He had lost her.
For one terrible instant, the world emptied of everything but the echo of her scream.
Guilt churned in his gut.
Think. Focus.
He forced himself to study the ground, the paths, the places where darkness met torchlight. Near the terrace, dirt and gravel had been kicked about, marking the spot where a brief struggle had torn at the soil. He followed the path at a run, loose stones spraying behind him, until he emerged at the east corner of the house, away from the ballroom lights.
A wiry, dark-haired groom was leading a horse toward the stable.
“Ho, you there!” James ran toward him.
The groom stopped, hands trembling on the reins. “Are you the gent looking for the lady?”
James’s heart seized. Could this be a trap?
“Where is she?”
“The man said to tell you he took her to the house on Beaufort Street.” The groom swallowed. “Said you would know why.”
Beaufort Street. The words struck harder than the wind. A house on that street had long stood empty, the estate tangled in legal matters. The last time he had crossed its threshold, Henry had been alive. Had someone chosen it for Henry’s sake, knowing precisely what memories the place held?
He grabbed the reins from the startled groom. “I need this horse. Tell your employer Lord Brenton will reimburse him for any inconvenience.”
“James!”
Alex came running from the west side of the house, face grim. “I was at the north gate. Someone drew me away. By the time I realized I was chasing a decoy—”
“Beaufort Street. Get Hugh, Nicholas, Westmarch—anyone you can find. They took Kate.” James swung into the saddle in one swift motion; the rest of his words were lost in the wind as he broke the horse into a gallop.
The lights spilling from the ball illuminated his path for a short distance, but soon the dark London streets swallowed him, the occasional oil lamp staining the cobblestones with a sickly glow. He was alone save the ghosts that haunted him.
James drew back on the reins before turning onto the street. No need to alert whoever had taken Kate that he was approaching.
Beaufort Street was isolated, near enough to the Thames for damp river mist to coat his skin. It was a place of high brick walls and long silences. He swung down and tied the horse to an iron gate.
The house stood like a tomb, a single lantern burning in a large window. Henry had once stood on those steps, rain dripping from his hat as he declared the old house a great find. James shoved the memory aside. It would not help him find Kate. He crept toward the house and kept to the narrow strip along the west side, where overgrown ivy shielded him from view and a low window sat beside a trellis.
He climbed the warped trellis, testing each rung before trusting his weight. At the window, he peered through the grime, grateful the curtains were not drawn. His gaze swept the room until it found her.
Kate.
She was alive.
Relief struck so hard his grip slipped on the trellis. She was bound but unbroken, beautiful in the sheer force of her defiance.Her eyes sparked with indignation as she glared at someone he could not see. He cursed under his breath. The thought of the man who had done this to her tightened every muscle in his body. A figure crossed the far edge of the room, one step catching slightly before he disappeared into shadow.
James dropped from the trellis, landing in a crouch. A quick circuit of the house brought him to the servants’ door, which stood ajar.
Someone was waiting for him.
Inside, lantern light slashed across the floorboards. He followed the glow spilling from the room, moving carefully over the old floorboards. The place held too many memories of Henry, and every one of them seemed to stir in the dark.
The door was open, revealing a room in wild disorder. Holland covers draped over the furniture like ghosts, and the room smelled of dust and neglect.
A figure moved along the far wall, metal catching in the lantern light.
James raised his pistol.
