Evie stirred in her arms, making soft sounds of contentment that tore at Iris’s heart. How could she explain to this innocent baby that the world was about to change again? That the people who’d loved her, sung to her, and protected her were powerless to prevent another abandonment?
“I’m here.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
She descended the stairs slowly. Each step felt like walking toward her own execution.
Holt stood in the center of the entrance hall. His black coat made him look like death itself. Beside him waited a stern-faced woman who had to be a nursemaid. Her arms were already positioned to receive a child.
“Your Grace.” Holt’s bow was perfunctory and professional. “I trust you’ve had time to prepare the child for travel. The journey to Dover will take several hours.”
“She’s not ready.” Iris’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “She’s barely six months old. Such a journey will be traumatic.”
“Children adapt quickly at that age. Marie Martel is eager to begin the bonding process.”
Bonding process. As if love could be scheduled like a business meeting. As if the months of care Iris had provided meant nothing compared to the abstract claim of blood relation.
“I need more time.”
“Time serves no purpose except to make the inevitable separation more difficult.” Holt gestured to his companion. “Mrs. Abbott has extensive experience with infant travel. The child will be properly cared for.”
Iris looked at Mrs. Abbott’s cold features and saw nothing resembling maternal warmth. This woman would treat Evie like cargo to be transported, not a precious child who deserved gentle handling and familiar comfort.
“Please,” she whispered, hating the desperation in her voice. “Just a few more days. To help her adjust, to explain…”
“The matter is settled, Your Grace. I have my orders.”
Orders from whom? The mysterious cousin in France, or someone closer to home with reasons to want Nicholas’s daughter removed from England?
Footsteps thundered outside, followed by the sound of the front door bursting open. Iris spun toward the commotion, hope flaring in her chest at the possibility of rescue.
“Nobody move! Bow Street Runners!”
Uniformed men flooded the entrance hall. Their presence transformed the elegant space into something resembling a battlefield. Holt went rigid with shock. His professional composure cracked as the men surrounded him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “I’m conducting legitimate business!”
“Are you, indeed?” The lead constable, a grizzled man with shrewd eyes, stepped forward. “Mr. Holt, you’re under arrest for conspiracy, fraud, and involvement in threatening the welfare of a child.”
“This is preposterous! I demand to see your warrant!”
“Right here.” The constable produced the document with satisfaction. “Signed by Magistrate Henley himself after some very interesting testimony was provided by the Duke of Richmond regarding your recent activities.”
Iris watched in amazement as the constables efficiently restrained Holt and his companion while their protests fell on deaf ears.
How had this happened? Who had intervened on their behalf?
“Your Grace.” The lead constable approached her and executed a low bow. “You and the child are perfectly safe now. This man will face justice for his crimes.”
“What crimes?” Though even as she asked, Iris suspected she knew the answer.
“Conspiracy to defraud, for starters. Those documents he presented, claiming French relatives? Complete fabrications. The real crime involves threats made against the child’s welfare by his employer.”
Before Iris could ask more questions, another commotion erupted as Owen burst through the front door. His clothes were disheveled, his knuckles bloodied, and his expression showed such fierce determination that it took her breath away.
“Iris!” His eyes found her immediately as he hurriedly scanned both her and Evie for signs of harm. “Are you hurt? Did they touch her?”
“We’re fine.” But her voice broke on the words. Relief and residual terror combined to shatter her composure. “Owen, what’s happening? How did the Bow Street Runners…”
