Once a Duchess(80)
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Isabelle made her rounds of checking in on Alexander and Aunt Janine. Her brother still slept, and Aunt Janine had nodded off in her chair, as well. At the drawing room where Caro and Grant waited, Isabelle placed a hand on the doorknob, then withdrew it again. There was no sense subjecting them to her unwanted presence.
Instead, she returned to the kitchen. She had no idea whether the men planned to search through the night. If they did, then Isabelle would work in the kitchen all night long, keeping them supplied with food and drink.
What to make next? She had exhausted the bread, so there would be no more sandwiches. Too bad she couldn’t make Marshall a pot of her stew.
Inspiration struck. She would make her stew, she decided, only with a thicker gravy than usual. Then she’d make a simple pastry dough, and bake the stew into pies. It would be a few hours before they were ready, but the sandwiches would tide the men over in the meantime. Besides, a lengthy project to occupy her sounded perfect.
She set about gathering her ingredients. There was a roast just right for stewing in the larder. A bin of onions in the corner gave her all of those she needed. But there were no carrots.
A short distance from the kitchen door, however, was Marshall’s vegetable garden.
His voice rang in her mind, asking her to stay inside the house. She shrugged it off. For goodness’ sake, Naomi had already been abducted — Thomas Gerald had his victim. Isabelle wasn’t vain enough to suppose he was lurking around waiting to snatch her, too.
She selected a wide, shallow basket from the stack in the corner and opened the kitchen door. No nefarious convicts leapt upon her.
The sun sinking behind the tall trees cast long shadows across the vegetable garden. Squinting in the dim light, Isabelle strolled the length of the expansive garden until she spotted leafy green carrot tops.
She knelt on the dark, soft soil and pulled. A well-formed root emerged, but it was only a few inches long. Isabelle wrinkled her nose at the unimpressive vegetable. Marshall’s plant food hadn’t done much for these. It would take a couple dozen carrots of this size to give her the quantity she needed.
Happy for the work, she went about pulling carrots and wiping them clean with her apron.
A faint sound raised the hair on her arms. What was that? Isabelle looked up and slowly dropped a carrot into the basket. She peered into the shadowy trees.
Silence.
She shook her head; she was hearing things. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point, and now her mind was playing tricks on her.
Reaching for another carrot, she heard the sound again, louder this time. Isabelle jerked her hand back and gasped at the unmistakable sound of a woman crying out.
“Naomi,” she breathed. Isabelle stood and cast her gaze wildly about. The garden and grounds were deserted.
She opened her mouth and almost yelled for help, but then clamped a hand across her lips. What if Naomi’s captor heard her? What might he do in desperation?
Naomi’s piteous cry sounded again, but was cut off. Isabelle sucked in her breath. There was no one else and there might not be any time to waste.
The sound had come from the direction of Marshall’s greenhouse. Isabelle quickly untied her apron and tossed it back toward the house. She gathered the carrots in her hands and left the basket where it lay. Every few yards she dropped a carrot, leaving a trail to the greenhouse path. Anyone who followed it that far would know where to go.
If anyone even thought to look for her, she thought with a jolt. She’d told the butler she’d be in the kitchen, perhaps for hours. No one would think anything of it if she weren’t seen for a long time.
She closed her eyes against the panic rising from her middle and clamping around her throat. She stood at the mouth of the greenhouse path. Beyond it, Naomi was in trouble. Isabelle had to do something. She wouldn’t allow her fears to conquer her, leaving Naomi to her fate at the hands of an unhinged convict.
Isabelle opened her eyes and dragged in several steadying breaths. She jogged the length of the path and skidded to a halt just before the greenhouse came into view.
What was she doing? She didn’t have a plan, or a weapon.
“Think,” she muttered to herself, knocking her fist against her forehead. Nothing brilliant rattled loose.
A loud clatter from inside the greenhouse brought a quick end to her brainstorming session. No time for plans. Naomi needed her.
Isabelle stepped into the clearing. Two saddled horses grazed calmly on the wildflowers at the tree line. The last of the day’s dying light filtered weakly through the trees. It glared off the greenhouse, rather than illuminating the interior.