“It was a black lacquered. The crest was covered with a black cloth and the driver’s hat was pulled low over his face. But their horses were Andalusian, some of the finest I have ever seen. They headed toward Brighton, but…”
“Spit it out man,” Anthony snarled at his hesitation.
“I followed as far as Corydon, then I lost them.”
Anthony’s mind worked swiftly to reason out his options. “Go,” he grunted. “Hire as many men as need be. Send to the west, east, and south. Discretion is paramount, but do everything you can to find her. If she is located, bring her here. Pay anyone you must to keep silent.”
He opened a desk drawer, withdrawing a hefty bag. It jangled as he threw it at Hawke. Anthony ignored the man’s sharp inhalation as he opened it.
“This is gold, milord!”
“Get out,” Anthony ordered, fury riding him hard.
Hawke moved swiftly to obey, and Anthony strode to the gun case and grabbed several weapons. He carefully loaded his pistol and slipped it in his pocket, then withdrew his special cane, twisted its head, and checked that the hidden sabre was still razor sharp. He shrugged on his jacket, and then yanked on the bell pull.
“Yes, milord?” The butler had appeared instantly, his irritation smothered by the anger that saturated Anthony’s voice.
“See that my brother gets this tonight.” He scrawled a note and stamped his seal handing it to him. “There must be no delay. Find him wherever he is and deliver the note personally. He is most likely at Sherring Cross.”
The butler executed a smart bow and sped from the library, a man on a mission. Perhaps his mother had not been so remiss in hiring him, after all.
Anthony stormed out to the stables, his mind roiling with the possibilities. It could only be Orwell. The knowledge settled uneasily in Anthony’s gut. He would investigate, leaving no stone unturned, but the obsession he had seen on Orwell’s face had been about more than Phillipa let on. He’d had little doubt before, and now it was confirmed.
Rage burned at Anthony, some of it directed at her for dismissing the danger Orwell presented. Most of it was directed at himself for not demanding a full explanation. If he had not been concerned and hired Hawke to watch her, no one would even know she had been taken. Not until it was too late.
Anthony would tan her backside when he found her. For real, not in bed play. He refused to give in to the ugly thought that he might never find her.
“Milord?” His groom scampered out of his way in alarm. “I was not told to prepare a horse, milord.”
“I’m telling you now.”
With grim efficiency they saddled Odin, his fastest thoroughbred, and he launched onto its back and thundered through the gates of his estate, determined to catch the reprobate who’d thought to harm Phillipa.
Orwell may have kidnapped Phillipa to marry her by force. Or he may have taken her simply to have his pleasure with her. But either way, the blackguard would take her body against her will. Anthony’s gut tightened. He despised men who raped or hurt the fairer sex. He would crush Orwell if he so much as touched Phillipa’s hair.
Anthony rode low in the saddle, Odin’s hoof beating like thunder as his long powerful strides ate up the distance. Orwell was ahead by at least an hour, but he traveled in a carriage. Even though it was pulled by a team of four, Anthony’s single mount would be much faster.
Storm clouds darkened the sky, and the cold rolled over him in chilly waves. Despite Orwell’s head start, if Anthony was headed in the right direction, he should catch up before the rain started. He sped into the windy night, hoping that Sebastian got his message informing him of his decision to marry.
Anthony would insist he and Phillipa marry if he could not extricate them from the situation without scandal. And there was a slim chance of that. Orwell would surely have seen to it that word got out of her ruin.
Before taking that step, Anthony would have to reveal the truth of his birth to her…much sooner than he’d planned. He prayed the fact he was a bastard would not turn her against him. Or worse, somehow become public knowledge. He didn’t know what he would do if she refused to marry him.
But first he must rescue her from Orwell’s clutches.
He sent a fervent prayer to God that he would find her alive…and unharmed.
…
Phillipa squirmed and twisted, bucking wildly against the fiend who held her, striking him ineffectually with her parasol. She saw his fist crashing down toward her face, and could do nothing but lurch backward to avoid its full impact. The blow glanced off the side of her head. Terror exploded inside her at the look of savage enjoyment on his face at her pain and terror. The carriage jostled, throwing her against the swabs with jarring force and she dropped the parasol.