Page 62 of Marriage with a Proper Stranger

Mary gasped, covering her mouth with her gloved hand. “You don’t think…”

“I know the baron’s finances are in precarious shape. God knows how desperate he is.” Damn it all for not realizing the man would pull such a stunt. Did he think to still marry her off? Collect the money? Never in his wildest imagination did he believe her father would snatch her away. Unless this is entirely innocent—his gut, however, said different. “Will you stay here?”

Mary nodded and followed him into the schoolroom. Riordan had already gathered his coat and gloves. To hell with the hat. “I have an emergency,” he announced to his students. “Miss Tuttle will stay with you. Behave.” He whispered in Mary’s ear, “I’ll meet you at the cottage.”

He was out the door and running across the field toward Walsh’s farm, admonishing himself the entire way. Serves him right for thinking men of the peerage had any remnants of honor. He should have told Sabrina what her father was capable of. Damn and hell, after last night, he should have told her everything, right then and there. That the settlement did not come from her father. That his real name was Wollstonecraft. He’d planned to tell her tonight. Too bloody late.

He reached the barn. Out of breath, he saddled his horse. Farmer Walsh stepped into the stall. “Is something amiss, Mr. Black?”

“I need Grayson, not sure how long I’ll be gone. Family emergency.” By God, Sabrina was his family. All he wanted in this life. If anyone harmed her, he would commit murder. With a fluid motion, he was seated. Kicking Grayson’s flanks, they were off, heading toward Durning House.

Once they arrived, Riordan tethered the reins to a post, then gave the gelding a pat. He vaulted up the stairs and banged on the door. The footman answered—what was his name? Bugger it. He grabbed the lad’s livery and twisted as he stepped across the threshold. “The baron, where’s he gone?”

“I don’t…don’t know,” the footman sputtered.

“Why is there no butler?”

“Left last month. Hadn’t been…paid.”

Ah. Riordan twisted tighter and the footman gasped for air. “Your name again?”

“George,” he croaked hoarsely.

“Right. George. I’m going to release you, and you’re going to tell me everything you know. Where is the baron, and where is my wife, Sabrina?”

Riordan let go and George coughed, trying to regulate his breathing. “All I know is the baron is in a bad way, moneywise. He’s been in a rage for the past three days, cursing his daughter.” George paused; anger radiated in his eyes. “He owes me wages as well. Why protect him? I’ll tell you what I know…give me a minute.” He coughed again, rubbing his throat.

“Hurry up, man.”

“He received a letter from the marquess, the old one who was here weeks ago. It made his eyes light up. I delivered the response myself.”

Riordan crossed his arms. “And you read it.”

“Yes, I bloody well did. The baron said he would deliver his daughter to the marquess for no less than thirty thousand pounds. I figured I’d get me pay at last. I figured you lot all came to an agreement or some such. None of my business what toffs get up to.” George’s accent was slipping. “Guess he took her against her will, if you’re here. Wouldn’t put it pass him. He’s a nasty bit of work, is the baron.”

“Where did you deliver the note? Is it where he’s taking Sabrina?”

George shrugged as he continued to rub his throat. “Maybe. It was in London. In Mayfair, at Ten Duke Street.”

Riordan grasped the neckcloth again and twisted. “This had better be the correct address, or I will hunt you down and—”

“’Tis, I swear!” George cried.

Riordan pushed the trembling footman away. Turning on his heel, he exited, then immediately mounted Grayson. First he would see Mary, pack a small kit, and stop at Wollstonecraft Hall on the way to London—he would need Garrett. Giving the gelding a swift kick, he galloped off toward the cottage.

Minutes later, he arrived. Slipping from the saddle, he patted Grayson’s neck once again. “Sorry, my lad. I’ll have to push you hard all the way to the hall.” The horse nickered, his hoof pawing the dirt in reply. “Good boy.”

He entered the cottage, and the emptiness of the place struck him hard. Her absence was keenly felt. Riordan spied the smashed cup and saucer. Over on the chaise, a book lay at a strange angle. As he picked it up, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He bent to pick it up. It was the note he had written her this morning.

Mittens came from the bedroom, and when she spotted Riordan she sprinted toward him at an awkward gait. The kitten rubbed against his legs, meowing loudly, sounding forlorn. Riordan gathered the distressed feline into his arms and petted her. “There now, it will be all right.”

But would it? God knows how much of a head start they had. Was Sutherhorne in London, or at his country estate? Perhaps he wasn’t at his residences at all. Then how in hell could he locate Sabrina? Once the kitten had calmed, he lowered her to the floor, then commenced gathering a few items to place in his pack.

Mary entered the cottage. “The children are on their way home. What did you find out?” Riordan relayed everything George the footman had told him. Mary frowned. “The lad was always an unlikable sort. But I believe he’s telling the truth. As he said, he hasn’t been paid; why lie for the baron? What will you do?”

“Head for London with all speed. My family home is on the way. I’ll be collecting my uncle to assist.”

“The flame-haired Viking? Good choice.”