“I sent for a Bow Street hearse earlier,” Kendrick told him. “Rest assured, Your Grace, the body will be removed from your home before I depart.”
“Thank you, Kendrick.” Moorland slid his gaze to Adrian. “You too, Croft.”
Adrian dipped his chin and prepared to bid the duke farewell when a disturbance in the hallway made him pause. Moorland frowned and started to rise. Kendrick, too, appeared ready to go discover the cause of the ruckus.
Turning, Adrian glanced toward the open door as the sound of footfalls landing hard against each polished tile rushed toward them. He heard the heavy pants that accompanied them one second before Jennings appeared, red-faced and sweaty. His clothes were askew, his hair a disorderly mess as he gripped the doorframe, wheezing while trying to catch his breath.
Moorland’s butler materialized at his back. Whether the man spoke or not, Adrian had no idea. All he could do was stare at Jennings.
What was the coachman doing here when he was supposed to be seeing Samantha home?
For the first time since he’d learned of his sister’s murder, time stood still. His body became immobile. His mind ceased all thought as it froze, caught between not knowing and possibly learning the worst truth imaginable. He dared not speak, could barely muster the courage to breathe.
His heart became a dull thud in his chest; his lungs, shredded tissue; and the blood in his veins replaced by pure dread.
“What is it?” Kendrick asked the question Adrian failed to form. “What has happened?”
Tears flooded Jennings’ eyes and whatever tether had held Adrian in a suspended state of inaction snapped. He crossed the floor, grabbed his coachman by the front of his shirt, and yanked him upward.
A strangled sound came from Jennings’s throat. His cheeks puffed out and his face turned scarlet. Someone spoke. Moorland perhaps?
Adrian had no idea and he did not care as he let fury trample the fear that would otherwise incapacitate him. “Where is she, Jennings? Where’s my wife?”
Trembling beneath the promise of violence, Jennings continued to rasp while tears flowed over his ruddy cheeks. Adrian shook him. “Speak, man.”
Hands curled over Adrian’s shoulders, gripping him hard. Kendrick entered Adrian’s peripheral vision and now attempted to free Jennings from Adrian’s grasp.
“Stop.” Moorland’s commanding voice infiltrated the haze.
Kendrick’s fingers pried Adrian’s grip open, releasing Jennings. The coachman coughed.
“Get him something to drink,” Moorland told his butler while dragging Adrian back.
Kendrick stepped into the space that opened up between Adrian and Jennings. “You’ll get no answers from him if he’s dead, Croft.”
A biting remark that sliced through Adrian’s rage.
He took a breath and gave a curt nod, waited for Jennings to gulp down the brandy the butler gave him, before he repeated, “Where is she, Jennings?”
The haunted look he received from his coachman nearly slayed him. It was a look that promised to give him nightmares for decades to come.
When Jennings finally managed to speak, his words were like the hollow chime of Charon’s bell.
“She was taken. Murry too. O’Leary has them.”
17
It was like having his ribs crushed and bits of bone pierce his lungs.
Adrian wasn’t sure how he still breathed. His stomach was one giant knot, his nerves a tremulous mess, and his fury…
Cold and dark, like the end of time.
He leaned on that, to let the need for vengeance push aside fear so his pulse settled. It soon became a cool beat — a steady companion that helped clear his head.
Focus.
He spoke to Jennings again, his voice gruff to his own ears, yet calm. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
