Page 43 of Ladies in Hating (Belvoir’s Library Trilogy #3)

I have received four inquiries as to your whereabouts today, including one from Laventille, who asks if you and Lady Darling have slain each other. I told him, “Not that kind of death.”

— from Selina to Georgiana, directed hopefully to Woodcote Hall

The light was low already by the time they made it to Renwick House. The oaks and blackthorns were just as Cat remembered them—huge and dark, their leafless branches grasping at the edges of the Alverthorpe carriage.

She’d been so hopeful the last time she’d come up this drive.

Now terror churned cold in her belly. Had Yorke sent Jem here, just as he’d sent Cat and Georgiana?

What sort of danger might Jem be in, here in the enormous ruined house? And could she get to him fast enough to keep him safe?

When they reached the front door, they found it chained and padlocked.

“Bollocks,” Percy said, then lifted his voice. “Fawkes! Fawkes, you rotter, are you in there?”

They made a motley rescue crew. The countesses Alverthorpe had elected to remain at Woodcote, though Cat suspected that the younger countess might have come along if the trip had not involved ten miles of bouncing carriage and the possibility of firearms at the end.

But Percy and Ambrose had insisted upon accompanying them, as had a very pathetic and clinging Bacon.

There was no answer to Percy’s shout.

“I know you had your hopes fixed upon this place,” Ambrose said gently to Georgiana, “but it seems to be deserted. We can go back to Fawkes’s, if you like. I’ll take you there.”

Percy was on his toes, peering in one of the windows. “It certainly doesn’t look promising.”

“It always looks that way,” Georgiana said, and she pressed a hand to Cat’s lower back, firm and comforting.

But Cat could not quite bring herself to lean into Georgiana’s touch. Jem, she thought miserably, where the devil did you go?

“Let’s try another door,” she managed. “Please.”

“Of course,” Ambrose said, and his voice was as gentle as he’d been with Georgiana back at Woodcote.

It was that sort of kindness that pushed one over the precipice toward tears, if one were so inclined. Cat stared hard at Renwick’s central spires until her eyes stopped burning and then followed Ambrose around to the south wing.

But the south door was padlocked as well.

“Perhaps Fawkes has locked it up,” Percy said. “Prevent intruders, et cetera.”

“Perhaps,” Georgiana said slowly, “but why—”

And then, breaking the wintry silence, a shout echoed from inside the building. Followed by the sound of shattering glass.

Cat’s insides turned to ice. She knew—she recognized—

“Jem,” she whispered. “That was Jemmy.”

Percy swore and yanked at the chains on the door. Ambrose moved to the window, jostling the crumbling embrasure, but it did not break free.

“The other wings,” Georgiana said, already in motion. “One of the other doors— something must be open—”

Bacon set to barking, chasing madly around Georgiana’s feet, and she nearly tripped over him.

“No.” It was her own voice, Cat realized, but she almost did not recognize it, so strange and distant did it seem to her ears. “No. We should try the rose garden.”

Georgiana froze, half turning back. “Oh—yes—I ought to have thought of that. No—Percy, it’s this way. Hurry!”

They ran. Bacon was the fastest, and he led them unerringly to the gardener’s door in the courtyard wall. Cat was next, and she put her hand on the rusted door with a clutch of fear. Please—let it open.

It did. She flung the door wide and they pushed into the garden together, Percy and Ambrose and Cat and Georgiana, with Bacon in the lead. The scent of roses was heavy in the air, thick and sweet.

“Fawkes!” Percy was calling, “Fawkes, are you here?”

Cat was shouting too, loud enough that she’d gone hoarse. “Jem! Jemmy!”

They’d almost made their way to the gap in the wall where the timbers had come down when a disheveled figure emerged from the shadows of the east wing.

The dying sun caught on his brilliant red hair, and Cat’s heart crashed against her ribs, hope clutching at her throat.

But it wasn’t Jem. This man was taller, stockier—nearing thirty. He wore a rich satin waistcoat, embroidered all over with tiny birds, and a cravat hung open at his throat.

He looked, not inconsiderably, like Jem.

He took them all in with an expression of stupefaction. “Cleeve? Alverthorpe? What the devil—”

“Fawkes,” Percy said urgently, “thank God you’re here. We’re looking for a boy—”

“My brother,” Cat said.

Fawkes’s brother. It was impossible to deny it now.

“We heard a scream. We think that was the boy—James.” Ambrose ran a hand over his face. “Did you hear it too?”

“Bloody hell,” said Fawkes. “Yes. I heard it. There was an intruder in the house—I gave chase. You say it’s your brother?”

This last was directed at Cat, and she nodded. “He’s here? He’s inside?”

“ Someone’s inside. I was chaining the outer doors when I heard gunfire.”

“Gunfire?” Her throat was tight, her fingers numb with her fear.

Jem? Or someone after Jem? Could it possibly be Martin Yorke?

She did not want to believe it.

“Whoever it was barricaded himself inside the music room,” Fawkes went on. “I could not follow.”

“Take us there,” Ambrose ordered, and Fawkes did. The gap in the wall where the timbers had fallen seemed to have stabilized. It had not been disturbed since their visit with the magistrate, and they left footprints in the plaster dust as they ran.

The music room was just inside the east wing. Neither she nor Georgiana had spent much time there, given its proximity to the unstable portion of wall that led out to the rose garden. But the door at least seemed solid—Fawkes strode up to it and pounded deliberately on the polished ebony surface.

“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Reveal yourself!”

There was no answer, and Ambrose stepped forward and placed a governing hand on Fawkes’s shoulder. “Easy,” he murmured. “He’s just a boy.”

Cat added her own voice to the general chorus. “Jem? Is that you in there? Are you all right?”

There was another beat of silence and then, quietly, she heard: “Kitty?”

She sagged with relief, and Georgiana was there, an arm about her waist to hold her up. She moved close enough to press her hand flat against the door. “Jem! Yes.” Her voice was almost a sob. “Yes, it’s me.”

“Kitty!” Jem’s voice had grown louder, as though he’d stepped closer to the other side of the door. “How the devil did you know where—”

She was talking over him, her whole body pressed against the door. “Oh God, Jemmy, I’ve been out of my head! Are you well? Let me in.”

The handle rattled, and Jem’s voice was even louder. “Did you catch him? Is it over?”

Cat felt her stomach pitch, and she glanced back at the others. “Catch who?”

Jem pulled open the door, and Cat’s heart leapt with relief. His hair was flecked with straw, and his face was sweaty.

Every part of him was flustered and disheveled and safe.

“Elias Beckett,” Jem said. He looked around the assembled party in obvious consternation. “The fellow who was trying to pillage the house. The one who was shooting at me.”

“Shooting at you,” Ambrose repeated in alarm, at the precise moment that Fawkes demanded, “ Pillage? ”

“Elias Beckett,” Cat breathed, and Georgiana’s fingers tightened on her waist.

“Yorke’s other clerk.” Georgiana’s eyes were huge, bluer in the shadows. “Oh my God. That explains—”

And then, from a very great distance, they heard Bacon, barking frantically.

Cat looked down. Where Bacon had been moments before, dancing about their feet, there was nothing but empty space.

“Bollocks,” said Percy, “Georgie’s dog—”

The barking rose in a crescendo, and Cat felt her belly pitch. Her gaze flicked toward Georgiana, whose face had gone dead white.

The little animal had no sense of danger. If Elias Beckett was there and armed and wild-eyed, Bacon would not know to stay away.

“This way,” Cat said and broke into a run, the others close behind.

But as they sprinted toward the oratory, the barking cut off abruptly.

And then there was nothing but silence.