Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Frederick struggled against the ropes to no avail. His arms were pressed tight at his sides, and despite his feet being free from constraints, there was little room for them to move in the red Ford Touring.

A few punches to his stomach and a slam to the head from "Inspector Clarkson" incapacitated Frederick enough for the man and his cohort to wrestle him out of Havensbrooke, bind him, and drive away.

"The chauffeur is after us." The man to Frederick's left leaned forward.

The car swerved and tossed Frederick against him.

"The crazy fool." This from a woman sitting in the front. He knew that voice. Celia? "He's trying to block our path."

Before Frederick could confirm the author of the voice, the car swerved again, ramming him against the window. He blinked to clear his vision, and the second man came into blurry view. Was that Mason Parks?

"Turn here for the ruins. We'll hide there until dark."

Frederick's gaze darted to the front and fell into Celia's serpentine gaze.

Her smile curled. "Besides, it shouldn't take long for us to finish our business with our handsome and unwitting guest."

Frederick eased back into the seat, his head pounding. One eye swollen, from the feel of it.

Three men accompanied Celia. Parks, "Inspector Clarkson"—who looked somewhat familiar—and a driver. All men brainwashed and paid off by the lovely Celia, if Frederick guessed right, from the funds she'd pilfered from Havensbrooke.

"I do hate that you hit him in the nose, Turner." Celia turned from her perch in the passenger seat, red lips sliding into a smile. "It is one of his winning features."

"We've lost the chauffeur, Celia," the driver said.

"Excellent, Randolph." Her gaze skimmed over Frederick and then turned to the driver. "After ascertaining his acute attachment to his little bride at Keriford, I feel our dear Lord Astley will be quick to agree to any of our demands."

His attention shot to Celia. Grace! That's why she'd come to Keriford? Scouting out her plan for Grace? A chill crawled through his chest. The money. Havensbrooke's money.

He wrestled against the ropes but stopped. No, Frederick. Remain calm. Celia wants to get to your senses. Stop. Think. Even if this scene is like something from a book.

A book! Grace would tell him to think like a character.

Well then, what would a Sherlock sort of character do? He drew in a deep breath. Observe. Reason. Plan.

Frederick took in his surroundings with a new, more focused purpose. "Inspector Clarkson" sat farthest to Frederick's left, a tall, lean-looking man, bushy brow pulled over a set of gray eyes. His jacket looked well worn, and the hem of his pants was frayed. He barely moved, eyes trained ahead, calculated. And his nose resembled a hook.

Grace's Captain Hook! From the ship.

A glint of metal from the man's jacket hinted to a pistol. Weapon number one.

Frederick's attention shifted to Celia. Her dark gaze bore into his with icy calculation. She wore one of the smaller hats, slanted slightly to cover one side of her forehead.

He couldn't observe much about the driver except to note his broad build. Of the three men, he'd likely be the stoutest, and as the driver in front with Celia, he probably had the strongest attachment to her.

By consequence, this made him the most dangerous.

How Parks had involved himself in this messy business, Frederick had no idea, but he'd gotten his fingers in the mix before Edward died. Adoration for Celia paired with money troubles proved the likely motivators for Parks's involvement, so desperate that the man would even forfeit his friendship with Edward.

Ah, Celia—like a spider, once she trapped a victim in her web, she secured that person by whatever means necessary.

Like she'd done to his mother.

Parks fidgeted with the hat in his lap, sweat beading across his thin-ning hairline.

A weak link, perhaps?

"Parks, I thought you were Edward's friend."

The accusation hit its mark. Parks's fidgeting ceased, and he looked away, jaw tightening.

"What could she have possibly promised you to have you turn on your friend?" He kept his voice low. "Monetary gain, I'd suspect from the ledgers."

"The ledgers?" Park's gaze shot up. "How did you—"

"It can't last long, though, can it? Celia drained him dry. But I suppose you already know that since you are the lone account holder for this embezzling. All in your name." Frederick drew in a deep breath as if it was all a shame. "Not one cent can be traced to her. Clever, isn't it?"

Parks grabbed Frederick's collar. "Stop talkin'." He spat out the threat.

"Don't let him intimidate you, Parks, darling." Celia cooed from the front seat, her green gaze resting on Frederick in warning. "We should have gagged him as well. He's being quite a nuisance."

"But he knows about the—"

"Havensbrooke may have been penniless three weeks ago." Her poisonous gaze never left Frederick's. "But it isn't any longer. It's fed by American money now, so don't worry, Parks. You'll be well taken care of."

"I'll not give you anything, Celia."

"No?" Her smile took a devilish turn. "I believe with the right incentive, I can encourage a great deal of generosity."

The knot in Frederick's chest coiled tighter at the serpentine twist in her words.

"Yes." She raised a finger to her lips, her gaze never leaving his face. Watching. Waiting for the slightest break in his demeanor. "Once we have you securely tucked away at the ruins, I'll make my way to your home, where your darling Lady Astley will have no one to protect her. Turner isn't fond of Americans, you see. Especially women. A lady treated his heart rather ruthlessly, didn't she, Turner?"

Turner's hand fisted in response.

"And your dear little wife wasn't very forthcoming to Turner when he attempted to collect information on the ship from America. Rather snappish, wasn't she, Turner?" Celia's attention flickered back to Frederick. "So I imagine with Lady Astley at Turner's ready disposal, you'll give me whatever I want."

"That's an empty threat, Celia." He kept his gaze locked on hers, refusing to bow to the intimidation. "What makes you think the police won't arrest you as soon as you walk through the front doors?"

"They're looking for two men who fit the descriptions of Turner and Parks." Her brow peaked. "Not the mourning widow of the previous Earl of Astley."

Parks turned his head in her direction, clearly off-put by this new revelation. Turner gave a similar reaction. Ah, maybe her followers weren't as loyal as she thought. And in his favor, Celia had no idea Jack Miracle was on his way to Havensbrooke with the police even now, looking very specifically for the mourning widow.

A point he'd keep close to his chest.

"You doubt the intelligence and strength of my staff and my wife."

"Well, she has been rather tiresome, I must say. You both have." Celia sighed, her gaze raking over his face. "Though now I'm glad you didn't drown in the river, or there would have been nothing to do for my financial future, since from what I understand, my dearly departed husband rearranged things at the last. Very unhusbandly of him, wasn't it? And then to have police scouting about right after the car accident. We had to bide our time."

The roof of the ruins came into view. "Of course, Rogers didn't hear of our change in plans before he attacked you in London." She shook her head. "No matter. He was a bit overeager at any rate, so Randolph had to dispose of him." She ran a hand over the driver's shoulder, an intimate touch. "He's usually very good at dispatching people, except for this bride of yours, and she simply won't follow the rules. Swimming? Riding astride? Using a hunting rifle?"

Hunting rifle? If they all survived this, Grace could ride astride whenever she chose, and he might very well teach her how to use pistols himself.

"I had hoped that instead of you, she'd be the first from the house— to reduce the middleman." She chuckled. "We'll just have to turn the plan around. She'll give us what we want as long as we have you, and you'll give me what I want as long as I have her. It's all fairly simple."

Her words shot a shaft of fear through him. He hated to imagine what Celia and her thugs might do to Grace.

He shifted his attention back to Parks and lowered his voice. "Do you really want a crime on your head, old bean?" Of course he already had a few at this point. "Is all this worth it to you?"

"I'd stop speaking unless spoken too, Lord Astley. Or dear Randolph will have to silence you."

The driver turned enough to show a hint of a smile on his profile. Frederick's stomach curled with a wave of nausea. How could he have been dimwitted enough to fall for Celia's manipulation? When held against the forthrightness of his bride, Celia's falseness and shallow affections were revealed as the grotesque distortions they were. There was no comparison.

And he wasn't a fool anymore.

Grace's words rushed back to him. "Remember whose you are."

Havensbrooke held his heart and his history. A piece of him inextricably linked to the stories and soil of this earth, but he belonged to an even greater legacy. One bound to an eternal story—etched out of sacrifice and love, not stone and dirt. Facing life as Earl of Astley gave him a temporary home, but living life as a child of God gave him an identity.

A truth written on his soul.

"Pull behind the ruins, and we'll sort out the next step of our new plan." Celia's words jerked Frederick's gaze ahead.

The walls of the ruins took a golden hue in the glow of morning. How much time did he have? He needed to stall them. Give the police more time to arrive.

"People know I'm missing, Celia. They'll be looking."

"Not here. Who would even care for our little rendezvous spot?"

Perhaps her arrogance would be her downfall. Frederick could only hope. Someone had to have seen where the car turned and made a guess as to the possible location. Lord, please. Bring help. And protect Grace .

As Parks took hold of him to pull him from the car, Frederick rushed the man, knocking him to the ground. Without pausing, Frederick stumbled into a run and darted toward the forest trail.

His bonds hampered his escape, but he tried nonetheless, dodging one attempt by Randolph to apprehend him. Turner tackled him at the forest's edge, both falling into the moist earth. Using tactics learned through his military stint, Frederick tripped Turner to the ground and then wrapped his legs around the man's neck, squeezing with enough force to render his assailant unconscious. Just as the man's struggling began to weaken, a shadow fell over Frederick and a crash shook his skull. Everything froze. Pain ricocheted inside his head, loosening his balance, his vision blurred, and the world crumbled to darkness.

"Someone's taken Lord Astley?" Grace took Mary by the shoulders. "What are you talking about?"

"I heard a commotion at the front, your ladyship." The young maid shook her head. "And when I got there, Brandon was laid out on the floor."

"Brandon?" Grace rushed down the corridor toward the Great Hall.

"I saw two men shoving Lord Astley into the back of a car."

Grace's feet came to a stop, and she stared at Mary for the longest time. Was Grace dreaming? This sounded too much like something she'd actually concoct to be real. After all, she was the one with the scissors. "Two men kidnapped Lord Astley?" She forced her feet into motion again, meeting the stairs. Kidnap didn't seem right, because her strong and capable husband was anything but a kid. Man-nap perhaps, but that word didn't seem to fit either.

When Grace reached the bottom of the stairs, the truth crashed into her fictional world with painful reality. Elliott, Peter, and Mrs. Powell struggled to pull Brandon's still body into one of the chairs in the Great Hall, while several of the housemaids stood watch.

"Oh my! Frederick really has been man-napped." She rushed to the bottom of the stairs and joined the servants, an unexpected burn of tears threatening release. It was one thing to turn the page at such a moment and quite another to wonder if she'd ever see her husband again. "How did this happen?"

"I was just coming from the kitchens, and I heard Brandon cry out." Elliott adjusted the unconscious man into the chair. "When I reached the front hall, Brandon was on the floor, so I rushed to the door."

"That's where I was," Mary added. "Two men, one who was placing a sack over the master's head, were dragging him to a car."

"What?" Grace gasped. "A sack over his head?"

"I can't be sure," Elliott continued, as Mrs. Powell reached around him to place a cool cloth on Brandon's forehead. "But one of the men looked like Mr. Parks."

Oh, the fiend! Grace stepped close to Elliott, taking his hands in hers and shaking them. "Did they bind him with ropes? Gag him? Was there any sort of injection into his skin?"

Elliott stared down at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"They've taken the side road." Mr. Patton ran into the room, breaths coming in spurts. "I chased them up the main drive and tried to block their escape, but the driver seemed to know the way. He turned by the rock gardens, and I lost their trail."

Grace looked to Elliott for clarification. "It goes along the river."

"The river? What's out there?"

"Nothing, your ladyship, except the old ruins."

"The ruins?" She cleared her throat and dashed away a rebel tear. What good were those at a time like this? Think like a detective. "It's Celia. I know it."

"What do we need to do, ma'am?" Elliott stepped forward, ready for the challenge.

Yes, the faithful valet would do excellently as a cohort. She'd have preferred Frederick, of course, but he was off being man-napped. With a set of her chin and a push of her palm against her stomach to still the tremors, she turned to the chauffeur. "Mr. Patton, the police should be on their way with Detective Miracle. See if you can meet them on the drive to direct them toward the ruins. I have a feeling we'll need their brawn before this morning is out." Grace paced from one chair to the next. "Celia must be desperate to have taken Frederick from his home in broad daylight, which means she might be desperate enough to do something much worse." The declaration pooled through Grace, reverberating with consequences she hadn't considered. Her knees weakened. She shook the thought from her mind and focused on Elliott. "Elliott, can you ride a horse?

Elliott's brows flew to his hairline. "Yes."

"Perfect. Follow me." She ran from the house and toward the stables, Elliott at her heels.

"And exactly what are we doing, my lady?"

For such an efficient man, he certainly was taking his time coming to conclusions. "We're going to rescue Lord Astley."

"Pardon me?" When had Elliott's voice pitched so high?

Grace pushed open the door to the stables, and stopped, her mind a whir. "We ought to bring a rope."

"A rope?" He shook his head, clearly faltering. Was she the only person in the house prepared for a man-napping and possible murder?

"Yes, a rope. All the best detective stories use them. I'm not sure why, but I feel certain we ought to bring one along just in case."

After the slightest hesitation, Elliott took charge, directing the stable hands to prepare two of their fastest horses.

"And maybe we should bring some extra cloths, in case someone is wounded." Grace added, taking one of the leather bags hanging nearby. "What else?" If they survived this suspense, she was going to make certain the servants had an opportunity to read a healthy share of detective books. She shouldn't be the only one equipped to rescue people in such situations.

"Wh–what about a gun?"

Grace swung around to face Elliott, her smile wide. The good valet only needed to warm up to the notion a bit. "Perfect, Elliott. Now you're thinking like a sleuth."