Page 43 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

E veryone Beatrice cherished had come together to hunt down that wretched weasel, Frederick Sutton.

Duncan, Valeria, Teresa, Cyrus, Edmund, Isolde, Amelia, Lionel, Rebecca, Anthony, and Silas.

All of them under Vincent’s stern and determined command, they had pooled their resources and connections, splitting off to search every possible place for Frederick.

Vincent had not slept since the moment he rode away with Duncan, hearing the name of Beatrice’s assailant for the first time. It had been a full night and a full day and into night again, with dawn fast approaching, and though he could not give up, he was beginning to lose hope.

His horse plodded slowly down a shadowed country road, heading for the inn that he had earmarked as a meeting point, for it was in the middle, more or less, of every place he had sent the others to search.

For his part, he had gone directly to Frederick’s residence: a small manor tucked away in thick woodland.

His brother’s residence, in truth, which Frederick had been granted the use of.

But the staff there claimed they had not seen Frederick in weeks, though they had given him directions to two other properties that Frederick’s brother owned.

Vincent had searched each one, to no avail. And he had searched every inn and farmhouse and barn on the way back to the meeting point, finding nothing.

Candles were still aglow in the windows of the inn as he arrived, weary and despondent. He was just about to get down from the saddle when a dark shape darted out of the entrance, running toward him.

“Lord Grayling!” Anthony gasped, coming to a halt. “We think we know where he is!”

Vincent froze. “Where?”

“I followed the trail to where the driver had to stop,” Anthony explained in a rush. “I kept following, tracking the hoofprints. I lost them for a while, but then I had a thought—I rode in every possible direction, and just when I thought I would never pick up the trail again, I found this.”

He produced a silk handkerchief, embroidered with a bright red ‘B.’

“There were a few prints nearby, but they ended again,” he went on.

“It just so happened that I took that moment to look up… and I saw a manor in the distance. Merricold Manor. I rode there at once, but no one had seen Frederick. So, I asked to speak to Frederick’s brother, the Marquess, only to be informed that he is terribly unwell.

Physicians do not know what is wrong with him. ”

Vincent took the handkerchief out of Anthony’s hand, holding it to his nose as if it might still carry the scent of the woman he loved. “I do not understand, Anthony. What are you saying?”

“I am saying that it sounds rather suspicious,” Anthony replied in earnest. “And though I was practically thrown out, I am certain that Frederick is on that estate somewhere. Duncan and Cyrus have already gone on ahead. My horse cannot ride again tonight, or I would have gone myself.”

Vincent patted the neck of his own horse, as the dwindling flame of hope began to burn brighter in his chest. He, too, could not ride his horse again tonight, but that would not stop him.

He got down from the saddle. “Wake the inn,” he instructed. “Tell them that I am borrowing a horse, and will pay a high price to the owner. And, Anthony, stay here to inform anyone else who comes back to the meeting point.”

“I will, Lord Grayling,” Anthony replied, as he darted back inside.

His shouts were loud enough to raise the dead, as Vincent led his horse into the stable courtyard and passed the reins to a sleepy-eyed stable boy.

A boy so dazed that he did not bother to protest when Vincent opened up the nearest stall, threw a bridle on the bright-eyed stallion, and took off toward Merricold Manor.

His thighs would burn without a saddle, but that was a small price to pay for Beatrice’s safe return.

It was already morning by the time Vincent arrived at the gates of Merricold Manor, where he found Duncan and Cyrus grazing their horses beside a towering oak tree.

They turned in surprise as Vincent brought his horse to a halt and jumped down, brimming with a strength that sprang from a place of fear, overwhelming any fatigue he might have felt. There was no time to be weary when Beatrice’s life might be at stake.

“Any news?” Vincent asked, approaching the two men.

Cyrus gestured toward the grand manor. “We have been barred from entering. Apparently, our interruptions have caused too much distress to the Marquess, who is very unwell.”

“But we are waiting for one of the footmen—an agreeable chap—to bring us a map of the estate,” Duncan added. “He sympathized with our cause. Indeed, I get the impression that he does not favor Frederick much at all.”

Vincent shook his head. “There is no time for that. Think. Think of what every estate has.” He paused. “Have either of you been here before? Do you remember anything about it?”

“I attended a few dinner parties,” Duncan replied. “But I did not see anything beyond the main house. The gardens, possibly, but I cannot think of anything remark?—”

Just then, a horse plodded slowly through the gates, wielding a priest in full-garb upon its back. The man smiled amiably, tipping his hat to the three gentlemen in a polite greeting.

“Are you here for the wedding?” he asked, slowing his mount.

Vincent’s stomach plummeted. Beside him, Cyrus and Duncan’s eyes widened as understanding dawned.

“I did not think there would be too many guests, considering the circumstances,” the priest said, oblivious. “So, I am pleased there will be at least a few in the congregation. There is nothing worse than an empty chapel at a wedding.”

Vincent cleared his throat. “We will ride with you.”

“The more, the merrier!” the priest encouraged, waiting as the three men climbed up onto their horses.

He means to marry her. He stole her to have her for himself. And I was not there to prevent it… But Vincent was here now, and no matter how Frederick thought the morning was going to end, he was about to be sorely disappointed.

Trying to remain calm so as not to alarm the priest, Vincent made idle conversation with the cheerful man as the quartet rode together along the winding avenues of the Merricold Estate.

The path the priest took led them away from the winking windows of the manor proper, cutting through lush woods and extensive parkland, over a bridge that arced across a babbling stream, and around the wooden structure of a hunting lodge, until they reached a low hill.

Perched atop it, gray slate gleaming in the morning light, was a chapel.

“Have you married many people here?” Vincent asked tightly.

The priest tilted his head from side to side. “Not so many marriages, but I do a private service for the family every Thursday evening. Have done for years. Such a lovely estate.”

“Do you know much about the bride?” Duncan chimed in, his gaze fixed on the chapel.

The priest chuckled. “I believe everyone has heard about Miss Johnson. I could not believe it when Lord Frederick asked me to conduct the ceremony, but nor could I refuse. Let us hope that he is more fortunate than Miss Johnson’s other husbands, shall we?”

Oh no, Father, he is about to meet a far worse fate. Vincent kept his thoughts to himself as they made the final stretch up to the chapel gates.

“Father, would you stay out here for a moment?” Vincent asked in a cold tone, as he slid down from the saddle. “We are old friends of dear Freddie. We should like to give him a few encouraging words before the ceremony.”

Duncan laughed tightly, joining in with the charade. “Or talk him out of it!”

“Indeed,” Cyrus added, though his grim expression was not as convincing, “I think he is taking rather a risk with his life, doing this.”

The priest seemed to hesitate, before giving a blithe shrug.

“Certainly, for though I do love a wedding, I, too, have my concerns about this one. I would have consulted the Marquess, but he has been rather poorly for some weeks. Ever since he returned from the Highlands, hunting with his brother. I warned him that no good can come of spending so much time in Scotland, but he would not heed me.”

All at once, a suspicion began to form in Vincent’s head, making greater sense of what Anthony had clearly being trying to allude to: that this ‘mystery illness’ of the Marquess’ was not so mysterious after all, but the actions of a second son who seemed fond of taking things that were not his.

Poison? Vincent thought of Beatrice’s late husbands, and the way in which each had been found.

Physicians had studied the deceased, finding nothing unnatural.

But what if that was because they had not been looking for the right thing?

A poison that mimicked natural causes. A poison that was, at this very moment, making Frederick’s brother very sick.

Perhaps, in smaller doses, it was not so immediately fatal.

“We will not be long,” Vincent said, faking a smile as he pushed through the chapel gates with Duncan and Cyrus close behind him.

At that moment, a small door down the side of the chapel burst open. Frederick exploded out of it with Beatrice thrown over his shoulder, running for the fence at the rear of the small graveyard. The despicable man had clearly been watching from the windows and knew that his plan had gone awry.

“Halt there!” Vincent roared, sprinting after the beast.

Cyrus hopped the fence and ran around to try and cut Frederick off, while Duncan sprinted around to the other side of the chapel, blocking all of the thief’s escapes.

Frederick, of course, did not halt. Instead, he attempted to kick down one of the sections of fence, while Beatrice unleashed her fury upon him.

She punched the man’s back with curled fists, yanked at his hair, kicking her legs out to try and break free of his clutches.

Frederick yelped and hissed, struggling to ignore the frenzied attack, while he continued to try and push through the fence.

Vincent was two seconds away when Frederick broke through, splintering the wood as he lumbered forward. At that very moment, Beatrice bit him, sinking her teeth into his shoulder.

An ungodly howl left Frederick’s throat, the shock of the bite conspiring with the slope of the hill. Vincent watched the man lose his footing, and sprinted forward with all of his might, reaching out for Beatrice as Frederick began to fall toward the earth.

Letting go of her to break his own fall, Frederick hit the ground with a thud, while Beatrice landed on her feet.

She swayed unsteadily, about to topple backward, when Vincent caught her around the waist. He pulled her sharply against his chest, holding her so tightly that he could feel every frantic rise and fall of her breaths, and the rapid race of her heart.

“You are here,” she whispered, her arms stiff at her sides. “How can you be here?”

Before Vincent could answer, Cyrus landed on top of Frederick, pinning him to the ground. He was joined a moment later by Duncan, who saw fit to sit on the man’s legs.

“Do not mind us,” Duncan said, grinning. “Apologies for our delay, Beatrice.”

“Vincent, is that… your mother?” Beatrice whispered, bringing a frown to Vincent’s face.

Still holding her in his arms, he turned his head slowly.

Striding across the beautiful grounds of the Merricold Estate, with what appeared to be six constables in tow, Julianna Wilds had somehow arrived. She had never been one to miss a wedding, but even this was beyond her usual scope of attending every event possible.

“Vincent, what is your mother doing here?” Duncan asked, noticing at the same time.

Vincent shook his head. “I do not have the faintest notion.” He pulled back, gazing down at Beatrice. “Are you hurt? Are you well? Did he do anything to you?”

“He had most of society calling me a murderess, but I am otherwise unharmed,” she replied haltingly, her eyes shining with something like relief. “How can you be here, Vincent? I… thought no one was coming.”

Vincent brushed a wavy lock of hair out of her face. “I searched for you.”

“But how did you know I was in trouble?”

“Because of the people who are dear to you,” he replied, explaining the short version of how the driver had chased after her, then gone to Valeria, who, in turn, had sent Duncan to him. “I think your cousin knew that I would stop at nothing to find you.”

A flush of pink colored Beatrice’s pale face. “Then, I am grateful to you.” She pulled away. “Thank you, Vincent.”

Unable to bear the thought of her being further from him than necessary, he closed the gap between them once more, enfolding her into a fierce embrace. A hug that made the rest of the world disappear for a moment, leaving only her, and the tentative movement of her arms as she held him in return.

“I will never leave you alone again,” he murmured, his breath hitching as he felt her embrace him that little bit tighter.