Not of dying. She accepted that.
But of what he would do to her before she did.
Felton had never asked Papa in his life.
Sweat beaded along his forehead, despite the evening chill, as he stood before the blue-paneled door and debated going inside.Ask him.Eliza’s voice.Please ask him.
For once in his life, it didn’t matter. He didn’t want it to matter. Lady Gillingham was long dead and buried, and if the culprit in her death was undiscovered by now, maybe it was meant to stay that way.
But Eliza.
Nausea rose through him again, and he begged his mind not to think of her. Not closely. Not rationally. Because with any thought at all, he could imagine what they would do to her.
Or had already done.
Murder.
Dear God, no.A livid pain rushed through him as he turned the knob and strode into the foyer of his home.Let me find her. Let it not be true.Was that not the same prayer he’d been murmuring about Papa, as soon as he left Swabian?
He searched the dining room first. Dodie and another maid were clearing the table from the evening’s meal, but Papa was not present.
Then the study. Empty. The drawing room. Empty too.
He took the stairs, every thump increasing the rate of his heart, until he spotted his father easing shut Mamma’s bedchamber door.
“Ah, Son. Just the person. Will you be so good as to hand Hugh’s letters to your mother? I must prepare her something warm to drink, along with that elixir the doctor brought over this morning.”
Felton stilled his father’s arm. “Papa, I must have a word with you.”
“Yes, yes, in a minute.”
“But Papa—”
“Come now, Son. How long do you think it takes to fetch something to drink? Go and attend to your mother, and I shall be with you in a moment.” With a pat to Felton’s shoulder as he passed, Papa continued down the hall.
Felton slipped into Mamma’s chamber, blinking hard. He was wasting time. Time he should be riding the countryside, or beating it out of Swabian, or banging down Bowles’ door—and every other door in Lodnouth until he found her.
But they were aimless. All of them. He had no idea where she was and who had her, and if answers were here in his home, he needed to find them.
Whether it incriminated his name or not.
“Son?” His mother had been resting in the bed with her eyes closed, chestnut hair gleaming on the pillows, but she glanced at him now and smiled. “I did not hear you come in.”
He approached her and kissed her warm forehead. “I can only stay but a minute.”
“Your papa told me.” She lifted herself up an inch or two, drawing the covers to her neck. “I do hope the girl may be found.”
“Yes.” He moved to the stand beside her bed, pulled open the drawer, and rummaged through the letters scattered inside. “Any one in particular?”
“Hmmm?”
“Of the letters. Which one should you like to read?”
“It does not matter. They are all dear to me.”
He thumbed through several, then lifted one without an address. The writing was unfamiliar. Bold and messy. He unfolded it and smoothed the creases.Martha, you do not need to tell me how to do what you have asked. You forget I have killed more people than you have. The difference in you and I is that I take care that my killings are done in secret and my bodies are disposed of. I am not still dealing with them fourteen years later, as you are. But do not worry. She will be disposed of soon. Then you need never fear discovery again.
He read it again.
