Langham cursed and paced to the other side of the room and back. He thrust a hand through his overlong hair as he stared into space for a moment. When he looked back at them, his gaze was determined. “I want you to find her. Because I do suspect this information might be what got her taken.
“From what I understand, Miss Warrington was raised by a rather strict vicar and his wife. At any rate, she learned—don’t ask me how—the identity of her natural parents. I believe she suspected she might have been left a bequest. Her specific question for the solicitor was what would happen if the rightful heir to an estate appeared after the next in line had already taken control of the property. She never mentioned the names of her own family, but judging by the wealth and holdings of the estates she asked about, I suspect the inheritance in question would be sizeable.”
“Large enough to kill over?” Caro asked the duke, her brows knitted.
“In my estimation, Miss Hardcastle,” Langham said with a grim look, “yes.”
Chapter Fourteen
Caro felt all the blood rush from her head as the room spun around her.
From far away, she heard both Val and the duke swear, and soon a glass was being pressed into her hand.
“Drink this,” Val ordered, and for once she didn’t feel the impulse to bristle at his commanding tone.
She did as he’d bade her, but as soon as she swallowed, a fit of coughing overcame her.
“That’s foul,” Caro rasped once she’d regained the ability to breathe. “Why do you drink it?”
“It has its benefits.” The duke’s voice was amused.
“And one usually sips it.” Val’s eyes smiled as he took the glass from her and handed it to Langham.
“You gulped it this afternoon,” Caro accused Val. He’d seemed to enjoy it, too, she remembered.
“Because I’m accustomed to it,” he explained. “You have to work up to a large swallow.”
“You managed it better than most ladies of my acquaintance would have, Miss Hardcastle.” There was a note of admiration in the duke’s voice.
Then, recalling what had brought about her need for the whisky, Caro moaned in distress. “You don’t really think Effie’s dead, your grace, do you?”
She straightened, heartsick at the notion Effie might have been killed by someone who only saw her as a threat to their own inherited wealth. She’d come to love her friend over these past months, and she couldn’t bear to think of someone silencing her dear voice forever.
“I apologize, Miss Hardcastle,” the duke said, real regret in his tone. “I shouldn’t have spoken so callously. Of course, we can’t know what has become of her yet. Indeed, her disappearance may have nothing to do with the matter she asked me to investigate.”
“But you don’t really believe that,” she said flatly.
When he hesitated, Val spoke up. “We’ll have to find out who her parents might have been. It’s possible the inheritance is inconsequential. Not every bequest is of an amount worth killing over.”
“That is true,” Caro said. But her usual optimism was eluding her at the moment, having been replaced by harsh reality. It was hardly unlike her to jump to—the sometimes wrong—conclusions, but this felt more like pragmatism than impulse. An effort to protect herself from the possibility that Effie might not be coming back. “We will have to hope that’s the case.”
Val stood from where he’d been crouched beside her chair and rested a hand on her shoulder. Caro was grateful for the touch. “I think it might be best for us to leave now.”
“Oh!” Caro gasped and came to her feet. “We haven’t delayed your match, have we, your grace?”
But the duke didn’t seem alarmed. “Not at all. They can’t start without me. And I daresay Hyde has the crowd convinced that I’m terrified to face him and have spent this time cowering. It will make my appearance now that much more thrilling.”
Before they left, Caro took his hand. “Thank you for telling us what you know. I feel sure it will help us find her and Mr. Thorn.”
“And Thorn?” Langham looked searchingly at Val.
“Gone since late morning,” Val confirmed.
“I’m sorry,” the duke said simply. “Let me know if there’s any way I can be of help.”
But all she wanted, Caro thought, was to find Effie and Mr. Thorn alive and unharmed. Even a duke of the realm couldn’t make that happen.
* * *
After a night of fitful sleep—where he’d vacillated between lurid imaginings of Frank’s body being fished from the river and brief, frustrating dreams of Caro—Val rose not long after dawn and dressed with care before setting out for Berkeley Square.
His father was an early riser and Val found him, having already breakfasted, going over correspondence with his private secretary in his study.
Upon seeing Val, however, the duke dismissed the young man. “I saw the announcement in the Times. You are going through with it, then?”
It was to be like that, was it?
“I compromised the lady’s honor,” Val said stiffly. “There is no question of not going through with it. Even if that was my wish, which it is not.”
He’d hoped this conversation would be an easy one, but a lifetime’s acquaintance with his father had warned him that his optimism was fruitless. His father could be amiable when he wished, but he did not care to be thwarted.
“I hope this wasn’t some attempt on your part to put me in my place after I raised—very sensible—objections to your pursuit of the girl.” The duke’s tone was sharp. “I should have thought you were past the age for such petty rebellions.”
“And I should have thought after your demand for me to marry—in this very chamber, no less—that you would be pleased at my swift acquiescence.” Standing across the desk from his father, Val felt disappointment in the man for whom he’d once had the utmost respect. He’d known the duke was not perfect—as had been clear the previous night at the theatre—but perhaps naively, Val had assumed that once the announcement was made, his father would back down.
He could see now that he hadn’t been explicit enough in his rebuke of the duke’s attitude toward Caro and the Hardcastles in the theatre box. His own failure to object when his father and brother had so casually dismissed not only Caro and her parents, but also so many others over the years whom they deemed lesser beings, had no doubt led them to believe he agreed with their snobbish attitudes. It was time for him to make it clear to his father that no longer would he tolerate such talk.
“You cannot expect me to rejoice at the inferiority of the connection, surely?” the duke said. “The chit’s mother might be the daughter of an earl, but the father’s low birth negates any advantages. I would feel differently if the girl showed any refinement of manner, but it was clear from her boldness when she announced your betrothal for anyone within earshot to hear that she hasn’t the poise to make a credible duchess.”
“She,” Val said sharply, “is a lady and has a name. Miss Caroline Hardcastle, soon to be Lady Wrackham. You may find her manner unrefined, but I find it refreshing. Indeed, I believe she has just the degree of backbone necessary to make her a formidable duchess. But more important, she pleases me and that is all that need concern you.