Chapter 37

CHAPTER 37

O ne minute, Izzie had been standing in the corridor, wringing Archibald’s handkerchief, wondering if she was making a mountain out of a molehill when a great metallic clattering came from behind the door to his workshop.

She had paused with her hand on the knob, wondering if she should go in, wondering if her husband needed her help, when a hand clamped over her mouth. She didn’t have time to gasp, much less scream.

Another arm wrapped around her midsection, dragging her backward down the corridor. She tried to struggle, but she was at a bad angle, with her back to her assailant, and he propelled her easily along.

She heard a door open, and she was pulled inside a sitting room that the family seldom used. As her assailant turned to shut the door, Izzie brought her leg up and smashed her foot down on his, for all the good it did. Her flimsy slipper slid off his thick riding boot without leaving so much as a scuff.

He made no sound of protest at her attempt to defend herself, not even a grunt. Suddenly, she felt the cold muzzle of a gun against the soft skin of her neck.

“One sound and you’re dead,” a male voice hissed in her ear. She couldn’t quite place his accent. It wasn’t the exaggerated vowels and clipped consonants of the upper classes, but nor was it the East London drawl of John Nettlethorpe. An upper servant, perhaps?

Whoever he was, he thrust a length of cloth into her face. “Gag yourself.” She hesitated to take the cloth a beat too long, and he prodded her with the gun. “ Now .”

Her fingers fumbled as she complied. Once she had finished, she turned.

Her eyes widened as she saw a familiar face.

Then, everything went black.

Archibald checked every room in the house—a time-consuming endeavor. Izzie wasn’t in any of them.

She was gone.

Worry gnawed at him as he paced the foyer. He had tried to come up with some explanation, any explanation, other than foul play. But nothing fit. She wouldn’t be hiding from him. To be sure, they had been arguing, but she was neither childish nor petulant. And she had been about to get her way. No matter how annoyed she might have felt with him, she wouldn’t have taken herself off moments before he was going to show her his workshop.

Nor had she left the house of her own accord. He had his men watching every entrance, and they all swore up and down that they hadn’t seen her.

There was only one plausible explanation, and it made him want to crawl into a hole and die—that someone inside the house had betrayed her. That one of the servants, or one of his men from Nettlethorpe Iron, had accepted a bribe.

That they would eventually find Izzie inside the house, but what they would find would be her lifeless body.

The mere thought made him want to curl up in a ball and die. This was all his fault. He had sent the guards away ! Which had only been necessary because he had upset her in the first place. And then, after sending the guards away, he went and left her alone! How could he have been so careless with the most precious person in his life?

What was even worse… she had told him that she loved him. She had actually said those three little words that he had never dreamed he would hear, and he hadn’t said it back . Which he had only done because he was so sure she would want to retract her declaration as soon as she found out about the screws.

But if he somehow survived this, somehow didn’t die of a broken heart, he knew with absolute certainty that he would feel the crushing agony of not having told Izzie that he loved her, too, every second of every day, for the rest of his miserable life.

He shook himself. He couldn’t think like that. He had to cling to hope that somehow, she might be alive, and he would have a chance to make this right.

From his post by the front door, Giddings called, “The Astleys are here, sir. I’m opening the door.”

Lady Cheltenham swept inside, along with Lord and Lady Fauconbridge, Harrington Astley, a sobbing Lady Lucy, and Lady Diana Latimer. “Have you found her?” the countess asked. “Tell me you’ve found her.”

“We haven’t,” Archibald admitted, his voice cracking. “I have no idea how this could’ve happened. I—I’m so sorry.”

The countess nodded, unable to speak. Fauconbridge offered his mother his arm. “We will find her. I sent notes to Anne and Caro.”

“And I sent for Aunt Griselda,” Lady Diana added.

“Thank you,” Archibald said, although he didn’t know what any of them could do to help. Still, it was good of them to come, if only as a show of support. It was more than his own parents, who had collapsed on a sofa, prostrate more at the possibility that they would become social outcasts than out of concern for Izzie’s welfare, had managed to do. “I’ve also sent word to Bow Street.”

Just then, one of his men, Collins, came sprinting into the foyer. “Boss!” he cried, gesturing behind him. “We found something. Follow me!”

He led a stampede of Astleys up the stairs to the first floor. “Whoever did this,” Collins said, “I think he carried her out.”

Collins passed by Archibald’s workshop and rounded the corner. The rooms along this side of the house did not receive much use because they faced a narrow alley and therefore did not receive much light.

Collins opened the door to a parlor that Archibald had only been in once or twice. “It’s over here,” he said, gesturing to the window. “See?”

Leaning outside, Archibald saw that someone had tied a rope around the carved gargoyle that protruded from the side of the house. It dangled down to the alleyway below.

Collins was still speaking. “The window must’ve blown shut. That’s why we didn’t notice it right away. But this must be how they took her out.”

Archibald squeezed his shoulder. “Strong work, Collins.”

Hope flared in Archibald’s heart. The presence of an escape route, instead of a corpse, suggested a kidnapping rather than a murder.

Maybe, just maybe, Izzie was still alive…

“Is everyone present and accounted for?” Archibald hated to ask the question, hated to think that one of his men might have betrayed him. But someone had done this, and he needed to find out who.

Giddings, the butler, answered, “All the servants and all your men from Nettlethorpe Iron are at their expected posts. No one has gone missing, sir.”

Archibald rubbed his brow. That was a relief, but it didn’t help Izzie. “Then who?”

Giddings’ eyes were full of regret. “In addition to Lady Isabella’s guests—her sisters, Lady Diana, and Lady Griselda, one other person was admitted to the house today.”

Cold dread pooled in Archibald’s gut. “Who?”

“The same man who came about a week ago to inquire about making over the front room. Who suggested redoing everything in chartreuse green. He said he’d come to take some measurements.” Giddings dropped his voice low. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I tried to turn him away, but your mother happened to be passing through the foyer, and she insisted that we admit him.”

“Did anyone see this man leave?” Archibald asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Everyone started talking at once. It quickly became clear that the designer had not exited via any of the doors, nor was he still in the house. “It has to be him, then,” Archibald noted. “What did he look like?”

Giddings was wringing his hands. “He had dark hair. Medium height and build. Brown eyes, I think? Not much to distinguish him.” The butler looked miserable. “I am so terribly sorry, sir. I never should have let him in.”

Archibald waved this off. “You could hardly gainsay my mother.” He sighed. “I’ll go and ask her what she knows about this man.”

He found his mother prostrate upon a chaise-longue in the front parlor. His father was fluttering about the room, bringing her cups of tea, handkerchiefs, and biscuits that were piling up, uneaten.

“Have you found her?” his mother moaned from the couch.

“We have not.” Archibald pulled a chair up to the chaise-longue and sat, taking his mother’s hands. “Mother, I need to ask you something. The man who came today about redecorating this room—how long has he been known to you?”

His mother gasped, sitting halfway up. “Surely you don’t think he could be involved!”

“I’m afraid he is our leading suspect,” Archibald said, struggling to hold his voice neutral.

“It wouldn’t be him,” his father said.

“He seemed very nice,” his mother agreed.

“And he knew an awful lot about wallpaper!” his father noted as if this was an ironclad defense.

“When did you first meet him?” Archibald asked, attempting to steer the conversation back on track.

“Why, we’ve known him for a while,” his mother said. “He first came to the house… what was it, my dove? A week ago?”

“Something like that,” his father agreed.

“Did you seek him out?” Archibald asked. “Or did he come to you?”

“He turned up at the door,” his mother confirmed.

“It was just a bit of luck!” his father added.

Oh, God . Archibald loved his parents. But could they possibly be more thick? A random stranger shows up at the door, peddling wallpaper, and they let him right in. It was probably no coincidence that the man showed up just as they were starting to let their guard down.

“Did he leave you a card?” Archibald asked. “Or any sort of direction?”

“He did not,” his mother said.

“He said he would be back in a few days,” his father noted. “But we do know his name—Mr. Smith.”

Mr. Smith . That hardly narrowed it down, even if it was his real name, which Archibald very much doubted.

“Thorpe,” his mother said from the chaise-longue, “you don’t really think that nice Mr. Smith could have anything to do with Lady Isabella’s disappearance, do you?”

“I suppose we’ll know for certain soon enough,” he said, trying to be diplomatic.

Stepping into the corridor, Archibald saw that Lord and Lady Thetford and Lord and Lady Morsley had arrived, as well as Thomas Daubney, the Bow Street Runner. “It was the wallpaper man,” Archibald said. “I’m almost sure of it. He showed up at the door a week ago, and my parents let him in. Gave his name as Mr. Smith, didn’t present a card or anything. It was probably a ruse from the start.”

Lucy Astley seized Mr. Daubney’s sleeve. “What do we do now?”

The Runner’s face was creased in consternation. “We need to discover where they’ve taken her. I’ll start by interviewing the neighbors. Perhaps someone saw something. We should also inspect the alleyway by which he made his escape. Perhaps he left some trace behind.”

“But what if they didn’t?” Lady Lucy cried as they streamed out the front door. “What if we can’t find her?”

“Don’t worry,” Lady Diana said, patting her arm. “Aunt Griselda is coming.”

“But what is Lady Griselda going to do?” Lucy sobbed.

Just then, the Trevissick carriage entered the far end of the square. Traffic was not light, but the horses were moving at a steady canter.

It pulled up to the curb, and the Duke and Duchess of Trevissick sprang out. “We came as soon as we heard,” the duke said, offering a hand to his great-aunt, who descended with grave dignity.

“Oh, Lady Griselda,” Lucy sobbed. “They’ve taken Izzie! We found a rope over there,” she said, gesturing to the alley. “That must be how they got her out.”

Lady Griselda peered into the alley. “You have discovered where she exited the house? Good. This is good!”

Hope flared in Lucy’s eyes. “Can you really find her?”

“I cannot.” Lady Griselda gave a command in German, and one of her brown and white speckled dogs leaped from the carriage and came to stand obediently by her side.

Lady Griselda’s eyes held nothing but confidence as she turned to face Archibald. “But Inge can.”