Chapter Eleven
After speaking to his mother, Luke had spent an hour closeted with a private investigator, explaining the situation with Roger and impressing upon him the necessity of finding Allison and bringing her home as soon as possible. He’d also asked the man to question Roger about the baby, paying him extra for utter secrecy about the matter. The man had been ex-military, sharp, cool, and capable, and he felt a little better knowing that someone was now on Roger’s trail.
Now, however, he must deal with another troubling situation. Luke knocked on his brother Morgan’s front door, anxiety churning in his gut. Anne’s memorial service would be held later this afternoon, but Morgan still refused to talk to anyone. According to the note his butler had sent earlier this morning, Morgan had closeted himself in the study with his wife’s coffin, refusing anyone entrance.
Would his grieving little brother even allow them to bury Anne?
The butler answered the door, relief washing over his usually impassive face. “Thank God you’re here, my lord. We are all so concerned about him.”
Luke nodded and strode inside, handing the butler his cloak. “I am so sorry it took me so long to get over here. I’ve had a lot to deal with during the last two days.”
“Of course, my lord,” the man replied, the slightest hint of censure in his tone.
Guilt overwhelmed Luke because he knew he deserved it. He should have been here for Morgan. How could he have let forty-eight hours pass without coming to check on him? The weight of his responsibilities had never weighed heavier upon him. He simply had too many people relying on him, too many duties pulling him in different directions. How could he choose between his kidnapped sister and his grieving brother? And even now, his gut was telling him to abandon them both and find Serenity.
As usual, he had no answers. All he could do was try to comfort Morgan the best he could.
The butler led him to Morgan’s study and handed him a key. “He’ll listen to you, my lord. I know he will.”
Luke was far less confident in his own abilities as he let himself into the room and stared in dismay at the shell of a man his vibrant younger brother had become. Morgan sat in a chair beside Anne’s open coffin, looking utterly shattered. Morgan did not appear to have turned to drink as he or Adrian had done when faced with such a loss. Instead, an array of half-finished canvases lay strewn about, and Morgan was splattered with paint.
The paintings showed horrifying, hellish images. Fire and blood.
“I didn’t know you were painting again,” Luke said quietly.
Morgan flinched but didn’t respond.
Luke walked farther into the room, his gaze drawn to his lovely sister-in-law’s pale, perfect face. She looked so peaceful; it seemed a travesty. Impossible to believe that she would never open her laughing blue eyes again, never see her children grow up.
“I can’t do this,” Morgan whispered at last. “I don’t know how to go on without her.”
Luke turned and knelt beside him, drawing him into a fierce embrace. “I’m so sorry, Morgan. I’m sorry this happened, sorry I haven’t been here for you. I don’t know how to fix this.”
“You can’t fix this,” Morgan said, his voice trembling. “Some things just can’t be fixed.”
Then he began to cry, harsh wrenching sobs that shook them both. Luke just held on, letting him cry, hoping this was the first step to healing.
* * *
After Morgan had cried until he had no tears left to shed, Luke finally managed to get his little brother into a hot bath while the servants cleaned up the study and moved Anne’s coffin into the parlor where the memorial would be held.
Luke and Adrian stood by Morgan’s side as the guests offered their condolences, and to Luke’s relief, Morgan’s anger at his twin seemed to have dissipated. Morgan would get through this, Luke realized. His brother was strong. However, he knew the pain of living without the one you loved. Morgan would be grieving Anne for a very long time.
He finally left Morgan’s house near midnight, leaving his brother reading to his two older children. He still needed to address the other issue, of the baby who remained at the orphanage with Fiona, but that could wait.
For now, he just wanted to get home, where he could think about his own lost love and child.
He entered his foyer, waving away the tired footman and taking off his own cloak. As he passed the table where the invitations and mail were placed, a name on the envelope on top caught his eye.
Gemma Cross.
It was addressed to his mother, but given Miss Cross’ connection to Serenity, and his suspicion that she had been the one providing information to his mother back when she had been Serenity’s companion, he didn’t hesitate to rip it open.
My Lady,
The ‘inheritance’ you provided me with has dwindled, and I thought perhaps you might want to meet with me, regarding new information about Miss Pratt and your son, in exchange for a new arrangement. If you are so inclined, please contact me at your earliest convenience.
Gemma Cross
Inheritance? Had his mother paid the woman for her assistance in stealing Serenity and his child away from him? Anger churned in his gut, and his first instinct was to go rouse the woman from her bed and demand answers.
However, it was very late, and he probably would not get what he wanted if he arrived angry in the middle of the night. No, he would have to call upon her at a reasonable hour and charm the information out of her. Money was apparently her motivating factor, and he had plenty of that. He would offer to match or beat what his mother had paid her if she would give her information to him instead.
As he strode up to his room and prepared for bed, a little of the stress and sorrow of the day dissipated. Gemma had to know where Serenity was. Why else would she be contacting his mother after all these years?
The thought of having her in his arms again, of putting the past behind them and beginning again, soothed a bit of the pain churning inside him.
Please. Let her be safe.