Page 110 of The Mistletoe Countess
“You seemed to be searching for something. Can you recall what it was?”
Lady Moriah shook her head and wiped a loose tear. “I don’t know.” Her voice warbled. “I suppose…I suppose I was searching for forgiveness.”
Grace’s vision blurred. No novel in all of her readings had been gripped with such open wounds.
“Lady Astley.” A crash came from the doorway as Mary stumbled into the room. “Ma’am, you have to come.”
Grace pushed to a stand. “Mary?”
“Lord Astley”—she held her stomach, catching her breath—“they’ve taken him.”
“Taken him?” Grace increased her pace to the door. “What do you mean?”
“Someone’s taken Lord Astley.” Mary’s breaths pulsed out the words. “He’s…he’s gone.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Frederick struggled against the ropes to no avail. His arms were pressed tight at his sides, and despite his feet being free from constraints, there was little room for them to move in the red Ford Touring.
A few punches to his stomach and a slam to the head from “Inspector Clarkson” incapacitated Frederick enough for the man and his cohort to wrestle him out of Havensbrooke, bind him, and drive away.
“The chauffeur is after us.” The man to Frederick’s left leaned forward.
The car swerved and tossed Frederick against him.
“The crazy fool.” This from a woman sitting in the front. He knew that voice. Celia? “He’s trying to block our path.”
Before Frederick could confirm the author of the voice, the car swerved again, ramming him against the window. He blinked to clear his vision, and the second man came into blurry view. Was that Mason Parks?
“Turn here for the ruins. We’ll hide there until dark.”
Frederick’s gaze darted to the front and fell into Celia’s serpentine gaze.
Her smile curled. “Besides, it shouldn’t take long for us to finish our business with our handsome and unwitting guest.”
Frederick eased back into the seat, his head pounding. One eye swollen, from the feel of it.
Three men accompanied Celia. Parks, “Inspector Clarkson”—who looked somewhat familiar—and a driver. All men brainwashed and paid off by the lovely Celia, if Frederick guessed right, from the funds she’d pilfered from Havensbrooke.
“I do hate that you hit him in the nose, Turner.” Celia turned from her perch in the passenger seat, red lips sliding into a smile. “It is one of his winning features.”
“We’ve lost the chauffeur, Celia,” the driver said.
“Excellent, Randolph.” Her gaze skimmed over Frederick and then turned to the driver. “After ascertaining his acute attachment to his little bride at Keriford, I feel our dear Lord Astley will be quick to agree to any of our demands.”
His attention shot to Celia.Grace!That’s why she’d come to Keriford? Scouting out her plan for Grace? A chill crawled through his chest. The money. Havensbrooke’s money.
He wrestled against the ropes but stopped.No, Frederick. Remain calm. Celia wants to get to your senses. Stop. Think. Even if this scene is like something from a book.
A book! Grace would tell him to think like a character.
Well then, what would a Sherlock sort of character do? He drew in a deep breath. Observe. Reason. Plan.
Frederick took in his surroundings with a new, more focused purpose. “Inspector Clarkson” sat farthest to Frederick’s left, a tall, lean-looking man, bushy brow pulled over a set of gray eyes. His jacket looked well worn, and the hem of his pants was frayed. He barely moved, eyes trained ahead, calculated. And his nose resembled a hook.
Grace’s Captain Hook! From the ship.
A glint of metal from the man’s jacket hinted to a pistol. Weapon number one.
