The instant Child sat, the footman shut the door, and the horses started trotting. A second later, the flap in the carriage’s roof opened. “Where to, ma’am?”
Before she could reply, Child gave Munns directions to drive to Waterloo Place as fast as possible. Once the flap dropped, Child glanced at her. “At least Waterloo Place is a street down which it’s acceptable for ladies to stroll. We can see how the land lies from there.”
Judging by the grim look in his eyes, Therese felt sure that, once they reached Waterloo Place, he planned to make her wait in the carriage while he went to the hell.
That wouldn’t work, but he would learn.
Possessing her soul with what patience she could muster, she stared ahead unseeing as the carriage rattled rapidly down Park Lane.
Devlin exited the Grosvenor Gate just in time to see his town carriage turn down Park Lane.
He grimaced. He’d hoped Therese would be in for luncheon; apparently not. He’d just had a minor triumph in securing a major contract for a steelworks of which he was chairman of the board and had been hoping to share his success with his wife over a sustaining meal.
As he crossed the road, he wondered what event she was on her way to; she was the only one who might have taken the carriage out at this hour, yet although he racked his brain, he couldn’t remember her mentioning any luncheon engagement.
He turned in to the Alverton House drive. Seconds later, he strode up the steps, opened the front door, stepped into his front hall—and immediately saw Portland hurrying to meet him.
“My lord! Thank heavens you’re here!”
Devlin blinked in surprise, then shut the door behind him even as a chill unfurled in his chest. “What is it, Portland?”
His normally unflappable butler was in an outright flap. Portland halted before him, dug a folded paper from his pocket, and offered it.
“Her ladyship opened this letter, my lord. Given it stated the matter was urgent and she recognized her brother’s hand, she grew anxious and had to see…”
Devlin took the paper, and Portland gestured weakly. “Well, of course, her ladyship felt she had to go immediately, but thankfully, Lord Child arrived in the nick of time.”
“Child?” Devlin glanced up and saw Portland nod at the letter.
“His lordship left that with me and insisted I show it to you the instant you returned. Then he went with her ladyship.”
Devlin returned his attention to the note as Portland went on, “Although Lord Child did his best, there was no stopping the countess.”
Having reached the end of the missive, Devlin snorted. “I can imagine.” The compulsion to race after Therese—Now! Immediately!—battered at him, eroding his control. He closed his eyes and forced himself to draw a calming breath. Panicking rarely helped, and it certainly wouldn’t help Therese, much less Martin.
His mind turned over the facts as he knew them… He looked at Portland. “As I was leaving the park, I saw the town carriage drive away. Child and her ladyship were in it?”
“Yes, my lord. And I made sure Morton went as well.”
Morton was their older and more experienced footman. Devlin nodded. “Good thinking.”
That was something he had to do—think. Therese was safe enough; in such circumstances, he knew he could count on Child to ensure she remained unharmed. But as for the situation they were walking into… Devlin wasn’t so sanguine about that or about Martin’s safety.
Frowning, he studied the note. He couldn’t fathom what was going on. Martin was a Cynster. The Cynster name alone should have been enough to assure anyone of his ability to pay, and Martin looked enough like his father and cousins that his claim to being one of the family shouldn’t have been questioned.
Devlin narrowed his eyes, then stuffed the note into his greatcoat pocket and headed for his study.
“My lord?” Portland followed at his heels.
“Get me a fast hackney, Portland.”
Devlin strode into the study. He rounded the desk and swung back the painting that graced the wall behind it, exposing the large safe. He turned to the desk and pressed the catch to release the desk’s hidden drawer and withdrew the safe’s heavy key. He inserted the key and turned over the massive lock, then shifted the lever handle and swung open the thick door.
A stack of banknotes rested in a corner of the bottom shelf. He lifted an inch’s worth of notes from the pile, folded them, and tucked them into his inside coat pocket. Then he reached farther, deeper into the safe, and extracted the gun—one of the new revolvers—he kept there. He checked that the gun was loaded before sliding it into his greatcoat pocket, then swung the safe closed, latched it, locked it, pushed the painting back into place, and returned the key to the hidden drawer.
As he strode for the door, he struggled to keep his surging emotions locked down, locked away. His face felt like granite.
He reached the front hall to find Portland waiting; he swung open the front door. “The hackney is waiting, my lord.”
