This is what prompted her to linger here, where I found her. Blood thunders in my veins.
I have her.
* * *
We arriveat Scinder House shortly after dawn on the third day. I am already past my father’s deadline, but I refuse to return to the castle without her. If this doesn’t pan out, I will be forced to accept my fate.
“You’re certain there are only two daughters?” I ask of Lord Tremaine, born the youngest son of a minor baron from a bankrupt line in a backwater part of Belterre. He has a supercilious air about him and a cunning gleam in his bloodshot eyes. He reeks of stale alcohol and he’s still wearing the finery he donned for the ball, days ago. His whiskered chin dips in confirmation.
How he ended up married to Lord Scinder’s widow is a mystery. All I have are the palace records—their wedding, and Lady Scinder’s untimely death about a year later. There is nothing about Elinor.
It’s plain this man doesn’t appreciate his good fortune. The house itself shows signs of disrepair. A water stain blots the wallpaper in one corner of the parlor. Driving down the lane, it was impossible to ignore the ancient, rotting roof and ivy covering a full third of the house. The place is a tumbledown dump. Emmett’s Folly, the local baker called it when we stopped in town to ask for directions. She confirmed there was a third girl living here, Lord Scinder’s daughter.
Despite its exterior, the house is clean inside. There’s not a speck of dust on the polished wood furniture in the sitting room, despite the faded upholstery on the unfashionable furniture.
“Only Drucilla and Anastacia,” Tremaine confirms, holding my eye as if daring me to challenge him.
“What happened to Lady Elinor Scinder? Your wife’s daughter from a prior marriage?”
“Ran off.”
He holds my gaze, daring me to challenge him.
“When?”
“Years ago. Went off with the lad who mucked the stables. Haven’t heard from her since.” He clasps his arms behind his back. The man is an inch or two taller than I am, but there’s no strength in his physique. His limbs hang like string beans and he’s slightly hunched, though I doubt he’s a scribe of any kind. A sizable paunch strains the buttons of his waistcoat.
“You didn’t look for her?” I ask pointedly.
“Why would I?”
“Because you are her stepfather. It is your responsibility.”
He sniffs, but his eyes slide guiltily away from mine. His nose is thick with broken blood vessels. “Elinor was of age.”
There is a pout to his tone I can’t quite understand.
Tremaine’s gaze cuts to me. A fraction of fear flares in those jaundiced depths. “Why would you care?”
“I have been combing Belterre looking for her. If the lady is here, produce her at once.”
I have barely slept or eaten for three days. I am bursting at the seams with frantic worry. I’m terrified that Elinor really is dead or long gone, and that Elsie was a mirage.
But no. I saw her in the streets of Belterre. Running blindly. Crying. I danced with her. Made love with her. She exists. The likeliest place for her to be is here, at her childhood home, where something is very wrong.
“I am afraid I can’t help you, Your Highness.”
That oily smirk is back. He thinks he’s so clever, outwitting a prince. Yet without proof that Elinor is here, there is nothing I can do. A headache grinds its way up from my jaw.
“Allow me to introduce you to my daughters.” Tremaine leans back and bellows up an open stairway, “Girls! We have visitors. Get down here.”
“We’re not ready!” a feminine voice wails. I wince. No one would claim the Tremaine sisters speak in the dulcet tones of a lady.
Elinor’s mannerisms were those of a lady, through and through. Which makes sense, if she was raised as a noblewoman through her early years.
“What is the holdup?” Tremaine shouts. I can see where they learn their poor manners.
“I need a vial.”
