The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(40)

“Isabelle,” he tried again, sliding to his knees beside her. Silently begging for her to be alive, he turned her head to see her face. He braced himself for the sight of whatever damage had been inflicted on her to bring her to this state.

Her eyes were closed but not blackened. He cupped her cheek in his hand and brushed a stray curl from her forehead. She was still warm. He could now see a cut in her hair above her left eye from the blow that must have brought her down. The hair around the wound was matted, dark red, and growing worse by the second. He pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to her head to stop the bleeding, but she needed more assistance than he could offer her. There was blood everywhere. He had to help her. He leaned over her, pressing his ear to her breast. Her heartbeat was steady. But her breathing was already faint. God, how long had she been here? He should have come faster. He should have known she would come here.

“Isabelle!” He shook her gently by the shoulder, but she didn’t rouse. She needed a doctor. He had to go for help. Was there no one else in the building? There must be…

He leaned back on his heels, looking around the room more warily than before. She’d been left here like this on purpose. It was a message. He scowled down at the locket around her neck for only a fraction of a second before he ripped it from her throat and stuffed it into his pocket, unable to revisit the familiar scene in his mind.

He scanned the floor around her for the object that had caused her head wound, partially to understand how it had happened and partially to arm himself against a possible unseen foe. But the room was empty except for a piece of paper at her side. Picking it up, he quickly scanned through the words.

Dear Father,

Everything has been stolen from me. I’ve lost my love to my own sister, and today I lose my sister as well. You should have seen that my heart belonged to Mr. Kelton Brice long before he became Lord Hardaway, just as you should have seen that my interest in this art collection would lead to this day. I’ve arranged for the paintings to be sent somewhere you will never find them. And I remain as a constant reminder of what you lost. Now we’ve both been stolen from. This is a small theft in the face of what you’ve done to me, but it’s a start. My sacrifice today will show the world who you truly are. Enjoy the outcome of your selfish concerns.

—Isabelle Fairlyn

Was this simply coincidence?

His mind had jumped to Grapling as her attacker, filling in the gaps as necessary to make the man guilty of this crime. Had Isabelle set out to steal from her family and had something go horribly wrong? It couldn’t be.

Then he saw the minutely printed string of letters and numbers along the bottom of the page. Anyone else would dismiss the line as scribbles, but not Fallon. He scanned the line, once, then twice, his heart racing with the information he found there. Between the code and the last line of the note, he knew he’d been correct in the beginning. This was Grapling’s work.

“Enjoy the outcome of your selfish concerns,” Fallon whispered as he dropped the note to his knee and looked down at Isabelle where she lay on the floor as he pieced together all that he knew. There was something familiar about those words—as if he’d heard them before. Were they from a well-known book or a line of verse? He shook his head and stuffed the note into his pocket. He would have time to consider that riddle later. Right now Isabelle’s well-being was a larger concern.

He couldn’t risk raising the alarm or have her seen to by a doctor here. He was the only witness. The code he’d seen in the bottom corner of the note was even more concerning. He was one of the few men who could read such a message since he’d invented it as a means to give orders in writing to his men. He hadn’t used it in years, but he remembered it.

Four copies. Can you find them in time? No more or it wouldn’t be sportsmanlike.

There were four copies of this blasted note, and he was in possession of only one? Where were the other three? Where would he start? Questioning the Post and finding known forgers to prevent additional copies from being made to begin with, but those steps would have to wait. Right now he had Isabelle to deal with. Even if he concealed the copy he’d found here, others placed all blame for the theft on her shoulders. Even if no one believed their claim, the scandal was enough to ruin her. Isabelle had nothing to do with this. She was as Grapling had claimed: a pawn.

Fallon’s brows pulled together, making his head ache. There was no way around it. Until such time that the other notes were accounted for and the artwork recovered, Isabelle would be in the thick of a scandal—another one, considering what her sister had just done.

The Spare Heirs, however, had a doctor. The situation could be kept quiet.

Fallon was already scooping Isabelle up in his arms. He’d known Isabelle’s father for years. This was a matter of protecting a lord’s daughter. Fallon was simply doing his job. Help a friend in need, gain an owed favor…

But this was Isabelle. This wasn’t about business, future gain, or future debts to collect on.

Her thin frame draped over his arms like a coat on a cold day. Shifting her so her head rested against his chest, he looked down into her pale face. Ever the wood nymph who now haunted his dreams, luring him into brightly lit clearings, her cheeks still held the slightest hint of rose. He clung to the sight of her color-filled cheeks. She would live.

“You’re going to be fine, Isabelle.”

He wasn’t certain which one of them he was reassuring, but he continued talking anyway, all the way through the museum, down the stairs, and into the street.