Page 37 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

The moment stretched between them, charged with an awareness that seemed entirely disconnected from their current mission.

“Here we are,” the Marquess announced as the cab lurched to a halt. “Crescent Street, in all its dubious glory.”

Chapter Twelve

“Blue shutters,” Beatrice murmured, scanning the weathered facades until she located a small dwelling at the street’s end. “There.”

The street appeared even less promising than she had anticipated—a curving row of narrow houses whose better days were clearly long past. Laundry hung from upper windows, and children played in the gathering dusk despite the hour, their thin faces and worn clothes speaking eloquently of the economic circumstances that prevailed in this quarter of London.

The house was modest even by the street’s humble standards, with two stories of aged brick and shutters whose blue paint had faded to a ghostly gray in places. A single lamp burned in an upper window.

Leo rapped sharply on the door, his powerful frame seeming incongruously imposing against the dwelling’s modest proportions. When no immediate response came, he knockedagain with greater force, prompting a muffled shuffle from within.

The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of a woman’s weary face, her expression guarded as she assessed the unlikely trio on her doorstep.

“Mrs. Fairfax?” Leo inquired, his tone deliberately modulated to avoid intimidation.

“Who’s asking?” the woman countered, making no move to open the door further.

Before Leo could respond with what would likely have been an authoritative demand for compliance, Beatrice stepped forward, allowing her hood to fall back completely.

“Mrs. Fairfax, we’re friends of Anna Finley,” she said gently. “We’ve been searching for her out of concern for her safety. We mean her no harm, I promise you.”

The woman’s eyes darted between the three of them, lingering longest on Beatrice’s face as though searching for deception. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, for after a moment’s consideration, she opened the door wider.

“Come in, quickly,” she urged, her voice barely above a whisper. “And mind you close the door properly behind you.”

The interior was clean but spartan, illuminated by a single candle that cast elongated shadows over the worn floorboards. Mrs. Fairfax led them up a narrow staircase to the second floor, where she paused before a closed door.

“She’s been in a state since she arrived,” she confided, her voice still hushed. “Jumping at shadows, afraid to go near the windows. I’ll not have trouble brought to my door, mind, but she’s blood, and I couldn’t turn her away.”

“We understand,” Beatrice assured her. “And we’re grateful for your kindness toward her.”

Mrs. Fairfax nodded once, then tapped lightly on the door. “Anna? There are people here to see you. Friends, they say.”

Silence followed, then a soft rustle from within.

The door opened slowly to reveal a young woman whose appearance bore witness to recent hardship. Her face, though undeniably pretty, was pale with anxiety, her eyes shadowed from lack of sleep or excess of worry. She started at the sight of the three strangers.

“Who—” she began, taking an instinctive step backward.

“Anna,” Beatrice said gently, stepping forward while gesturing for the gentlemen to remain where they were. “My name is Beatrice. This is Leo, Philip’s cousin, and this is the Marquessof Tillfield. We’ve been looking for you because we’re concerned about Philip.”

At the mention of his name, Anna’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope quickly replaced by renewed fear.

“Philip?” she whispered. “Is he… Do you know where he is?”

“We have hoped you might,” Leo replied, his deep voice filling the small space. “He disappeared on the day he was to marry Beatrice.”

Anna’s gaze snapped to Beatrice’s face, comprehension dawning in her expression.

“You’re her,” she said softly. “The lady he was supposed to marry. He told me about you. Said you were kind, that you understood.”

Beatrice nodded, taking the frightened woman’s cold hands in her own. “I did understand. Philip is my friend, and his happiness matters to me. We’re worried about his safety. Can you tell us what happened?”

The simple kindness of the gesture seemed to breach whatever final reserve of caution Anna had maintained. Her eyes filled with tears, and she swayed slightly where she stood.

“I don’t know where he is,” she confessed, the words emerging as a half-sob. “I’ve been so afraid—for him, for myself. WhenI received the note, I thought… I thought he might be dead already.”