The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(125)

Caught and held because Portia knew tears would not help Lily.

Instead, she breathed deep and long. She resisted the urge to curl up on the floor and indulge in a wrenching cry.

And after a few minutes she felt a little stronger. She pressed her fingers to her burning eyes then crossed to where Angelique slumped in an overstuffed chair to gently nudge her awake.

After Portia explained what Nightshade had discovered, the lady’s aged face tightened with distress. “The man is correct. If given a chance, Lily will send word home. We must be there. Viens avec moi.”

The drive back to Mayfair was silent. Both women gazed out the window, consumed by thoughts of Lily. Portia could not imagine how frightened—how devastated—her gentle sister must feel. God, she hoped she was not being abused. But really, was such a hope realistic? Portia was not naive. She understood there were evils in the world. Her mother’s illness and her father’s descent into addiction and excessive drinking had shown her that.

But Lily had always been so different. Lily was gifted with an unrelenting ability to see the best in people. She trusted in goodness and honestly believed the world was a lovely place.

Portia wanted to scream at the injustice of her sister’s abduction.

She wished again that she had been the one snatched off the street rather than her sister. She would have found a way to fight, maybe even escape. But Lily…

With gut-wrenching regret, Portia considered the possibility of her sister being lost to them.

No. She refused to accept it. Angelique had said Nightshade accomplished things no one else could. Portia had to believe he could save Lily.

The town house was dark and solemn when they returned.

Portia went immediately up to Emma’s bedroom to see if her sister had returned from the gambling hell where she had gone in a desperate attempt to win enough money to pay off Hale. Emma had been working secretly as a bookkeeper for Bentley’s, a gambling club, for weeks now to earn funds to keep Lily and Portia out in society long enough to snag husbands. When Hale’s demand for repayment had grown more threatening, Emma had made the bold decision to attend Bentley’s in disguise as a guest, hoping to win the funds necessary to pay their father’s last debt.

Unlike their father, Emma was an exceptional card player, but there was enormous risk in a lady of quality attending a party at a notorious gentlemen’s club. It was amazing to think it had been just tonight that Portia and Lily had worried for Emma’s safety, lost in the midst of the gambling hell.

How quickly things changed.

Emma’s room was empty. She had not yet returned.

Portia went back downstairs and saw light coming from the parlor. Angelique was there, fully alert and, though she tried to hide it, as worried as Portia.

Glancing at the clock, Portia was stunned to see it was only half past three in the morning. It felt like an eon had passed. “I will send a note to Emma. She would want to know what is happening.”

Angelique hummed agreement as she walked to the bellpull. “Shall I see if we can rouse anyone for some tea?”

Portia gave a nod then made her way to the writing desk in the corner. Her feet felt unreasonably heavy, her arms as well. All the rage that had fired her through the long wait for Turner’s return had sapped her of strength.

Barely able to function, she stared at the blank paper, trying to figure out an appropriate message. It needed to communicate the urgency of the situation, but she rejected the idea of stating plainly that Lily had been kidnapped, without the opportunity to offer more explanation. After several minutes of mental fighting, she settled on a short message she knew would strike Emma most effectively.

Something terrible has happened. We need you home immediately.

Such a stark message would send most people into a panic. But not the eldest Chadwick sister. Emma managed crises with more poise and strength than a seasoned general.

The message would bring her home. That was all that mattered.





Seven


A large-muscled man made his way along the twisting lanes near the London docks in Wapping. He moved swiftly despite his size, his focus fixed on his destination.

Mason Hale hadn’t been to this area of London in years, but it hadn’t changed much since the days of those back-alley fights. He’d hated the dank smell of the Thames then and hated it even more now. He had grown accustomed to some of the basic luxuries his fighting career had afforded him. The sooner he got away from the seedy lanes that reminded him of a more desperate time in his life, the better. He wanted to see this last bit of business done so he could finally get Molly away from the vices that had led her so far astray.

The Green Hen proved to be one of the more respectable of the inns lining the streets leading away from the docks. He was surprised Molly had chosen such a place for their meeting. Respectability was not a word he’d have associated with her. He hoped it confirmed she was intent upon changing her life for the better after all.

But Hale was no fool. Molly had spun more lies over the years than anyone he’d ever known. A liar and manipulator to be sure, but Hale had believed her to be a good mother to their daughter. At least in the beginning.

Lately, Hale had been seriously questioning the intelligence of leaving the babe with her mother. Then he’d think of what little he had to offer a small girl-child.

In truth, Claire would be better off without either of her parents.