She would never believe it. Not until they dragged his broken body before her. But the doubts tore through her, rendering her ability to stand. Would he ever know his child? A hungry child, whose very life rested in her arms.Don’t go down this road. Not without proof.Lorelei raised up and pulled herself together. She folded the offending paper and stuffed it in her pocket. Thorne would need to know. With a deep breath and stoic resolve, she braced herself. Nathan and Corinne needed her, and she intended to be there.
Glancing around again, she spotted another door. Lorelei crept back to check on Nathan. He lay quietly, exhausted slumber having taken over. She went back to the newly discovered room and lifted the candle over her head.
It was a small sleeping chamber. Still, no windows or other means of escape. She moved farther in the room, pulled out a drawer. A noise above startled her—the creak of a chair as someone stood? Sat?
Muffled voices. Definite footsteps.
Lorelei strained to hear. The voices were garbled, but a bit more coherent from this chamber. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Something about Sarah? She shook her head. Sarah had been at the picnic. Lorelei distinctly remembered her sitting across from her, so tense her neck would have snapped if anyone had bellowed unexpectedly.
She resumed her search. Searched the contents of the drawer. Something glinted in the light of the candle. Lorelei reached in and pulled out a bracelet. A child’s bracelet, and beneath that, another note.
Maudsley, as per our verbal agreement.
Lady Cecilia will suffice. The price is not negotiable.
Unsigned.
Cecilia? Yet an image of Irene’s unconscious form in Maudsley’s lap, his large hand smoothing her hair, slammed through Lorelei. “God, don’t let it be true,” she whispered. But her unwieldly nerves spoke otherwise as perspiration dampened her nape and forehead.
She moved her trembling hand to her pocket, and a blast matching the explosion of fireworks from a Covent Garden spectacle roared, shaking the walls. The candle tilted, spilling hot wax over her hand. She screamed, and the candle fell to the floor. She gasped for breath at the pain, eyes stinging, quickly tamping out the flame with her toe.
Nathan’s screams reached her from the outer chamber. Lorelei felt her way back to him by way of the wall in the pitch-black.
“I’m coming, Nathan. I’m coming.” Her whispers trembled. She hit her shin on a hard surface. “Blast it.”
His hiccupped cries led her to him. She lowered herself down before attempting to lift him. The terror of dropping him was outweighed her need to comfort him. There was no one to set him in her arms. It was just the two of them now.
Between Nathan’s gulps of air, Lorelei could make out footsteps pounding a wooden staircase. Helpless tears gave way. “Please, Irene, hide. Hide. Hide.” Somehow she kept from pounding her fists against the door and bellowing the words aloud. Instead, they became a chanted prayer.God, let her get away.
An image of Lorelei’s lifeless body suffocated Thorne. The closer they drew to Maudsley’s, the more excruciating his torment grew. He urged Honor into a run, leaving Brock behind.
Christ, what would he do if she was hurt? He couldn’t think like that. Bethie was on her way. She wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt Lorelei.
“Kimpton,” Brock snapped. “Hold up. We need a stratagem.”
Right.Thorned slowed to a canter. The house was just ahead. Lights blazed from the windows, and his apprehension soared. He pulled back on the reins and stopped. Brock pulled up alongside him.
“One of us should check out the chamber that’s lighted up like Vauxhall. The other should enter from the back.” Brock’s matter-of-fact approach calmed him.
“You go in through the back, I’ll take the bastard’s office.”
Brock’s jaw tightened. No doubt he wanted first crack at doing Maudsley in, but his friend nodded sharply and kicked his horse in the flanks. Thorne waited until Brock reached the back, then he nudged Honor into motion.
Seconds later he dropped to the ground, keeping close to the house. As he neared the blazing windows, Thorne pulled the pistol from his pocket. He edged closer but heard nothing from inside. Outside, however, hooves beat the ground in a steady retreat. He glanced out at the darkness, a futile endeavor. The canter faded away, and Thorne peered in.
He didn’t see anyone. He tried the window. Locked.Devil take it.He lowered his head, and the frame swung out.
“Kimpton?”
“Here, Brock.” Thorne heaved himself up into a cluttered library, landing softly on his feet. “Anything—” The stench hit him with the force of a fist in the nose. “Not again.”
“I’m afraid so. Look. There on the settee.”
Thorne strode over. Bruises mutilated Miss Elvins’s once finely etched features. He touched her neck. “She’s dead.”
“Maudsley?”
“Who else?” Thorne scanned the chamber. Just beyond the desk on the floor, something resembling spilled black ink splattered the wall. Chills skittered down his spine. Blood. His mind attempted to comprehend the sight as his gaze followed the pattern to the upturned chair and Maudsley leaning against the wall, watching him with dead eyes.
