He coughed, then made another attempt to vomit. “Quickly, James. Help me.” They heaved the man to sitting. He was weak. He blinked, as if trying to focus on her. “What is your name, sir?”
“Brandon Radcliff. Viscount Harlowe,” he rasped.
Thirty-Five
U
nease slithered through Brock as his coach pulled up to Maudsley House. He hated Maudsley House. Every time he walked through the door, he was slammed with images of finding Ginny’s body, broken, bloodied, and unconscious on her bedchamber floor; the girls hovering in their own rooms another level above with their governess, Miss Elvins, who had only been ten and six when Maudsley had promised her a life far above her means. A life he’d had no intention of following through on. The man had targeted younger girls for sport, and Ginny was right. If Maudsley had suspected Irene didn’t belong to him, her life would have been worth nothing. It was a sickening thought.
He shook away his angst and studied the mansion.
Nothing appeared amiss. A low light shone from an entryway window. All was dark on the upper levels. Still, his anxiety escalated tenfold and wouldn’t slacken. He glanced over. Ginny shivered beneath his coat.
“I’ll walk you in.” Brock kicked back the carriage door and jumped down before Punkle could manage the carriage steps. He didn’t bother with the steps, taking Ginny by the waist and lifting her down.
No words spilled from the trees, Brock realized as he followed her onto the portico. Kipling met them, in all his professional glory, with an open door. Good thing too. If it had been locked, Brock would have broken it down with his bare hands.
He followed Ginny inside, but she stopped, angling her head, as if listening.
“Ginny,” Brock spoke sharply. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Something’s wrong. I have to check on the girls, Brock. I’m sure they’re fine, but…” She flew up the stairs. Brock stayed fast on her heels. Her trepidation was palpable, arcing through the air and hitting his very soul with a keen-edged point.
The closer to the schoolroom they drew, the more his own apprehension spiked. He felt the stab like a jagged blade, ripping through his chest. He pulled her back. “Let me,” he spoke softly but firmly. She called him arrogant, and perhaps he was, but if ever there was a time for arrogance, this was it.
She froze at his tone. He slipped around her and glanced inside. There was little light. Just that from the moon through sheer window coverings. He went in and lit a candle.
The girls’ rooms. They reached Celia’s first and found the governess sitting on the floor, shaking her head from side to side.
“Miss Lambert?” Ginny’s horrified voice whispered across Brock’s goose-raised skin. “What happened?”
Brock took in the unrumpled bedclothes and, more importantly, the absence of the five-year-old.
“Oh, my lady. I’m so sorry.” Her heart-wrenching sobs tore through Brock. Ginny started to sag, and he caught her before she slid to the ground. “Lady Cecilia was protesting my efforts to get her in bed, when a large man showed up.” Tears poured down the governess’s face, but she kept a stiff upper lip. “He grabbed Celia and then he-he hit me.” She ran a hand over her swelling jaw.
“Celia’s gone?” Ginny’s rising hysteria rippled over him.
“Mama?” Celia’s wobbly voice whispered through the chamber. “I’m here.”
Brock’s heart slammed against his ribs in agonizing relief. He held out his arms, and she ran into them, leaping for his hold from halfway across the room.
“He grabbed my wrist, Lord Brock, but I got away. I did that trick with the elbows. Straight up. It worked,” Celia whispered, burying her head in his shoulder. “Then I ran. I hid.” She started crying, hard gulping sobs that jerked her small body. “But he took Irene.”
Ginny grabbed the chamber pot from beneath the bed and wretched.
Brock set Celia onto her feet and crouched eye level with her. “Did you recognize this man?”
“Yes. He’s the man that Lord Griston gave the boy from the park to. The boy who tried to take my locket.”
Brock rose to his feet, sweeping Celia up into his arms. With his free arm, he assisted Ginny to her feet, then Miss Lambert. “Come. We need to strategize. Harlowe’s disappearance and Irene’s are too coincidental for my liking. Kimpton should be here soon.”
Brock could see that Ginny was shaking through to her bones, but she rallied and led the way down the two flights to the morning room. Her voice trembled, summoning tea. Brock handed off Celia to her mother.
“Might I have coffee?” Celia said.
“And coffee,” Ginny told Kipling.
Kimpton was in the drawing room by the time they arrived downstairs, as were the baron and his wife. “I heard the chants,” Kimpton said by way of greeting.
