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It was evident that someone had taken his wife, but who was it? His time in the army meant that he had gained a lot of enemies from both sides of the battlefield, but the chances that they would follow him to his home and take his wife were slim to none, especially since they had to have worked with a trusted member of his staff to achieve it.

The other scenario was that she was kidnapped for ransom. But even that was unlikely, since it was common knowledge that his dukedom was impoverished because of his brother’s excesses.

But then this might also be connected to his brother’s killer. Perhaps the bounder had gotten bolder and decided to take his wife after killing his brother.

At that thought, a red haze descended across his vision until he was vibrating with rage. Whatever his brother’s killer thought he could do, he would never let him kill his wife. Not now, not when she had stolen his heart and never intended to give it back.

Hurriedly, he left the manor, ignoring the pitying looks that many of his servants gave him. He asked for his horse to be brought around, swiftly mounted it, and then tore off in a cloud of dust towards the only other person who lived close by and knew his wife intimately—her twin sister, who also happened to be the Duchess of Fangsdale.

The kidnapper, whoever he was, was quite strategic. He had been watching them for some time, Percival was sure. He must have bided his time, waiting for the moment when both he and Weston were away. When the manor was defenseless and he had ample time to strike.

A part of Percival wanted to resent the servants for being unaware while their mistress was carted away. But on second thought, he guessed that they must have been busy with their duties, assured that their mistress was enjoying some quiet time in the library. There was no way they could have suspected that their mistress was abducted.

Finally, he arrived at Fangsdale Manor in a cloud of dust. As the horse came to an abrupt halt, he hurriedly dismounted just asthe great oak front doors flew open and an unscarred version of his wife emerged.

Before Louisa’s accident, a lot of people had sworn that they were unable to distinguish between she and her sister, Isabella. But Percival was sure that even without the scar, he would have recognized his wife. They might have the same face, but they were so different in spirit and mannerisms that he could tell the difference even from afar.

His wife moved with such grace that she looked like she floated across the floor. While she favoured brighter fabrics, her older sister preferred muted colours. He liked to believe that their preferences in colour reflected their characters. His Louisa was bright, a fiery hellion that broke down his walls, while her sister was more reserved.

Apart from their difference in lifestyle, there was the effect she had on him. Whenever she was close, his skin would come alive, longing to meld with hers. Her mere presence stirred his desire such that he spent every time in her presence in a persistent state of arousal. The fact that Isabella’s presence elicited nothing within him was enough evidence that she wasn’t his dear wife.

“Duke,” she greeted in a concerned tone as she approached him with brisk strides, the train of her dress held firmly in her hand. “I hope all is well with you. I saw you approaching so fast as if the devil himself was chasing you.”

It might as well be, and the devil just might catch up with him and maim him if he lost Louisa.

As if she heard his thoughts, Isabella opened her mouth to say something. Perhaps to ask about her sister.

“Is Louisa here?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

The perplexed look on her face was answer enough. Hope sputtered out in his soul like a candle.

“She is not here. Why would you think she would be here?” she asked, something similar to fear blooming in the brown eyes that looked familiar but different from his wife’s.

Because she is not with me either.

Ice spread to his veins, a strange numbness taking over.

“How is Louisa? She is well, I hope?”

“I came to make sure that she is. Is the Duke here?” he asked, trying as much as possible to keep his voice gentle so as not to send her into a fit of panic.

“He is upstairs. But…”

He did not wait for her to finish. He ran into the manor, desperate, taking the stairs two at a time so that in no time he was standing in front of the Duke of Fangsdale’s study. He knew it was the study because the door was slightly ajar and he could see the Duke’s dark head bent over some books.

Pushing the door open wider, he stepped inside.

Fangsdale’s head jerked up, surprise flickering across his face.

“Colborne,” he greeted, rising to his full height.

The look on Percy’s face must have alerted him to the nature of the situation because his pleasant expression turned into one of wary determination.

“Someone didn’t die, I hope?” he asked, stepping out from behind his desk to approach Percival.

“Not yet, but someone will when I get my hands on the fool who kidnapped my wife,” Percival gritted out, anger radiating from him in waves.

“Lou is missing?” Isabella cried out behind him, causing him and Fangsdale to turn to her.