The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(98)

I have your sister and her maid. If you wish to see them alive, you will meet me at No. 3 Bulstrode Street in half an hour. I have eyes everywhere, so come alone—or your sister and the maid will die.

P.S. Enclosed is a memento from Sophie.



Rosie looked at the handkerchief: the initials SK were embroidered in pink silk, entwined with a garland of flowers. Mama’s handiwork was unmistakable. Proof that the villain—whoever he or she was—did indeed have Sophie.

What should I do?

Wings of panic beat in Rosie’s chest. She couldn’t risk Sophie coming to harm; she had to do something—and she couldn’t alert Caster. The kidnapper had been clear that she was to come alone: any wrong move on her part could result in Sophie’s demise.

I can’t let that happen. I won’t.

Resolve set her into action. There was no time to waste. To arrive at the given address on time, she would need to sneak out from the house and hail a hackney immediately.

But she wouldn’t go into the situation unarmed.

She grabbed her reticule, feeling the welcome weight of the pistol Andrew had given her. For added insurance, she paused to dash off a quick note, sealing it. She summoned Susie, instructing the other to give the note to Caster in exactly half an hour.

After the maid left, Rosie waited until the hallway was empty. She descended the steps, her heart measuring out the frantic rhythm of her mission.

Wait for me, Sophie—I’m coming.





Chapter Thirty-Nine


Rosie arrived at her destination just shy of the appointed time. Bulstrode Street was located north of Mayfair, a relatively quiet lane off High Street in Marylebone. Number Three was a modest terraced townhouse with a plain brick front and an entryway recessed beneath a crumbling stone arch.

Passing through, Rosie approached the front door—saw that it was ajar. She took a breath and pushed it open. She found herself in a cramped foyer, a closed door to the right, stairs ascending to the upper floor, and a dark, narrow corridor leading to the back of the house. As she cautiously crossed the worn threshold, heavy gloom and stillness shrouded her, the hairs on her nape shivering.

“H-hello?” she called out.

She strained to hear any sounds that might betray Sophie’s presence—and heard only the click of the door closing behind her, blown shut by some ghostly gust. The outside world grew distant as she ventured forward into the tomb-like space, the floorboards squeaking beneath her. She paused at the closed door; before she could decide whether to knock, it suddenly opened.

She stood face to face with Sybil Fossey.

Sybil appeared her usual diffident, mousy self, the only difference being that this time she held a pistol in her gloved hand, aiming it at Rosie’s heart.

“Hand over your reticule,” Sybil said.

Rosie gripped her bag. “Sybil, let us talk—”

“Give it to me, or I will put a hole through you and then your sister.”

At Sybil’s calm, measured tones, fear snaked down Rosie’s spine. She did as the other asked, and Sybil took the reticule, flinging it into the room behind her where it landed with a thump. Then she gestured at Rosie with the pistol.

“Turn around and walk toward the hallway. I will be behind you. Make one false move, and I will shoot. Now go.”

Heart pounding, Rosie started down the corridor. “Where is my sister?”

“Be quiet and walk. Or she’s dead.”

Did Sybil have accomplices? Were they holding Sophie and Libby somewhere in the house? Swallowing, Rosie obeyed Sybil’s commands. When they reached the last room at the end of the hall, Sybil said, “Go inside.”

Rosie went into the small study. It was sparsely furnished with a sagging couch covered in moth-eaten pillows and a table flanked by two chairs and set with a tea service. The room had no windows, a single lamp the only relief from the gloom.

Here, at the back of the house, the outside world had vanished completely. In here, anything could happen and no one would be the wiser. Fear washed over Rosie as Sybil closed the door.

“Where is Sophie?” Rosie said.

“Sit.” Sybil waved the gun at one of the chairs. “We’ll get to your sister in a moment.”

She sat, her mind working furiously. “Why are you doing this?”

Sybil took the opposite chair. Keeping the pistol aimed at Rosie, she picked up the tea pot, pouring liquid into the cups in front of them. Tendrils of steam curled upward.

“Have some tea,” she said politely—as if this were a social gathering.

Enough is enough.

“I’m not doing another dashed thing you say until you tell me where Sophie is,” Rosie said.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Very well.” Sybil held the pistol steady. “By my estimation, your sister will be on her way home from her outing with her maid.”

“Pardon?” Rosie whispered.

“It was a ruse,” the other explained. “Since you came into Daltry’s money, I’ve been watching you. One can learn a lot from simply observing household routines—such as the fact that your sister’s nursemaid takes her for an outing at the same time each day. It was easy to compose a note saying that I’d taken her.”

“But you had the handkerchief—”

“I followed the nursemaid to the park one day and pretended to admire the babe. Whilst I did this, I filched the handkerchief. Simple, really.”