Page 137 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

“I found some interesting things in this will.” I flip past the first page to the second. “This estate, the building and all the grounds, are included in Katherine’s fortune.”

If it is possible, Agatha goes even paler.

“This house does not belong to you or your daughters anymore. You will move out by the end of the week.”

“The end of the week?” she exclaims, pressing a hand to her heart. “But we have nowhere to go! Katherine wouldn’t want us to be turned out on the streets! Does she know you are doing this?”

I cock my head. “Nowhere to go? Then what have you done with the bride price I paid for Katherine? Have you spent it all already? That was a very handsome sum, more than sufficient for a new home.”

She clamps her mouth shut, her jaws working in tension.

“You have until the end of the week,” I repeat. “You will take your clothes, your accessories, and your particular belongings, but you shall leave everything else. The furniture, the staff, the decorations. Everything will be left as it is or I shall take you to the royal court for thievery. Because, as we’ve established, everything here belongs tomenow, so if you steal, you steal from me.” I catch her eye, emphasizing the words so she knowsjusthow serious I am. “I am not kind toward those who steal what is mine.”

Agatha pushes to her feet. “You have made yourself completely clear, Lord Rahk. Now, do you have any other claims against me you must make? Or is the house and everything in it enough for today?”

I stay seated as I regard her slowly. Then I rise to my full height, looking down at where she tries to posture herself as threatening. “Yes, there is one other thing.”

She visibly braces herself.

“I know about Lord Boreham.”

Her lips part.

“I know he’s your son,” I continue, keeping my tone measured despite the way my gut twists in fury. “I know you sold Katherine’s horse to force her into marriage with him. I know all of this was about trying to rob your own daughter—”

“Katherine isn’t my daughter!”

My lips pull back in a snarl. “You might have succeeded in your plan if you’d had the dignity to accept her as such.”

Her teeth flash. “Katherine was never interested in being my daughter. She was willful, difficult, self-absorbed, and cared nothing for the feelings of others.”

“In that case,” I say, picking up the will and tucking it under my arm as I stride toward the door, “you should be glad you no longer have to deal with her willfulness, difficulty, and selfishness. Instead, you will have to deal with me. And unfortunately, I think you will find a broken-hearted orphan is much easier to control.”

I leave before this woman wastes any more of my time. I’ve got a horse to locate.

Chapter 43

Kat

“Abrownmare,yes,with a white splotch near her eye and four white stockings on her legs. What did you do with her?” I cannot keep the desperation out of my voice as I speak to the man Charles said he sold Bartholomew to.

The market is busy, and several people are lined up behind me to speak to this same man at his stall. Behind the stall is a pen of horses. I already searched there for Bartholomew, despite knowing there wasn’t a chance she would still be there.

“I don’t know, ma’am,” the man says with an impatient huff. He looks beyond me to the people who wish to do business with him. “We buy and sell a lot of horses.”

My throat almost collapses on itself. “Yes, yes, I understand that, but you must havesomething. Something about when she was purchased, or who might have been interested based on the description—”

He sighs deeply and plants both hands on the wooden table of his stall, fixing me with his full attention. “Look, all I know is that we had someone buy a lot of horses the day after you said yours was sold. Your horse might have gone with them. Or someone else. I don’t know.”

It’s something.

I take the address eagerly and give it to Clifford, who drives the carriage, and climb inside. If only I hadn’t had to wait so long to find her!

When we arrive at the address, the sign out front makes my vision split in two. “Oh saints,” I breathe, fighting the mounting panic as I rush out of the carriage before Clifford can give me a hand.

It is a large warehouse, rather rundown. It takes me a minute to find the door, only to be stopped by a burly man with a blood-smeared apron wiping his hands on a cloth.

“Can I help you, my lady?” he asks. “We don’t usually have visitors here.”

---