the formidable Irene dressed in a night rail as white as his cravat. “I’m here to see Miss—” He found himself floundering for the nursemaid’s name, but shifted, blocking her view into the bedroom behind him.
Her blank expression unnerved him. Winslow would scream down the house if he discovered a stranger in his midst, especially at such a late hour. “Miss Lambert? She’s not allowed visitors in her bedchamber, sir.”
Right, Miss Lambert.Loren crouched before her, noting irritably her hasty step back. He straightened to his full height and dusted a hand over his shoulder, working through his array of social tactics to break through her odd stoicism. “Your mother. She was in a carriage accident with Lord Brockway. I’m afraid they were hurt. Your mother is asking for you.”
To his utter surprise, her eyes pinned him with suspicion, not fear. “I believe you are trying to hoodwink me, sir.”
Loren needed to remove himself quickly but couldn’t help grinning. “How serious you are.”
Without answering, she began backing away, regarding him with her large, unreadable storm-gray eyes. Loren mimicked her step for step.
He gave her a wry smile, extremely cognizant of the passing time. “You’d best get your sister so we can be on our way, hmm?”
Irene spun around and ran for the stairs. Loren lurched forward and got her by the hand. She stopped and planted her feet, just as he’d witnessed from Cecilia moments before. But he was ready for her. He grabbed her small body off the floor, and before she could scream bloody murder, he whipped off his cravat and stuffed it in her mouth. He tossed her over her shoulder and retraced his path, all the while her fists beating futilely against his back.
Farcle stood outside the schoolroom. Empty-handed. He shook his head.
“Enough,” Loren hissed to his wriggly prize. “Or I shall kill you and make your sister watch.”
She went instantly still. He tossed her to Farcle and stepped inside the room. Two glass encased bookcases framed a large map that hung on the wall. The sparse furnishings included a large round table and an easel holding a black slate. Unfortunately, he saw no sign of the youngest Maudsley child.
Loren hurried across the room to a door. It opened into a comfortable, low-lit sitting area, and again, no Cecilia. Another couple of doors revealed their adjoining bedchambers. He searched beneath the beds and the wardrobes with no hint of the little bugger. He pulled the fob watch from his pocket then fought the hovering panic. Where the devil was she?
Loren scrapped his plans for locating Cecilia for the moment. Dealing with the overly observant elder sister took sudden precedence.
He met Farcle at the door, and they eased their way out the way they’d come. He took possession of Irene. “The window, Farcle. Quietly.”
“Right, my lord. I stashed a dark coverlet just inside the garden gate.”
“Excellent. I’ll meet you in the hack.” He stole away with no one the wiser. Except Cecilia, he reminded himself. He found the coverlet and tossed it over his shoulder to hide Irene’s night rail that glowed like frost in the moonlight. When he reached the carriage, he climbed in and tossed his bundle onto the seat across from him. She fought the coverings. By the time she emerged, her braided hair hung in tatters about her elfin face.
“You’re an unusual child, aren’t you? I have a son almost your age.”
His little captive remained still and as closed-mouthed as ever. The only reaction he could discern was a slight tightening of her jaw. Her hands remained gently clasped in her lap.
“Quite the sacrificial lamb, aren’t you?” How unnerving. Winslow was shy, but he couldn’t stand still for ten minutes. Loren pulled out his fob.
Minutes later the carriage rocked, and Farcle slipped inside. “There’s no sign of the younger girl, my lord. I went back and checked all the cupboards, the wardrobes, and beneath the beds.”
Panic riveted Loren by the throat. He jerked his cravat from Irene’s mouth, yanking her by the shoulders and shaking her small form until he thought her teeth rattled. “Where is she?” he growled.
Face white, eyes wide, and swallowing audibly, she appeared incapable of speech. Her head moved back and forth, no whisper of a sound emitting.
“Take her to Middleton. He won’t dare talk. I’ll have to come back for the sister,” he told Farcle. “This might even work to our advantage. What of the nursemaid?”
“Out cold, but still alive.”
Loren felt a shift in Irene’s tension. She was gathering her wits and her breath. Her mouth opened. He stuffed the neckcloth back in her mouth, stopping the scream that would sound from here to Timbuktu. He hit the ceiling of the cab, and it jerked into motion.
For the first time, his little prisoner’s fear turned palpable. She kicked out, one heel landing dangerously close to unmanning him. His temper flared, and he squeezed the breath from her. “Stop, you little hellcat,” he hissed. “Or you’ll end up with a broken rib. That will not be comfortable for your journey.”
A block or two out of the mews, Loren tapped the ceiling again, and the hack stopped. “Don’t fret, my dear. We mean you no harm.” Not personally, he amended silently. Securing the curtains, he turned the lamp to a low glow. Large tears pooled in her dark eyes. “You should eat something.” It would be her only meal for a long while. He didn’t like thinking of her hungry.
She shook her head, and the tears spilled over.
