On a brisk October day, Peter and I took a trail that led along a descending fold between hills. Peter cantered his horse ahead of mine, disappearing around the hill’s bulk.
I followed more slowly, delighting in the view before me. The land receded into the distance, a blue haze swallowing it as it reached the gleam of a faraway river. If I were an artist, I’d paint the scene.
I continued riding around the gentle hill, expecting at any moment to find Peter.
I did not. I reached a gate in a grassy field, but it was shut. Deciding Peter must have leapt his horse over the low wall next to it, I turned my mount in a wide circle and jumped it across, landing on a downward slope.
At the bottom of that slope, in the waving grass, I saw a horse. It had no rider.
My alarm growing, I urged my mount forward. I rode a fine stallion, and he took me easily down the hill to the horse that skittered away from us.
Something had spooked him. I scanned the ground, but nowhere did I see Peter’s small body lying with broken limbs.
I gazed about, becoming more frantic by the moment. “Peter!” I shouted.
I heard no small voice calling back to me, no answer or cry for help.
“Peter! Damnation, where are you?”
I guided my horse forward, circling Peter’s mount in ever widening swaths, my gaze everywhere. I saw and heard nothing but the wind in the grass, the sharp cry of a sparrowhawk.
Mouth dry, I returned to the horse, walking mine slowly to keep Peter’s mount calm. Once I was close enough, I reached over and caught its reins. The horse trembled but did not attempt to bolt.
It was then that I saw the paper peeping out from under the saddle’s pommel. Speaking soothingly to Peter’s horse—which was a feat, as my voice cracked with panic—I withdrew the page.
On it was a simple sentence.
Bring me Denis, and you will see your son again. Creasey.
CHAPTER 21
T he note balled in my fist, I rode to the top of the nearest hill, desperately scanning the horizon. I saw no one, not a party of horses or a carriage taking away my son.
There were no hiding places to my eyes either. The abductors had planned well, likely scouting the area long in advance. I’d made no secret that I would visit Grenville at this time, and I’d come to Gloucestershire in the innocent belief that here, we’d be safe.
I knew Creasey did not mean I should fetch Denis and bring him to some hideaway in the Cotswolds. He wanted me to return to London, truss up Denis, and carry him to Creasey’s warehouse by the wharves.
Tears wet my face as I turned my horse toward Grenville’s home, leading the second horse behind me. I now had to find Donata and tell her I’d lost her son.
Brewster panted up to me on foot as I moved down the trail. “Guv.”
“Did you see?” I demanded. “Where did they take him?”
“That way.” Brewster stretched out his broad arm to the south. “They circled the hills, but they’re on fast horses. They outran me.” He leaned his hands on his knees, dragging in breaths.
“It was Creasey,” I said grimly. I handed him the paper.
Brewster smoothed it out and read it, his breaths slowing as he took it in.
“What will you do, guv?” The question held worry.
“Exactly what Creasey wants. Give him Denis and rescue my son.”
“You walk into Creasey’s lair, he’ll murder you too, depend upon it. Let me round up some good men and we’ll give them chase. I’ll storm that warehouse and get his lordship out.”
I wanted more than anything to charge directly after the abductors, never stopping until I caught them, but I also knew they’d evade me. They’d planned this for weeks.
Peter was a viscount, a fact that might save him. Creasey wanted Denis, an even more important reason to keep Peter alive. Creasey would do nothing to the boy until I came to them with Denis in tow.
Then I would kill Creasey.
“Round up everyone you can,” I ordered. “Hunt them. If you can find them, for God’s sake do nothing that will make them hurt Peter. Meanwhile, I’m off to London to deliver Denis.”
Brewster’s eyes narrowed. “Have ye run completely mad? His Nibs will never let you, not even to save the lad.”
“He will.” The hard note in my voice made Brewster back a step.
He studied me a moment then gave me a nod. “I’ll do as you like. If ye need me to knock His Nibs to the ground and tie him up, I’ll do that too.”
“Good.” I tossed him the reins of Peter’s horse, then turned mine, and rode without further word back to Grenville’s.
Donata had risen and was in her bedchamber with Jacinthe, discussing what she’d wear for the day. When I burst in, my riding boots coated with mud, she started up in surprise.
“What do you think, Gabriel? The green?” She held out a gown that shimmered in the light. “I think it a bit much for morning, but …” She at last noted my expression, and her words died. “Gabriel, what is it? Peter—”
The fear in her eyes cut me. I saw that she thought him dead, thrown from his horse in a wild ride.
“Creasey has him,” I said in clipped tones.
“What?” Donata stared at me, the gown falling from her nerveless fingers to land at the feet of a white-faced Jacinthe. A terrible silence followed.
Then Donata screamed. She came at me, fists flailing, beating my chest as she cried out. I gathered her up, she striking me again and again, her face red, tears streaming.
“I will bring him back,” I promised as I held her. “I will find him, Donata, and bring him home. I swear to you.”
“Damn you!” Donata broke from me, pounding me with both fists. I scarcely felt the blows. “You did this …”
“I know.” I caught her hands. “I know. If you want me gone, I will go. But first, I will retrieve Peter.”
My quiet determination broke through her hysteria. Donata gulped, her breath coming in sobs. “What will you do?”
“Throw Denis at Creasey and shoot them both.”
Such was my rage. Donata caught my arm. “Make certain Peter is out of danger first.”
“Of course.”
I turned away, preparing to mount a fresh horse and ride forth at once.
“I am coming with you,” Donata announced.
“Lacey?” Grenville appeared in the doorway, flushed and out of breath. “Good Lord, what the devil has happened?”
I explained in a few words, and Grenville’s bewilderment changed to cold fury. “Dear God, the man has gone too far. Do not worry, Donata. We will find Peter, and then London will be too hot to hold Mr. Creasey and those like him.”
“I agree.” The icy control Donata had learned during the years of her unhappy marriage descended on her. “But I am coming along.”
“Of course, dear lady,” Grenville said. “My carriage is at your disposal. I shall have it brought ’round at once.”
Already I was striding past him out of the room. “I won’t wait for a carriage.”
“No, you and Brewster ride for London. We will follow you and meet at South Audley Street. Then we will plan our attack. I will send messages to your magistrate friends and the Runners—every patroller will close in on Mr. Creasey. He’ll not last the night.”