Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Where is she?” Devlin demanded to all of the assembled staff in the entrance hall of Sophie’s residence.
“I am uncertain, Your Grace,” the butler ventured to step out and say. “Though Lady Sophie did return about an hour ago, she all but left immediately after she arrived.”
Devlin whirled around and pinned him with his glare. “And why the devil did she do that?” he roared, panic threatening to engulf him where he stood.
The butler calmly held his hands out to his side. “I do not know, Your Grace. I opened the door for her and then went to fetch her a pot of tea, and the next thing I knew she was fleeing the entrance, mumbling about a forgotten errand. Perhaps she returned to the orphanage?”
“I’ve just come from there and was told she’d left there over an hour and a half ago.” He raked a hand through his hair and began pacing the foyer.
“Your Grace?” Lady Winthrup’s voice called out from the stairs. “What are you doing here?” She hurriedly began descending to where he stood, obviously sensing his urgency. “My goodness, I thought Daniel must have arrived home with all of the racket being made. What on earth is going on, Huntington?”
“Do you know where your niece is?” Devlin demanded as Lady Winthrup hopped off the last stair.
The woman’s eyes widened in alarm. “But I thought she was with you? Were you not accompanying her to Lord Crowley’s house party?” she gasped. “She is not there alone, is she? That would be most improper.” She clasped a hand to her bosom. “My poor nerves,” she wailed. “They have already had to endure so much this week… I do not think they could withstand much more.”
Several servants quickly raced over to her and supported her arms.
Devlin had no time for the old woman’s theatrics. “Pull yourself together, Lady Winthrup.”
She wailed again and sagged against one of the footman. “She shall be ruined! We all shall be!”
“Calm yourself,” he ordered. “Sophie was with me the entire time she was at Crowley’s.”
“She was?” Lady Winthrup peeked up from below her lids.
“Yes, but we both returned separately this morning,” he growled. “She was to stop off at the orphanage first and then return home. I did not expect her to go traipsing off again.”
Lady Winthrup’s shoulders sagged in relief. The servants backed away, sensing that the immediate crisis had been averted. “Thank goodness. You had me very worried for a moment there. Shame on you, Your Grace.”
He clenched his jaw and prayed inwardly for patience. He felt a sudden affinity for Sophie and the years she’d had to tolerate such antics. “You should still be worried, Madame.”
She waved the comment aside. “The girl is always forgetting the time when she is at the orphanage. She is most likely still there.”
“She is not there. I made sure to check when I traveled past on my way here,” Devlin stated, his voice clipped.
With a frown, Lady Winthrup paused to think for a moment, nervously picking at a beribboned pink flower on the skirt of her lime green gown as she did so. “Then she has probably gone out to visit a bookstore or something of the like. I am sure she is fine.”
“A murderer may very well be after her,” Devlin snapped.
Silently mouthing the M-word he had just uttered, Lady Winthrup gaped at him, otherwise at a loss for words, while the assembled servants in the hall all gasped in shock.
Without warning, the woman shuddered and then fainted, falling down toward the floor. The footmen that had been assisting her grappled to keep her upright and quickly managed to shuffle her over to a nearby chair.
A maid ran over to her and pulled out some smelling salts from Lady Winthrup’s skirt pocket. She began waving them underneath the woman’s nose. Lady Winthrup slowly came to but moaned and kept her eyes firmly closed.
“Does this happen often?” Devlin asked them at large.
“An actual faint?” The butler hesitantly stepped forward. “Surprisingly no, not often. Excuse me for asking, Your Grace, but what did you mean about a murderer?”
There was very real concern on the tall man’s face. In fact, he could see equal expressions of shock and worry in the eyes of the household staff who had gathered around them, too. His fiancée was definitely loved by her servants. But who would not love her?
He pushed that thought firmly aside; he could not think of such things now, because after all, everyone he had ever loved was dead, and he would not subject Sophie to that fate. He had to focus, to ensure she would not be among that small number.
“What is your name?” Devlin asked the butler.
“Stokes, Your Grace,” the man answered.
“Well, Stokes, it appears that someone seems to have a vendetta against myself and has killed three people thus far—Benlow, your late footman, being one of them.”
Comprehension lit the other man’s eyes. “That must have been why an inspector from Scotland Yard came around yesterday asking to see Lady Sophie. Of course, I turned him away, though he insisted on leaving a card.”
Devlin felt a slow-burning anger begin to curl around his midsection at the thought that Scotland Yard would dare to question his fiancée when she had no direct involvement in the matter whatsoever. Obviously, the inspector thought him a great deal more involved than Devlin had supposed. “Did you mention this to Lady Sophie?”
“No, I didn’t have the chance,” Stokes replied. “Though she usually does pick up the calling cards and then takes them with her to her sitting room.” The butler glanced across to the entrance table. “Which is what she must have done today, as the silver tray that holds them is now empty.”
“Of course she did.” Devlin exhaled softly. “Which means she’s seen the Inspector’s card and has gone running off, trying to exonerate me.” And that meant her impulsivity would take her to Scotland Yard or, worse, to his aunt’s house. Darn woman. But at least she was most likely safe, although, with a killer on the loose, Devlin would not feel confident of that fact until she was by his side.
“Exonerate you, Your Grace?” Stokes’ voice was hesitant but determined.
“Yes, Stokes.” Devlin had no time to prevaricate. “Someone is trying to frame me for murder, and I believe whoever it is made darn sure that I had to travel to Dartford and was subsequently well away from Lady Sophie today.”
“And you’re worried that person might seek revenge against you by hurting our Lady Sophie?” Stokes stood tall as Devlin nodded his head in confirmation. “Well, say no more, Your Grace. Whatever we can do to help, we shall,” he vowed.
The other servants all began seconding the declaration.
“I will ride to my aunt’s to see if she’s there.” Devlin swiveled to address them all. “However, it’s imperative that until this madman is caught, you all must pay close attention to anyone lurking outside or looking suspicious or to anyone suddenly calling upon this household that has not before. Then you must get word to me.” He turned his gaze back onto Stokes. “I’m going to need a new horse, and I’ll also need you to send some men to Scotland Yard to see if she went there. And if she is there, send word to my residence immediately.”
“Yes, Your Grace, of course.” Stokes bowed. “Thomas, fetch the fastest horse we have in the stables and bring it around front for His Grace. Mathew and Luke, you two head straight to Scotland Yard and see if Lady Sophie is there.”
As the three men rushed off to do Stokes’ bidding, a middle-aged woman with a rotund figure stepped forward. She quickly whispered to the maid beside her, who in turn bobbed her head and hurried down the hall. “Your Grace?” the woman ventured. “I am the housekeeper here, Mrs. Simpson. I don’t know if it helps or not, but rather unusually, a letter was delivered to the kitchen for Lady Sophie just this morning.”
“Go on,” Devlin encouraged.
The housekeeper cleared her throat. “The man that delivered it was most anxious she get it when she returned home from the Crowleys’. He was rather insistent about it and already knew, even before we’d received word, that she was on her way home.”
“I need to see that letter, Mrs. Simpson.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I’ve already sent Melody off to retrieve it.”
“Has Sophie received any previous letters of the same nature?” he asked.
Stokes stepped forward. “Actually, we have had a bit of theft with Lady Sophie’s mail in recent weeks. Would appear Benlow, God rest his soul, may have stolen her correspondence before meeting his unfortunate end.”
“Ah! Here is the letter,” Mrs. Simpson exclaimed as a young girl rushed back into the foyer.
The young maid skidded to a halt in the center of the room, a cream envelope clutched in her hand. Mrs. Simpson motioned for her to give it to the Duke. The girl gingerly extended her hand, holding the envelope out to him.
Devlin took it and looked it over carefully. The envelope was made of a cream vellum, without a distinguishable seal or return address on the rear.
He deftly opened it and found that it simply had two sentences written on it. Two sentences that had never terrified Devlin more: You are next. No one will be able to save your fiancé from the gallows then.
Slowly, he folded the letter over and replaced it back in the envelope. A dozen faces were all looking at him expectantly, anxiety in their eyes.
“We must find her at once,” Devlin said. “She very well may be in great danger.”
There were several loud gasps from them all, with some of the younger maids bursting into tears.
“Hush now,” Stokes commanded them. “Doesn’t mean he’s got her yet.” His suddenly anxious gaze found Devlin. “Does it?”
Devlin put the letter into his jacket pocket with precise movements, paying particular attention to push down the panic that was suddenly rising like an ugly beast, threatening to consume him. He’d never felt such a sense of helplessness before. “She’ll be at Scotland Yard or my aunt’s.” He kept repeating that mantra to himself. She had to be. He couldn’t contemplate the alternate. “Before she returns, though, make sure every inch of this residence is secure.”
“I will see to it.” Stokes bowed.
Devlin walked toward the front door as Stokes began issuing instructions to the others.
“Huntington?” Lady Winthrup spoke up.
He stopped at the threshold and looked over his shoulder at her worried face. “Yes, Lady Winthrup?”
“Please bring her home to us,” she said. “I do not know what we would do without her.”
Neither do I, he thought grimly, careful to mask his emotions. “I shall bring her home safe and sound,” he vowed before opening the door and stalking down the front stairs to await the horse. He had to bring her home. He didn’t want to contemplate how barren and desolate his life would be without her.
A few minutes later, a black stallion was brought around front, eager to be off as it sidestepped impatiently on the pavement. Devlin gripped the pommel and swung his leg up and over the saddle. He took the reins and spurred the horse into a gallop.
He rode down the street, weaving between the carriages lumbering past. He could barely breathe, let alone think. The letter in his pocket felt like it was burning a hole through his heart.
He wanted to pound his fist against something as a feeling of abject helplessness consumed him. He did not know where Sophie was, while a murderer had his sights set on her. Was she safe? Was she in danger? He had never felt so helpless before in his life, not even after his parents’ deaths. Damn it. He was not going to lose her, not now. Not after realizing how important she was to him.
The thought burned through him, rage beginning to replace the sense of uselessness. Devlin would not let that madman take Sophie from him. He would not let someone else he loved be murdered.
He quickly urged the horse down Mayfair toward his aunt’s residence. Hopefully, Sophie was there at that moment, at loggerheads arguing with his aunt in the safety of her drawing room.
The thought that whoever had written that note might have gotten to Sophie first was enough to send a shard of terror deep into a place in his heart he hadn’t known existed.
But then a deep, simmering anger pushed aside the fear.
Whoever had written that note had signed his own death warrant.