The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(112)

Victoria raised her chin, clearly digging for the dignity she required to continue with this conversation. Her gaze met Isabelle’s for a long moment before she parted her lips to speak. “A large drink would be most welcome.”

“Of course,” Isabelle muttered, reaching for her sister, but before she could excuse Victoria from the main hall, footsteps sounded on the stairs behind her.

“Lady Victoria Fairlyn,” Hardaway grated. “Would you like to turn and flee out the door? For the sake of fond memories and all.”

“Hardaway, really,” Isabelle admonished. She’d come to understand the man’s wit, but this was no time for such ribbing. “Can’t you see she is in some sort of trouble?”

Hardaway’s steps slowed as he looked at Victoria, apparently noticing her bruised state for the first time.

“Isabelle, why don’t you show your sister into your private parlor,” Fallon murmured in her ear. She hadn’t heard him approach, but she was glad to have him present at such a tense time. She was friends with Hardaway now, her old infatuation with the man gone, but he was being less than gentlemanly with her sister, and she wouldn’t have it.

But before they could move out of the hall, Victoria looked past Isabelle, her focus on where Hardaway stood at the bottom of the stairs. “I didn’t know where else to go. I thought to impose on my sister.”

“It’s no imposition—” Isabelle began, but Fallon silenced her with a touch of his hand.

Victoria looked up at Hardaway, battered from some fight and appearing desperate for the first time in Isabelle’s memory.

She licked at the blood on her lip and winced in pain. “Kel…Lord Hardaway, I need your help.”





Please enjoy this sneak peek of Lord of Lies by USA Today bestselling author Amy Sandas


London, June 1817

Portia Chadwick was terrified. And furious.

And terrified.

Perched on the edge of her seat in the racing carriage, her legs braced for action, Portia clenched fistfuls of her skirts in a vain attempt to contain her panic.

Not twenty minutes ago, her sister Lily had been abducted right off the street in front of their great-aunt’s house in Mayfair. They had just arrived home after an evening out when the assailant had come out of nowhere, knocking their driver to the ground with one blow and hauling Lily off her feet. Portia had scrambled from the carriage just in time to see her sister being tossed into a waiting vehicle that took off as soon as the kidnapper climbed in after her.

Portia’s immediate instinct had been to chase after the carriage with her skirts lifted to her knees. If her great-aunt hadn’t shouted after her with the uncharacteristically rational observation that she had no chance of outrunning a racing carriage, Portia would still be sprinting down the street.

Angelique had insisted there was another way.

And now here they were, driving at breakneck speed to the East End to search the streets for a boy wearing a red cap.

It was ludicrous! Angelique had clearly lost her mind this time.

Portia’s gaze darted toward the elderly lady. Despite the perilous nature of their current plight, the Dowager Countess of Chelmsworth appeared shockingly unperturbed. “We should have contacted the authorities,” Portia argued once more, fear making her combative.

“The authorities will do nothing but write up a report. Word of this will spread like a disease through the gossip mills,” Angelique replied. A heavy French accent still colored her words, though she’d lived in England for decades. “We need to save your sister, and quickly, but the authorities will be more harm than help.”

Portia wasn’t sure she agreed, but she had accepted Angelique’s lead on impulse and now had no choice but to follow it through.

She hated feeling so ineffectual, so bloody useless.

If only she had gotten out of the carriage first, then she would have been abducted instead of Lily. She would give anything to be in her sister’s place right now. At twenty, Lily was more than a year older than Portia, but she was far too gentle and trusting to fare well in the hands of a ruthless kidnapper.

And Portia had no doubt her sister’s abductor was quite ruthless. The kidnapping had to be the work of Mason Hale, who had been sending threatening letters to their oldest sister, Emma. The same man who had accosted Lily just two nights ago, demanding repayment of a loan their father had incurred before his untimely death.

But Hale had given them until the end of tomorrow to come up with his money. Why would he kidnap one of them now? It made no sense.

Unless it was not Hale after all…

Portia’s throat closed up in fierce rejection of the thought. It had to be Hale.

“How in hell is a boy in a red cap going to help us?” Portia pressed again, desperately needing assurance that they were not on a fool’s errand as they raced toward a corner of London’s East End where no gently bred lady should ever consider visiting.

“The boy knows how to get in touch with a man who can help us,” Angelique answered. “Trust me, darling. It is our very best chance to save your sister.”

Portia’s stomach twisted.

“What kind of man?” she asked. “Who is he? How do you know he will help us?”

“He is known to do many things…for the proper incentive,” Angelique replied evasively.