“Here?” Dominic kept his voice low. “Where?”
“The counting house or office, perhaps,” Montfort said.
Irving wasn’t expecting company. His burly companion was the only obstacle, and large men always fell hardest.
“I would have followed them if they’d moved her, sir.” Jones shuffled his feet. “I didn’t know what to do. I sent a penny boy to Lady Soanes with a message. He could have reached her by now.”
“It’s all right, Jones. Where’s my carriage?”
“Nightingale Lane, sir. I paid an urchin a copper to watch the horses.”
“Go to Bow Street and ask for Sergeant Carter. Tell him everything.”
Dominic turned back to the warehouse. Somewhere inside, Daphne was waiting, drugged, wrists bound, silenced by whatever means necessary.
The thought made his jaw ache.
“The counting house first,” he said. “Stay close.”
He moved with a predator’s tread, Stanton and Montfort falling in behind him. Irving wouldn’t have gone far. Not with the tide still hours away. He’d be here somewhere, certain no one would come looking tonight.
Irving was about to learn how wrong he was.
They found the internal staircase on the street side, tucked against the brickwork. The air smelled of tallow and old paper. Of the three rooms at the top, light bled beneath the middle door.
Dominic looked through the partially glazed panel of the nearest room. The heavy desk and the dull gleam of weighing scales confirmed it was the counting house. Letters filled the pigeonholes. Books and files littered the table.
He was about to move on when he caught a faint shift in the corner—a bundle stirring. Not a bundle. Daphne, bound and gagged on the boards.
He turned to Stanton and Montfort. “Stay on the landing. Close enough to hear.” His eyes moved to the door with light beneath it. “And watch that one.”
Dominic’s hand closed around the handle.
The door was locked.
Montfort tripped the mechanism without making a sound.
Dominic touched his arm, then eased the door open.
She was on the floor, wrists bound behind her, ankles tied, a strip of cloth pulled tight across her mouth. Her eyes found him and softened in an instant.
He knelt beside her, his fingers already at the gag. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’ll wring Irving’s neck when I see him.”
She swallowed hard and drew a breath. “Thank heavens. I feared you’d already checked the warehouses in your hunt for the clerk.”
“We planned to search them after dark.” He should have been working the knots in the rope, but he clasped her nape and kissed her like a man starved of air. “Tell me your aunt and Irving are here.”
She nodded. “Augusta put laudanum in my tea. I let her think it worked because we needed answers. Mr Irving has refused to pay her until I’m aboard the ship. She’s up here waiting.”
It took a second for the words to sink in. “You came here by choice? You could have been killed.”
“No. Mr Irving needs me in India,” she whispered, glancing at the door. “He has no plans to marry me himself. It’s all a charade. He told Aunt Augusta I’m a gift for some commissioner at the East India Company. Something to sweeten the deal abroad.”
A gift. He’d burn the East India Company to the ground before he allowed it.
“Irving won’t get far. We have the clerk.” He clasped her arm, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “It’s likely Irving killed your father. He was the man who threw Harland into the Thames. The clerk had no choice but to assist him.”
He watched her, waiting for a small sign of grief.
