“I cannot afford for this to get out, and I am far from convinced, just a little… doubtful.”
“What did your wife say?”
“She insists it is our daughter’s hair. She would know, I suppose, since she spent days upon days brushing it.”
Vernon lit a cigarette. “What does she have to say about your inaction, Hallam?”
“She will see me doing my best to bring her back, but what can I do? You know very well I am out of funds, and I have little incentive to bring her back since I have metaphorically hitched my wagon to yours.”
“You owe me, Hallam.”
The older man laughed. “And what do you plan to take? I have nothing left. My wife barely speaks to me because her milliner has refused her credit. Good lord, it’s a wonder I made it as far as I did with that woman’s penchant for hats. You already own the country house, this one is owned by the bank, and I sold the last of the horses. What do you suggest?”
“I shall get her back myself,” Vernon declared.
“How? I already set up an ambush in Cockfosters, and the kidnappers escaped easily. I can only assume they’re heading north.”
“Then I shall go north.”
“Perhaps you should also keep your tongue to yourself while you are still here in London,” Hallam suggested. “Or did you not think I would hear about the reward you posted in the lowliest of places.”
“Had I not been in the lowliest of places,” Vernon gritted out, “we would never have learned that your daughter and Mr Rose disappeared at the same time.”
“That is false news, I’m afraid. The man was seen days later at Brown’s, around the same time as the Cockfosters incident.”
Vernon deflated. “Someone must have her. Perhaps one of your creditors. After all, there are many.”
“Could be,” Hallam agreed, letting out a deep sigh. “Why throw good money after bad, Vernon? Just… take what you will. I’m done with the girl.”
“You are a coward, Hallam.”
Vernon had funnelled so much money into Hallam’s pockets with a view to marrying his daughter, and he would not be dissuaded now. No, he would go to Stewart if he had to. The Scottish duke was a clever man, of course, but not cleverer than Vernon himself. He would borrow some blunt, and have it back before Stewart could miss it.
Before Vernon could make his move, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Hallam called.
Hallam’s butler arrived. “Another package for you, my lord.”
The old man, who couldn’t be a day under eighty, laid the package on the desk. Slimmer than the last, the postmark indicated the package hailed from Durham. It reeked of incense and rot as Hallam unwrapped it. On the lid of the box beneath the wrappings lay an envelope scrawled with three words: WE WARNED YOU.
Vernon snatched the envelope, tipping its contents onto the desk. It contained two photographs. He swallowed hard at the first. The woman he was going to marry lay in the grass, half her hair missing, eyes blank, blood pooling behind her head. Her dress was soaked through with blood, and her left hand was missing. Around her stood several men, only the tips of their shoes in the frame. In the second photo, her eyes had already clouded over.
Vernon’s breathing had gone erratic, his chest rising and collapsing as bile twisted in his gut. She did not have the resources for a ruse such as this.
It was over; the girl was dead.
Hallam stared at the photos, and for a moment, Vernon would swear there were tears in the older man’s eyes.
Hallam removed the lid of the box, gasping as his hand covered his mouth and nose. “Dear God.”
In the box, grey and rotting, lay the hand of Lord Hallam’s daughter.
17
The Secret is Out
Bram could no longer deny what his body had been telling him. This sickness wasn’t going anywhere, plaguing him morning after morning, easing up as the day wore on. He didn’t even want to get out of bed. Marnie had brought him tea and dry biscuits earlier to stave off the nausea, but now it was afternoon, and he was too scared to face Oliver after what they’d done in the lake.
Now, Oliver knew without a doubt who Bram was. He even seemed to understand, still wanting Bram anyway despite the apparent hardship he had inflicted upon himself. He wasn’t sure why he had pushed Oliver away as he had done at the lake. It just all felt like too much, like he would shatter if Oliver treated him with too much kindness. He never wanted to feel delicate and helpless again. But, oh, how blissful it had felt, floating in the lake, thrashing on Oliver’s tongue. He would dream about it always.
At least Owen had stopped pursuing him now. He wondered idly if Oliver had warned him off, or maybe he’d seen for himself that Bram was a hopeless cause as far as Oliver was concerned. The last he had seen of the man was when Owen teased Oliver on the afternoon before their tryst in the folly.
It was good-natured teasing, and Oliver had accepted it as such, telling Owen that he adored Bram, that his feelings could not be contained. And while Bram would have liked to convince himself that it was hyperbole, he could not because he wanted to believe it. That was the only reason he had agreed to walk with Oliver after dinner, the only reason he had taken him to the folly.
And of course Oliver would recognise him then. Bram still couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that Oliver had recognised him, because didn’t that just mean he had made a bigger fool of himself? Didn’t it show that Oliver fell in and out of love as often as the wind changed direction? And in accepting Oliver’s attentions, didn’t it show how stupidly in love Bram was? How pathetic he was to still want Oliver, knowing his interest was fleeting?
He was not in the mood for visitors when a heavy knock made his bedroom door rattle in its frame, but he couldn’t deny his host, and there was no doubt in his mind that anyone other than Abaddon would knock like that.
The man closed the door behind him when Bram called him in. Abaddon was watching him so carefully, it made him squirm beneath the covers.
Abaddon sat in the chair beside the bed. “You must think me stupid. Every day you retch into a bucket. You wear shoes at least two sizes too big. You can no longer do up the jacket Armando gave you because your waist is thickening before our eyes. Did I leave anything out, Bram?”
“Yes,” he cried. “You forgot to mention my two black eyes, and that even the scent of lavender is unsettling, let alone the smell of your morning coffee, which makes my insides revolt.”
Abaddon smiled softly. “So, what are we going to do about it?”
