The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(126)

But maybe that could change.

Molly had once been a sweet young woman with laughing blue eyes and a smile full of life. She could be that woman again if Hale could get her out of Covent Garden and away from the opium dens.

She had come by his office earlier that day demanding the money he’d promised to help her. True to her vindictive nature, she’d declared that he would never see his daughter again if he didn’t get the money to her by dawn.

Hale didn’t want to believe Molly would actually keep his child from him, but she had become someone he barely recognized. He couldn’t take that chance. Though his means may not have been fully justified, Hale had gotten the money Molly demanded.

Hale’s only concern had to be for Claire.

Light shone from the windows of the inn, and the mumbled sound of conversation could be heard from within as he neared the front door.

He entered the public room and scanned for Molly’s pale-blond curls, straining his ears for the distinct sound of her trilling laugh. Despite the late hour, a few people sat about enjoying ale and the company of fellow travelers, but Molly wasn’t one of them.

Hale tamped down the rise of panic that flared to life in his gut. Maybe she was in one of the private rooms. Of course. Claire would be asleep at this time. Molly had to be with her.

Hale made his way across the room to the bar at the far end. The guests stopped their conversations to eye him warily as he passed. He ignored them. Resting his elbows on the bar, he tried to give the impression to anyone who watched him that he was not there to cause trouble. People often noted his large-muscled build and assumed he was a brawler looking for a fight.

Hale never looked for fights these days. But they often found him anyway.

“What can I get for ya?” the barkeep asked with a puffed-out chest and narrowed gaze.

To set the man at ease, Hale ordered an ale, though even that short delay had his skin crawling with impatience. When the barkeep set the mug in front of him, Hale paid the man but didn’t take a drink.

“I’m supposed to meet someone,” he said. “A young woman with pale hair and blue eyes.”

The man behind the bar nodded. “I know the one.”

“Can you let her know I’m here?”

The barkeep shook his head, taking a step back as he squared his shoulders. Hale knew the stance. It was one of anticipated hostility. He’d seen it enough times in life to recognize it.

His insides clenched tight. Something was wrong. It was obvious in the barkeep’s sudden defensive posture. Tension stiffened Hale’s limbs and tightened the muscles across his torso. He stood straight and splayed his hands palms down on the bar as he met the barkeep’s eyes. “Where is she?”

At that moment, a barmaid came out from the kitchen. Her gaze was down, and she practically ran into the barkeep before she stopped herself with a gasp and looked up to see the two burly men squaring off over the bar. She took a stumbling step back with a muffled whimper.

Hale didn’t bother to assure her he had no intention of throwing any punches. His only thought was of Molly and his daughter.

“She left not two hours ago with a couple of blokes,” the barkeep answered gruffly.

Hale’s heart iced over even as his blood burned with fury.

“She left the inn?” he clarified, wanting to leave no room for misunderstanding.

“I saw her collect her bags myself, before she got into a carriage with two fancy gentlemen.”

“Where did they go?”

This time it was the barmaid who answered, stepping forward bravely. “I heard them talking about a holiday in Bath.”

Hale’s mind was spinning in disbelief. She had left London?

How could she?

He had gotten her the money she wanted, and she had taken off with Claire anyway. Before he could see his baby girl one last time. Before he could stop her.

Feeling more pain than he had ever known in his life, Hale turned away and stumbled out of the inn. Even the worst beatings of his youth had not hurt as bad as the wrenching agony that gripped him then from head to toe.

All he could see was the round little face of his daughter with her quiet, trusting gaze, surrounded by a halo of curls. He clung to the mental image, suddenly terrified it might slip away as easily as Molly had taken her from him.

Claire was gone.

And the light of the world had gone with her.





Eight


“We must be practical about this.”

At the sound of Emma’s firmly controlled voice interrupting the momentary silence, Portia stopped her pacing and turned toward her sister. Anticipation lit in her center. This was the response she had been waiting for.

Emma had arrived home a short time ago—and not alone. Her employer, Mr. Bentley, had arrived at her side. Emma’s slightly disheveled appearance may have caused Portia to suspect her very proper sister of engaging in a bit of improper behavior tonight.

Of course, the idea of Emma doing anything of that sort was near ludicrous.

Portia had always known her oldest sister to be unfailingly capable. Sensible in everything, Emma possessed a sort of ingrained assuredness. She could manage any crisis, calculate a solution to any problem, and had always been there when either Lily or Portia needed a guiding hand.

And so her initial response to the news of Lily’s abduction had been disconcerting. For a few moments, Emma had appeared at a total loss. The tension and fear was obvious in the way Emma sat stiff and unmoving on the sofa. As was the self-blame.