Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

P ercival did not do well with blackmail, and the missive he found on his desk when he returned from his morning ride definitely looked like blackmail.

In his years in the army, he had learned that assignations following blackmail were the easiest way to make oneself an easy target while leaving one’s back vulnerable to a knife or a dagger.

If the letter was about any other matter, he would have tossed it on the pile on his desk that would be used to feed the fire later. He would not have considered taking the risk. But the letter, hastily written in a barely legible masculine hand, told him to meet its author in some backwater alley in the slums of London. Alone. If he wished to learn what might have caused his brother’s sudden death.

Percival looked up in the direction of the room where the elderly colonel slept. Weston had taken him under his wing as a new recruit, protected him, and trained him. He had taught him everything he knew, and it was thanks to his training and his innate survival skills that he was able to survive the war.

He would bet a pretty penny that his former superior would never advise nor allow him to venture out by himself if he was under his command—at least not without a companion.

Weston would at least advise him to allow a guard to accompany him to protect his back while he focused on retrieving the information he sought.

Percival was aware that whatever information the writer of the letter seemed to possess would in no way bring his larger-than-life brother back to life, but it might help lay to rest some of the demons that haunted his sleeping and waking hours.

At the very least, he might bring his brother’s killer to justice, and in that way heal the part of his heart that had boiled with rage in the past few months.

He was ready to exact revenge on the criminal who had taken his brother’s life, forcing him into a role that he still felt ill-prepared for.

Granted, the sequence of events that had led him to become the Duke of Colborne had also led him to Louisa, who was fast becoming as essential to him as life itself.

Apart from her, he could not think of any other benefits that becoming a duke had granted him. He needed to make sure that justice was served to at least put to rest the guilt he felt for taking his brother’s place—for taking over the manor that was supposed to be his while stepping into shoes that were not his, to begin with.

Besides, whoever had killed his brother had ill intentions towards him as well. The fact that the bounder had gone to such lengths to spread rumours of his supposed death showed that someone wanted the Dukes of Colborne extinct. But for the life of him, he could not figure out why.

That was why he had to find answers to the questions churning in his head, or else they would drive him insane very soon.

No matter how he thought about it, going alone was the better option. He would rely on his stealth while being vigilant. Having an escort would just cause more problems, as he could not be sure if they would exercise the level of vigilance that his years in His Majesty’s army had hammered into his consciousness. The added burden of keeping another person safe would only leave him vulnerable to any attack.

With his mind made up, he left his study, starting up the stairs to his chambers to change out of his sweat-drenched riding habit. Just as he stepped onto the landing, he was greeted by chaos as many of his servants hurried back and forth, carrying away some rotten pieces of furniture and cleaning up the mess left behind.

He could hear his wife’s low voice instructing his butler who, in turn, relayed her instructions to the workers. It appeared that she was efficiently supervising the repairs at the manor.

In recent days, she had made a lot of changes in the manor, slowly returning it to the home he had grown up in. So far, she had restored many of the rooms in the south wing of the house, where their bedchamber was located, replacing the windows so that the cold air no longer seeped through cracks.

The old hinges of the doors were replaced along with the doorposts, and the doors now boasted a healthy sheen, brought about by several coats of paint.

With each change, Percy swore that he felt the fog that had pervaded his head in the last year or so lift slightly. When he had informed his lovely wife of this new development, she had laughed and denied that her renovations could perform such a miracle.

He was happy, and beyond the repairs, Louisa was the light that lit up his house and the walls of his life. The sound of her disembodied voice threatened to unravel him, but he had errands to run. If he gave in to the need to see her, he would distract both her and himself, leading to them being unproductive. Perhaps when he came back, he could check on the ongoing repairs.

She had said something about changing the bathtub and getting one that drew water directly from the lake on the estate to reduce the servants’ load.

It was no wonder that his staff loved her and followed her instructions to the tee so that the house ran like a well-oiled machine, especially as she hired more servants. She was thoughtful and cared about their well-being rather than being self-absorbed as many ladies of the ton were.

On his part, he was curious about how the new bathtub would be built. He bet that it would require a lot of engineering to manage such a feat, and he was definitely looking forward to enjoying many erotic baths with his wife. The idea of having a bath whenever one wanted without waiting for buckets to be hauled up was a novelty.

The activity in the manor that morning suited his purposes, since he aimed to leave as quietly as possible without alerting her to the danger his quest involved.

He padded to his chambers and then cleaned up with the water in the basin at the edge of his bedroom. Then, he changed into a simple tunic, not bothering with his hair. He stepped out of his manor, ignoring the puzzled look on the stable hand’s face as he took in his attire and the fact that he had chosen to use a hackney instead of his favored stallion.

The lad would soon learn to live with a lot of absurdities if he was to work long at the estate. Besides, Percival had dressed that way with the hope that his tunic and his disheveled hair might help disguise the fact that he was a nobleman. Now that he thought about it, perhaps he should not have bothered with the disguise.

Percival acknowledged that at a physical level, he looked nothing like the average commoner. Not with the toned muscles that spanned most of his body and the darker hue of his skin wrought by the countless hours spent under the punishing sun. That, along with the multiple scars that marred his torso and face, made him look dangerous and nothing like the typical gentlemen, who knew little about physically demanding work and the dangers of battle.

As the hackney moved further away from his estate into the more populated town square, he hoped that his outward appearance was enough to deter any potential assailants and afford him protection of some sort.

As the hackney moved deeper into the slums of London, he was hit by the pungent smell of human excrement and unwashed bodies. The streets were littered with dirt and a lot of hungry children. The soulless, helpless looks on their faces reminded him of a time he would like to forget. The time when his regiment had run out of food and the enemy had ambushed the routes, making it difficult to receive fresh supplies. He had watched, ravaged by hunger, as his comrades had fallen one after the other, felled by exhaustion and mind-boggling hunger.

It was in those moments that he had understood and hated the reality of war. The helplessness to help oneself and his friends. Fighting against an unseen enemy while weapons lay out of reach. It was terrible and possibly the most inhumane way to die.

Presently, he avoided looking at their faces, shutting the door on the dark memories that haunted him. It was enough that they haunted his sleeping hours, he would do his best not to allow them to haunt his waking hours as well.

Besides, he needed to keep his wits about him because hunger, while it can be debilitating, can also give people uncommon courage and push them to do anything to have their next meal.

Even the most innocent of children could become beasts if it gave them a better chance at survival. He was not willing to become an unwitting victim to some street urchin who wanted to obtain a handkerchief or some flimsy item from him.

So many gentlemen had met their deaths on these streets simply because one street urchin had wanted things as flimsy as a handkerchief and was willing to do anything, even take a life, to buy themself the food that would warm their belly and stave off death at least for the day.

He understood the helplessness that came with the uncertainty they faced every day, not knowing where the next meal might come from. The helplessness that came with such a situation bred anger, resentment, and ruthlessness.

The streets were a jungle where the ones who lived in it could only kill or be killed, and it was unfair that innocent children lost their innocence very early on. But life itself was not fair, and the reason why some people had lives easier than others was one of life’s unanswered questions.

Why some people had to face death a thousand times, losing a part of their soul in the process, while others led a life untouched by misery? He had learned over time not to allow comparisons to take what remained of his sanity. His only hope now was to protect his life the best way he knew how for the sake of the many people who depended on him.

He might not have cared about his life before, but now he had a wife and potentially children who would depend on his survival and his protection. He would do everything within his power to make sure that his beloved Louisa was protected and well cared for, especially now that there was a chance she was carrying his child.

Going merely by how frequently he took her, it was safe to assume that she might be carrying their child, and no power on earth could prevent him from doing his best to stay alive and be the best father possible to their babe, whether it was a boy or a girl.

Standing at the mouth of the alley, his back to the wall, he kept his eyes peeled for his quarry, but after an hour passed and another one, he decided he had either been pranked or his quarry had balked and decided to cancel their appointment.

Whatever the reason, Percy was not particularly happy that he had wasted most of his morning hours waiting aimlessly while risking his back in such an unsavory neighborhood.

Leaving the alley, he hailed another hackney that took him home. He just hoped that the next time he came for such an assignation, his informant, whoever he was, would have the decency to keep his word.

In no time, the hackney came to a halt, and he paid the driver before making his way to the manor. He was greeted at the entrance by Tobias.

The elderly butler greeted him, his eyes widening as he took in his clothing, but whatever he going to say, he kept to himself, allowing him to make his way inside.

The first thing Percival noticed when he stepped into the manor was that it was quiet—a stark contrast to how busy it was when he left that morning. It seemed that the artisans who had been working earlier must have finished their duties for the day.

As he made for the stairs, he almost ran into a maid carrying a bowl of water.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” the girl stuttered, her voice high-pitched with terror.

A close look at her face and he recognized her as Louisa’s shy, freckled-faced lady’s maid.

“It is quite all right, Anne. Is my wife in her chambers?” he asked gently so as not to spook her.

“No,” Anne replied in a slightly wary tone. He guessed he had not been able to reassure her. “She is not in her chambers, Your Grace. She said something about going to the library to retrieve a book after the artisans left. I think she might be there.”

“Thank you,” he replied, a smile tugging at his lips.

Of course, his bibliophile of a wife would most likely be found curled up on a sofa, with her nose buried in a book, losing herself in some story woven by some author.

Forcing himself to walk slowly so as not to give away his excitement, he ascended the stairs, finding his way to the library. But a brief look into the room told him that his wife was not there.

He thought that perhaps she had borrowed the book from his study, but she was not there either, and a look into the drawing room and her bedchamber told him much the same.

He then made for the music room. So many papers were scattered across the floor that it looked untidy. They were possibly remnants of her brainstorming session the previous night. His wife had an uncanny habit of waking up in the middle of the night to compose music, after all. She claimed that it was in those ungodly hours that she got most inspired.

He had let her be simply because he was incredibly proud of her achievements and wanted to support her in all her musical endeavors.

His wife was talented, that much was true, but it was unfair that a person like her had not been allowed to play outside the confines of their townhouse for fear of being sneered at by the vindictive members of the ton. He had a plan to launch her music into London Society soon. So, for now, he resolved to allow her to practice.

He picked up the papers, his eyes eagerly scanning them for any clues to her whereabouts, but they weren’t helpful… unless she started writing codes through musical notes—but that was quite impossible.

Going back to her room in the hope that she might have returned, he found it still empty. Papers, unfinished letters, more unfinished manuscripts, and the like were strewn all over the floor, but all of them lacked what he truly wanted: information about her whereabouts.

He knew the total disarray of her room and other rooms in the manor should offend his sense of order, but instead, he felt a pang of fear at the thought that she might never return to make a mess again.

He decided to ask Tobias and the servants and see if they had a clue as to the whereabouts of his wife.

“No, Your Grace,” Tobias replied, shame turning his face a ruddy colour. “We have not seen her in the past hour. We just assumed that she was still in the library.”

“You mean to tell me that no one bothered to check in on her throughout the last two hours?” Percival asked, his eyes blazing in anger at the small group of servants who gathered at the bottom of the stairs, their heads bowed in shame. “Some intruder had gained access to my home and kidnapped my wife without anybody’s knowledge?”

He turned to his butler. “Tobias, you do not mean to tell me that my wife was kidnapped and carried away through those doors,” he said, pointing in the direction of the front doors. “Without your notice.”

“I have been here since noon when the workers left. Lieutenant Colonel Weston left just shortly after—something about meeting up with an acquaintance in town. I instructed one of the new footmen to flag down a hackney. I can state confidently that no one was carried out the front doors.”

“If they had not gone through there, then how did they leave?” Percy asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.

The answer came to him like a hurtling train, knocking the air out of his lungs. His eyes searched those of the servants before him. When they landed on Tobias, the alarmed look on his face confirmed his suspicions.

He turned on his heel and bolted up the stairs, not bothering to slow down until he stepped into the library. Moving to the shelf in the room, he drew back a copy of the Shakespearean play, The Count of Monte Cristo , until he heard a click and the sound of a pulley system engaging. The shelf slid open until he was staring into inky darkness.

Sure enough, as he suspected, there were large footsteps that led towards the end of the passageway, which opened onto the bank of the lake at the edge of his estate.

The existence of this passageway was a well-kept secret, known only to members of the Colborne family and their trusted servants. The fact that his wife was kidnapped and taken away via that secret passageway was evidence enough that it was done by family.

But who could it possibly be?

Panic seized him. It constricted his chest, turning his insides to ice until it became difficult to breathe. His vision blurred, and a fine tension spread in his muscles as he came to the conclusion that his wife was, in fact, missing.

He almost exploded at that thought.

It was evident that someone had taken his wife, but who was it? His time in the army meant that he had gained a lot of enemies from both sides of the battlefield, but the chances that they would follow him to his home and take his wife were slim to none, especially since they had to have worked with a trusted member of his staff to achieve it.

The other scenario was that she was kidnapped for ransom. But even that was unlikely, since it was common knowledge that his dukedom was impoverished because of his brother’s excesses.

But then this might also be connected to his brother’s killer. Perhaps the bounder had gotten bolder and decided to take his wife after killing his brother.

At that thought, a red haze descended across his vision until he was vibrating with rage. Whatever his brother’s killer thought he could do, he would never let him kill his wife. Not now, not when she had stolen his heart and never intended to give it back.

Hurriedly, he left the manor, ignoring the pitying looks that many of his servants gave him. He asked for his horse to be brought around, swiftly mounted it, and then tore off in a cloud of dust towards the only other person who lived close by and knew his wife intimately—her twin sister, who also happened to be the Duchess of Fangsdale.

The kidnapper, whoever he was, was quite strategic. He had been watching them for some time, Percival was sure. He must have bided his time, waiting for the moment when both he and Weston were away. When the manor was defenseless and he had ample time to strike.

A part of Percival wanted to resent the servants for being unaware while their mistress was carted away. But on second thought, he guessed that they must have been busy with their duties, assured that their mistress was enjoying some quiet time in the library. There was no way they could have suspected that their mistress was abducted.

Finally, he arrived at Fangsdale Manor in a cloud of dust. As the horse came to an abrupt halt, he hurriedly dismounted just as the great oak front doors flew open and an unscarred version of his wife emerged.

Before Louisa’s accident, a lot of people had sworn that they were unable to distinguish between she and her sister, Isabella. But Percival was sure that even without the scar, he would have recognized his wife. They might have the same face, but they were so different in spirit and mannerisms that he could tell the difference even from afar.

His wife moved with such grace that she looked like she floated across the floor. While she favoured brighter fabrics, her older sister preferred muted colours. He liked to believe that their preferences in colour reflected their characters. His Louisa was bright, a fiery hellion that broke down his walls, while her sister was more reserved.

Apart from their difference in lifestyle, there was the effect she had on him. Whenever she was close, his skin would come alive, longing to meld with hers. Her mere presence stirred his desire such that he spent every time in her presence in a persistent state of arousal. The fact that Isabella’s presence elicited nothing within him was enough evidence that she wasn’t his dear wife.

“Duke,” she greeted in a concerned tone as she approached him with brisk strides, the train of her dress held firmly in her hand. “I hope all is well with you. I saw you approaching so fast as if the devil himself was chasing you.”

It might as well be, and the devil just might catch up with him and maim him if he lost Louisa.

As if she heard his thoughts, Isabella opened her mouth to say something. Perhaps to ask about her sister.

“Is Louisa here?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

The perplexed look on her face was answer enough. Hope sputtered out in his soul like a candle.

“She is not here. Why would you think she would be here?” she asked, something similar to fear blooming in the brown eyes that looked familiar but different from his wife’s.

Because she is not with me either.

Ice spread to his veins, a strange numbness taking over.

“How is Louisa? She is well, I hope?”

“I came to make sure that she is. Is the Duke here?” he asked, trying as much as possible to keep his voice gentle so as not to send her into a fit of panic.

“He is upstairs. But…”

He did not wait for her to finish. He ran into the manor, desperate, taking the stairs two at a time so that in no time he was standing in front of the Duke of Fangsdale’s study. He knew it was the study because the door was slightly ajar and he could see the Duke’s dark head bent over some books.

Pushing the door open wider, he stepped inside.

Fangsdale’s head jerked up, surprise flickering across his face.

“Colborne,” he greeted, rising to his full height.

The look on Percy’s face must have alerted him to the nature of the situation because his pleasant expression turned into one of wary determination.

“Someone didn’t die, I hope?” he asked, stepping out from behind his desk to approach Percival.

“Not yet, but someone will when I get my hands on the fool who kidnapped my wife,” Percival gritted out, anger radiating from him in waves.

“Lou is missing?” Isabella cried out behind him, causing him and Fangsdale to turn to her.

In his haste to meet the Duke, he had not realized that she followed him upstairs.

He rubbed a frustrated hand down his face while Fangsdale comforted his wife. Distantly, he could hear the man’s soothing words drawing his wife out of the panic that had seized her at the thought of her sister missing and in danger.

Percival didn’t blame her. The same fear had gripped him when he first realized that his sweet, soft, beautiful Louisa was stuck in the hands of some criminal, possibly injured, in danger—or even worse, maimed.

His mind wandered in many directions as he wondered who on earth could possibly hate him or his wife enough to punish them this way, because while Louisa was the only one who was abducted, he might as well be, with the way he was going out of his mind with worry.

Now, he understood how disastrous love could be. Trying to live with your heart outside your body, where it was vulnerable to injury.

Louisa had claimed whatever remained of his battered heart, fixed it, and made it hers, and now she was in danger. He didn’t want to consider the possibility of living without her.

He didn’t think he would be sane enough to live a good life. He might be better off dead.

Even now, he regretted pushing her away in the early days of their marriage, when she had sought his attention. In hindsight, he was so stupid for keeping her at arm’s length, even while he longed for her warmth. If he had entered his marriage with an open mind, they might have fallen in love earlier, and he would have enjoyed being in her arms for longer.

“Colborne,” Fangsdale called from behind him, causing him to turn around.

The Duke was standing with his arm wrapped around his wife’s shoulders, their faces a picture of determination and rage.

Good, maybe with that state of mind, they could manage to think of a way to find Louisa. Their determination grounded him, halting his spiraling thoughts.

Following them back to the desk, he took a seat, while Duncan led his wife to the seat opposite him, content to remain standing.

Duncan folded his muscular arms across his chest, his dark eyes fixed on Percival as if he could extract information about his sister-in-law’s whereabouts simply with the force of his stare.

It was public knowledge that the Duke and Duchess of Fangsdale held Louisa in high regard. It was speculated that their influence had contributed to the dwindling number of people who disparaged her.

No one in their right mind would try to anger the Duke of Fangsdale. Apart from the power of his title, the man was built like a prize fighter, and Percival could attest to the fact that he fought like one as well.

His wife Isabella was the only chink in his armor, and he guarded her with a ferocity that a lion protecting its pride might envy. The fact that Louisa had paid the price for the vindictiveness of his ex-fiancée with the unblemished quality of her face meant that the man protected her ferociously as well, in a way that was just shy of overprotectiveness.

“When did you last see Lou, Duke?” Isabella asked in a quiet voice, her eyes trained on Percival’s face.

“This morning, before I went on an errand,” he replied, keeping his voice bland.

“Were there any clues from your servants?” Fangsdale interjected, a frown on his face.

“Not enough. I don’t have many servants anyway. They were all busy with their duties. They did not realize she was gone until it was too late,” Percival explained, feeling the rage boiling over in his veins. He was so close to combustion.

Standing up, he paced the length of the room, hoping to work off the restless energy. Turning suddenly mid-stride, he fixed his eyes on Isabella’s face, ignoring her surprise at the sudden movement.

“Do you think the Viscount did it?” he asked, his hands shaking with anger.

“What Viscount?” Isabella asked, perplexed. But then her eyes widened as realization dawned on her. “You mean Owen Dowding, the Viscount Pemberton?”

“I believe that is his Christian name.”

“Yes, it is. I do not think Lord Pemberton is the culprit. While he was a horrible match for my sister, he is a kind man at heart, even if he is a little bit snobbish. So I have difficulty imagining him doing anything of this sort. Besides, he had no great love for my sister. He had only wanted her to replace his dead wife. He holds no great passion for her, so he is very unlikely to pursue her out of some misguided devotion born of infatuation,” Isabella replied.

That answer did not reassure Percy in the least. It just crossed one more suspect off his list, leaving him even more clueless than he had been an hour ago about the identity of his wife’s kidnapper.

Even if Lord Pemberton was the culprit, Percival still had not solved the puzzle of which member of his household had aided the kidnapper. No matter the way he thought about it, it was unlikely that his butler, housekeeper, and the cook, who had virtually raised him, would betray him in such a fashion. But if they did not, then who did?

Running a shaking hand through his hair, he prayed to God, whoever that all-seeing being was, to help him. He could feel the familiar weight of helplessness trying to consume him. This time, he prayed that it did not win. He would not allow it to win.

He was going to save his wife. He must.