Eleven
The night air pummeledEthan’s face as he urged Destrehan faster. But the frigid wind was far warmer than the cold knot of fear and fury in his belly. What the devil had happened? And how?
He’d left her safe and whole only hours before, even warning her father about the dangers of allowing her to go out alone. Old fool.
Lights blazed at Tanglewilde as Ethan raced up the drive, jumping from Destrehan before his mount had even come to a stop. He tossed the reins to a gaping youth, pushed past him, and barged into the entrance hall. Ethan swung around when he heard the fast click of shoes on the marble.
“What’s going on here?” a man’s voice echoed through the hall. The irate majordomo hastened toward him. “Who do you think—”
“Where is she?” Ethan barreled down on the servant. The majordomo skidded and slowed.
“Lord Winterbourne,” the man said with an attempt at formality, “I—we did not expect you.”
Ethan continued to advance.
“If you would be so kind as to wait in the drawing room”—the servant gestured with a shaking hand—“I will see if Lord Brigham is at home.”
Ethan halted before the man, his face mere inches from the servant’s. “I don’t give a damn whether Brigham wants to see me or not. Where is she?”
Retreating a step, the majordomo spread his hands. Ethan sent him a look that would chill icicles in Hell.
“She’s resting in her room.” The servant raised an unsteady hand to his neckcloth.
“Which way?” Ethan glanced down one side of the entrance hall then the other.
“Sir!” The majordomo’s face paled. “Surely you do not expect to be granted entrance to Miss Dashing’sbedchamber?”
Ethan resisted the urge to grab the man by the lapels and throw him against one of the marble busts lining the hall. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Look...ah—”
“Norton,” the majordomo supplied, standing straighter.
“I don’t have time for this, Norton.” Ethan took a step forward, his advance trapping the servant against a pedestal. “Take me to her room, or I’ll search the whole goddamn house myself until I find it.”
“How dare you, sir!” Norton tried to wriggle around the column. “Perhaps you are accustomed to this sort of behavior atGrayson Park, but atTanglewildewe observe a strict decorum.”
“Fine.” Ethan glanced around. “Search the whole house it is.” He turned and started down the entrance hall.
“Lord Winterbourne,” he heard a gruff voice call from behind him. “This way.”
Ethan spun around and lowered his clenched fists. A tired, disheveled man with a scruffy gray beard and rumpled hair hastened toward him from the opposite end of the hallway. “I’m Alfred Shepherd, the head coachman. I’ll take you to her.”
“But—” the majordomo began to protest.
Shepherd held up a hand in warning, then motioned to Ethan. The coachman walked quickly, and Ethan followed without comment. He’d follow the devil himself if it would get him to Francesca faster.
Upstairs, one glance down the dimly lit hallway showed Ethan which room was hers. The staff had gathered outside and spoke in hushed, somber tones.
As he and Shepherd passed the adjacent room, he saw a young girl—blond and pretty—hovering in the doorway. She was taller than Francesca and her coloring fair, but Ethan could see the resemblance. She started when she saw him and took a hesitant step forward. She looked pale and tired, and the cord pulling his shoulders constricted once more.
“You were here this afternoon,” she said. “Are you here to help?”
He heard the desperation, the worry in her voice. Ethan opened his mouth to respond but said nothing. Whatwashe doing here?
Better to think of that later.
