Page 38 of A Duchess to Unravel (The Devil’s Masquerade #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“ T ristan, stop!” Dominic roared.

He threw himself between Alistair and Tristan, pulling his oldest friend away from Alistair just as he was about to strike him again.

“If you want to be mad at anyone be mad at me,” Dominic growled, holding his friend in a headlock. “I am the one that brought Alistair the wrong information. I am the one who did not do the proper research.”

“It is no one’s fault,” Alistair cut in, “And we’re only wasting time arguing about this. We must find Theo!”

Dominic let Tristan go, and he whirled on Dominic with accusing eyes.

“You should have told me there was a problem,” Tristan snarled. “You both should have told me there was a threat to my sister.”

The three of them were standing in front of the block of abandoned factories by the docks.

After sending his spies out and questioning much of the public themselves, they’d found out that a gentleman was seen driving there himself.

Dressed finely, yet he was the one driving the carriage.

The problem was, there were four abandoned factories on the block, and with the sun setting, they were running out of time.

“You can punish us later,” Alistair stated to Tristan. “For now, stop making such a racket and let us devise a plan. There are four factories and only three of us and we do not know if he has had help or is armed.”

Tristan shot him a glare, teeth bared, but he begrudgingly nodded.

“Later, then,” he said, sounding miserable.

“Tristan, you take the first factory on the left. Dominic, you take the one on the right. I’ll take the far left. If our first search comes up empty, we meet in front of the fourth and go in together,” Alistair commanded. “Give a shout if you run into trouble.”

Dominic and Tristan both nodded, and without another word, the three of them split up.

Alistair jogged down to the last factory on the left, trying to keep his emotions in check.

Losing himself to affectations was new to him, and he hated it.

He needed to be his calm, assured self if he was going to rescue Theo. But being with her had changed him.

Gathering his senses, Alistair approached the door to the factory and pressed his ear to the warm metal; his hand going to the large sliding bar that would open the double doors.

For a moment, he heard nothing but the sound of the sea beyond.

Then from inside he heard the soft snort and sigh of a horse.

Sparks traveled through his veins as he heard the noise, knowing there was no other reason for a horse to be in such a building, and he moved to slide the bar at the doors.

He let out a soft curse as he found it unable to budge.

These factories, if they were anything like the ones in Scotland, would have at one time had workers coming in and out all hours of the day, which meant no need for a lock.

Which then meant that whatever was holding the doors together had to be on the inside and had to be makeshift. All he needed was enough pressure.

Pressing his left shoulder tight to the one door, Alistair wrapped both hands around the small handle of the bar.

He centered his weight, took a steadying breath, and with all of his strength, wrenched it toward him.

The sound of groaning metal erupted as he did so, and the two doors separated just enough for him to pass through if he turned sideways.

Knowing the noise was likely to draw Theo’s captor’s attention, Alistair quickly slid between the two doors, and stepped into the dim, cavernous, rusted belly of the abandoned factory.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he found the horses he’d heard and a carriage roped off in the nearest left corner.

He walked quickly toward it, trying to be as quiet as he could, and drew open the carriage door. Nothing.

His worry growing, Alistair shut the door, and pressed his hand to it, taking a moment to think.

It was then that his fingers felt the ridges of a painted-over crest. He turned his head, looking quickly over his shoulder.

He knelt down and ran his hands once more over the black-painted crest and was able to make out the name Boyle.

He tucked the name into his memory and then stood. Even if he was too late today, he now had a name to research. Panic scurried through his veins for a moment. Was he too late? The factory was quiet. Still. Aside from the horses, there seemed to be nothing else inside.

Nothing alive, anyway, a wicked voice whispered to him.

Alistair fought a tremble threatening to run through his body as his stomach did a sickening flip.

Forcing the idea from his mind, not allowing doubt to cloud his current responsibility, Alistair rose up and continued his search.

He would find Theo, he’d already decided, and he would find her alive.

Alistair looked behind and under every giant piece of rusted equipment finding nothing but an abandoned small bed and a chair. The hairs on the back of his arms rose when he’d first spotted the bed, and though he had no idea why, he had the sense something awful had happened there.

He was deciding whether to check the loft space next or the darkened hallway when a man with a kerchief pressed to his nose and a limp in his step hobbled out of the hallway.

Alistair immediately noted the dirt on his rolled-up white sleeves, the drops of blood on his lapels and black vest. He certainly did not look like a noble, but Alistair knew that didn’t mean a thing.

“Goodness, you gave me a start!” The man stated in a typical lower London accent, then laughed. “I do not get many visitors around here. Can I help you, Sire?”

Alistair studied him closely, taking in his plain features, accent, and casual nature. It was not the type of man Alistair pictured being Theo’s captor. Still … he’d been wrong before.

“It is Your Grace, actually,” Alistair corrected him. I am Alistair Harleigh, Duke of Caldermere.”

The man bowed respectfully, keeping the kerchief tucked tight to his face.

“And, yes. You can help me,” Alistair stated, taking a calm step toward him, “I am looking for a nobleman by the name of Boyle. I believe he has committed a heinous crime.”

The man’s eyes grew large in apparent surprise.

“Oh, dear,” he replied, “A heinous crime you say?”

Alistair nodded, taking another step closer.

“My wife was kidnapped last night. My staff beaten. One even shot.”

Alistair could have sworn he saw the man’s lips twitch toward a smile, something wicked twinkled in his dull brown eyes.

“Heaven’s that is heinous,” the man replied. “Well, I am afraid I have seen nothing of that sort here, Your Grace.”

The apparent venom that slipped into the man’s voice upon stating Alistair’s title was not missed, and Alistair stepped to the left, beginning a slow circle.

“What happened to your face?” He asked, keeping his tone steady as he took another step.

The man mimicked his movements, keeping his eyes on Alistair at all times.

“This place is falling down around me, Your Grace. I was moving some equipment when a chain swung down,” the man replied.

Alistair grunted, knowing he was lying.

“So you have not seen anything? I did not even describe my wife,” Alistair went on, slowly curling his hands into fists as he kept the man moving in a circle, “Beautiful woman. Tall. Thin. Thick, brown curls. Brilliant blue eyes. A scar beneath her left eye. A spitfire of a woman. A fighter.”

“I have not seen her or any woman,” the man said hastily, a bite in his tone. “Though she sounds like quite the lady. No wonder you want her back.”

“Indeed, I do” Alistair agreed, growing closer with every step. “And I will stop at nothing to get her back.”

Challenge glittered in the man’s eyes, and he drew the kerchief from his face. Alistair noted the dried blood at his nostrils, the swollen bottom lip that looked as if it had a chunk missing. Offensive bruises. Alistair stopped moving, easing into his knees.

“Are you sure it was a chain that did that to your face?” Alistair asked. “I have been in a fight or two myself, and it looks like someone did that to you.”

“Sounds as if you are in love, Your Grace,” the man said, more venom coating his voice as he ignored Alistair’s question. “It must hurt quite a lot to have lost her to someone else.”

Alistair grit his teeth, tempering his rage at the goad.

“You would know, would you not?” he asked.

Anger flashed in the man’s eyes, but before he could say a word, a loud thumping sound came from the end of the darkened hall.

“Alistair!” Theo’s voice echoed “Alistair is that you?!”

The man turned with a snarl toward the noise, and Alistair made his move. His fist sailed toward the man’s turned face, making contact directly with his cheek just as he moved to turn back toward Alistair.

“Theo!” Alistair roared as the man stumbled. He then raised his fists, prepared to knock the kidnapper out cold, but the man suddenly lunged forward, headfirst, and rammed himself into Alistair’s midsection.

Alistair fell onto his back with a grunt, but as the man attempted to climb atop him, he kicked at him and sent him flying backwards.

On his feet in an instant, Alistair barreled toward the staggering man and was barely able to stop himself as the assailant pulled out a knife aimed directly at Alistair’s stomach.

“You took her from me,” the man snarled, holding the knife out as the two men once more began to circle one another. “Her brother kept her from me. The lot of you don’t deserve her.”

“Maybe not,” Alistair said through panting breaths, looking for his next move, “but you certainly don’t either.”