FORTY-ONE
I hike my skirts and jog to the corner. I don’t call to Gray. He’ll figure it out, and I’m not going to cause a scene arguing. He catches up as I bend to see another peppermint.
“The gentleman saw Constable Findlay and Mrs. Ballantyne turn this way,” I say as Gray walks over.
“Drunk,” he mutters. “They see a woman being manhandled, and they presume she is inebriated.”
“He may have drugged her with chloroform to make her woozy.” I glance over. “Is that a thing? Chloroform as a sedative? Or is that only in fiction?”
He stares at me before muttering, “Yes, it is a ‘thing,’ as you put it. Every young woman should know that for her own safety.”
We’re still on the move, scouring the ground for the next mint. How many more before she runs out? And where the hell would he be taking her?
I voice that last question aloud, adding, “Is there someplace private nearby? A park?”
Gray’s long strides have already carried him ten paces ahead. “About a half mile away, yes. As for where he is taking her, the answer is obvious, is it not? To his apartment. We have wasted time circling the block. I do not wish to leave you behind, Catriona, but I am going on ahead. Your skirts and your stature hamper you, and my sister is in danger.”
I bite back the ridiculous urge to take offense at the comment about my “stature.” He’s already broken into a run.
“You’re wrong, Duncan,” I mutter under my breath. “If he was taking her there, he’d have gone the other way around. And he’s not going to drag her into a house full of people.”
I find another mint at the corner Gray just rounded. When I pick it up, I rise to see him fifty feet away, looking from me to the darkened mew lane. He strides back.
“Blast it,” he mutters. “I cannot abandon you.”
“Thanks…”
He continues as if not hearing me. “You are clearly Findlay’s target, and I cannot leave you behind.”
“Go ahead,” I say. “I can look after myself. But he didn’t take her to his apartment.”
I jog to the next mint. This one is along the walkway into the gardens behind a town house. I stand over it and peer up at the dark house.
“Why are the shutters all closed?” I ask.
He looks at me as if I’m asking why the moon is out at night. “Because—” He curses and breaks into a run, heading for the back door. I lunge and grab the back of his jacket.
“Careful,” I say. “If Findlay is here, you can’t let him knowwe’rehere.”
“Maintain the element of surprise. Yes.”
“The shutters?”
“They are closed because the owners will have gone away for a lengthy period of time.”
“And anyone who sees closed shutters knows that. Bit of an open invitation to burglars, isn’t it?”
Or serial killers looking for a place to torture their victims.
“The door is over there,” I say, pointing. “Same layout as his place, presumably. He’s broken in and been using it. Probably the basement.”
Better soundproofing.
I continue, “I can open the door. I’ll ask you to stand guard there. Look for light through the shutters. Also listen for noises. Let me know if you hear any.”
It’s a testament to his state of mind that he no longer questions his housemaid giving him orders. He just nods, his gaze focused on the house, and then moves into position.
I wait, gaze on that window, looking for any change in color. It stays dark, no light escaping through the shutter slats. Has he blacked it out even with the shutters, taking no chances? That would seem to suggest that this is where the imposter took Isla—the mint at the top of the steps confirms it.