“What the hell do you mean? You must know where she is.” Oliver Darby, fourth Earl of Stanton, rounded the solid oak desk, grabbed the solicitor by the flimsy lapels of his coat and shook him. “Wickedness is in the blood. My father may be dead and buried but I am very much alive. Now tell me where he sent her.”

“The … the late earl made no mention of it in his will, my lord.” The man’s neat white periwig slipped down to obscure one eye. “Perhaps Lady Rose went to stay with an aunt.”

“Lies I can deal with, stupidity I cannot.” Oliver released the pathetic creature, and he tumbled back into the chair. “We have no other kin and you damn well know it.”

Mr Wild straightened his wig. “There’s your sister’s godmother, Lady Stewart.”

“Neither of us have seen Lady Stewart since our mother died. Our father strictly forbade any contact.” Oliver’s tone conveyed more than contempt for his father’s controlling manner. “And according to the housekeeper, my sister has not been seen for six months or more. I think that is a little long for a visit, don’t you?”

“My lord, I don’t know what else to suggest.” Mr Wild winced as though expecting another volatile outburst. “I assume you have questioned the staff.”

Questioned them? Oliver had practically torn the house apart. He’d interrogated the servants until they confessed to all manner of misdemeanours. The footman’s dalliance with the maid was hardly surprising. The housekeeper’s deception over the price of a bottle of brandy proved more so. Mrs Baker’s brother was the proprietor of his father’s preferred liquor establishment. Any extra funds gained from inflated bills were passed to the housekeeper to purchase candles, since the old man had forced the staff to be frugal and cut the household budget.

Despite hours of prodding and probing, none of the servants knew what had happened to Rose. Most presumed she was visiting friends in the country even though she’d left without her maid.

A sense of foreboding gripped him.

“I want a detailed breakdown of my father’s … of my assets,” Oliver corrected. “A list of all land owned regardless of how small the plot.” An image of a shallow grave entered his mind, and he cursed under his breath. Surely the bastard wasn’t cruel enough to do away with his own daughter? “I want a list of all property owned outright, and any bought in partnership. Include all buildings rented by tenants.”

Was he over-reacting?

Perhaps Rose had eloped and decided to break all contact with her family. Perhaps she would breeze into the dining room this evening with rosy cheeks and a bright smile and regale tales of time spent in Brighton?

The painful knot in his stomach said otherwise.

Mr Wild coughed. “I’m afraid I have a three o’clock appointment, my lord, but can prepare the papers tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” A young woman was missing. Panic came in the form of a hard lump in his throat. “You’ll give me what I want now else I’ll empty every damn drawer myself. I’ll make such a mess you’ll still be cleaning it up come Christmas.”

Mr Wild loosened the collar of his shirt and fanned his face. “My lord—”

“Now, Mr Wild!”

The man stood though there was some doubt as to whether his legs would support his weight. He scurried out into the hall and called to Mr Andrews, the clerk.

While the two men ferreted about in drawers and cabinets, piling papers and files on top of the desk, Oliver contemplated the part he’d played in neglecting his sister.

The day his father insisted he marry Lady Melissa Martin, the most arrogant, conceited debutante ever to grace a ballroom, was the day he left Stanton House and the fog-drenched streets of London behind. His escape took him as far afield as Naples, until his father cut him off without a penny.

“I think that’s the lot.” Mr Andrews pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose. “Do you need any further assistance, Mr Wild?”

“No, Andrews that will be all.”

“Wait.” Oliver gestured to the mound of paper. “I want a single list of all land and property. If Mr Wild has no objection, you can take notes.” Oliver raised a brow and stared down his nose at the agitated solicitor. “And lock the front door. Mr Wild cannot make his three o’clock appointment.”

Arrogance was a trait Oliver despised, as was using one’s position to control and manipulate people, but Rose was missing, hidden away in some godforsaken place just to spite him.

Mr Wild offered no objection to the demands made. Yet the hint of disdain about his countenance mirrored the look Oliver had cast his father many times in the past.

A pang of remorse, for his high-handed approach, hit him square in the chest. “Had my father’s man of business not disappeared along with half the silver, I would have had him attend to this sorry task.”

“Mr Burrows did not disappear,” Mr Wild said. “Your father dismissed him months before his death. The man had not been paid for nigh on a year and no doubt thought he’d not see a penny.”

“But my father was not short of funds.” On the contrary, Oliver had inherited a substantial income. Regardless of his father’s disapproval and their subsequent estrangement, continuing the Darby bloodline was the priority — the only thing that mattered. Oliver considered never marrying just to spite the bast—

“From what I gather they were at odds over business.” Mr Wild sat in the chair behind the desk and opened the first file. “The refusal to pay Burrows was simply an act of defiance.”

Oliver gave a snort of contempt. “My father liked to make a point.”

Mr Wild’s resigned nod spoke of personal experience. “So, other than Stanton House and Bridewell, there’s the shooting lodge on Loch Broom.” He turned to his clerk. “Are you writing this down, Andrews?”

The clerk nodded from the small desk in the corner of the room.

“There’s the house on St James’ Street,” Wild continued, “one on Mount Street, and the house bequeathed to your late mother in Acton, Shropshire.”

Scotland! Shropshire! The list went on.

Bloody hell!

He’d been the earl of almost a week, missed the funeral but made it home for the reading of the will. In light of Rose’s disappearance, the finer details had seemed unimportant. Hearing the vast extent of his father’s estate filled Oliver with dread. Despite searching Bridewell — their family seat in Sussex — and finding nothing, the accompanying eight thousand acres would take months to search.

The more the list grew, the more Oliver’s temple throbbed. All the other houses mentioned were leased to tenants. It would mean investigating every one — a mammoth task for a man on his own. And while he plodded about from one county to the next, heaven knows what predicament Rose was in.

“What about derelict buildings?” Oliver said, his tone more subdued now.

Mr Wild frowned. “Surely you can’t think your father would have sent Lady Rose to a place unbefitting her station.”

Oh, his father would have sent them both to the devil. Thankfully, Oliver possessed the Darby family traits: slightly crooked little fingers, a v-shaped hairline and a Roman nose with an aristocratic bump on the bridge. Indeed, the Darby’s were deemed ugly men. But Oliver had inherited his mother’s striking blue eyes, full lips and evenly spaced features. The old earl’s obsession with his wife’s beauty led to suspicions of infidelity and was the cause of his distant relationship with Rose. While Oliver had hair as black as his father’s soul, Rose was the only Darby ever to boast honey-gold tresses.

But to send her away, to ignore her absence and pretend she’d never existed.

“My father was prepared to go to any lengths to prove a point.” Numerous times he had demanded Oliver return home. Had Oliver known Rose was to be used as a pawn in the game, he would have employed different tactics.

“The list is extensive,” Mr Wild said as tied the string on the last file and placed it with the others. “Perhaps an enquiry agent might help you investigate those properties further afield.”

“I shall consider it an option.” Oliver wouldn’t rest until he checked each property himself, though hiring an agent in Scotland might save him weeks of unnecessary hours on the road.

“A gentleman of your status and position requires someone to manage your investments. Should you need such a man I am happy to make a recommendation.”

After what he’d learnt upon his return home, Oliver trusted no one. “I prefer to attend to my own accounts.” And he would dedicate his life to seeing his estate prosper — once he’d found Rose.

“As you wish,” Wild nodded. “And so does that conclude our business for today, my lord?”

“It does,” Oliver replied as the clerk approached the desk and handed him the written list of assets. His stomach churned at the monumental task ahead. “And you’re certain that’s everything?”

“Indeed.” Wild shuffled in his chair, a ploy to encourage Oliver to stand.

In the small musty office the job of finding his sister seemed achievable. Everything he needed was on the single piece of paper in his hand. Hope blossomed in his chest if only for a fleeting moment. But the world was a vast place when someone was missing.

The clerks persistent cough and constant shuffling dragged Oliver from his reverie.

“What is it, Andrews?” Mr Wild said, a smile hiding his gritted teeth.

“It’s just that the late earl also did business with Mr Jameson.” The clerk shrank back as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Jameson?” Wild repeated. “But I was the earl’s solicitor. What need had he to visit with Jameson?”

The clerk’s mouth curled downwards. “Perhaps it was a personal matter, sir.”

“But I dealt with all matters. You must be mistaken, Andrews.”

Oliver exhaled. “Can we not simply call Mr Jameson in and ask him the question?”

Mr Andrews shuffled forward. “Mr Jameson is away at Park Hall drawing up papers for Viscount Trench.”

“Then find my father’s file and bring it here.”

Both men looked at him as though he’d suggested sacrificing all first-born males.

Mr Wild shook his head. “We cannot enter a colleague’s office without his permission.”

“If your colleague drew up papers for my father, then they belong to me. The fact Jameson has failed to pass them over to you is suspicious.”

There was a prolonged silence.

“Very well.” Oliver shot to his feet. “I shall search for it myself.”

“No, no.” Mr Wild waved his hands in the air. “It is best that I go. The drawers are full of private documents. Should our clients learn of a security breach they’re liable to take their business elsewhere.”

Oliver gestured to the door. “Then let’s get to it.” There wasn’t a minute to waste.

Accompanied by the clerk, they entered the office across the hall from Mr Wild’s. The room was just as dark and dingy, the smell just as musty.

Wild scurried over to a tall cabinet, glanced back over his shoulder numerous times even though he knew his colleague was miles from home.

“This is highly irregular,” Wild muttered as he flicked through the contents of a drawer. “I can see nothing listed under Stanton or Darby.”

“Then I suggest you look again.” An odd feeling in the pit of Oliver’s stomach convinced him they were looking in the right place. “See if anything is filed under the name Benting.”

Mr Benting was an alias used by his father when he wished to travel incognito. When he stalked his wife and booked into coaching inns to check she wasn’t meeting a lover.

Wild opened another drawer and scanned the row of files. “Yes, there is a Benting,” he said with some surprise. Placing the thin file on Mr Jameson’s cluttered desk he read a missive, examined a document embossed with the company’s wax seal.

“Well?” Oliver said. His fingers tingled from the anticipation as he contemplated ripping the document out from under the solicitor’s nose. “What have you found?”

“There is no proof that the Mr Benting mentioned here is your father. There is nothing to suggest a connection or why he purchased the property.” Wild glanced down at the piece of paper and shook his head. “Without Mr Jameson to corroborate Andrews’ story, I’m afraid there is nothing more I can tell you.”

Even if Mr Jameson were available, he would have received a substantial reward for keeping his tongue.

“Indeed,” Wild continued, “I fear there has been a terrible misunderstanding.”

A misunderstanding? The comment caused an irritating prickle at Oliver’s nape.

“You mentioned a property,” Oliver said, his curiosity piqued. There had to be a reason why his father was secretive about the purchase. “Can you not tell me where it is? Is anyone living there?”

“Such places are never short of occupants,” the man answered cryptically. “But it appears the property was bequeathed to a Miss Flint.”

Who the hell was Miss Flint? “Then I see no harm in riding there and introducing myself.” Perhaps his father’s jealousy stemmed from guilt. Could this Miss Flint be his father’s mistress?

The solicitor’s eyes glazed over. “Good Lord, the manor is not somewhere one visits whilst in the neighbourhood. I cannot imagine anyone would want to stop at such a place.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because Morton Manor is an asylum.”