Page 116 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
Eleanor held her back, pulling her away from the door, but more men were there, blocking their way.
Charlotte let out a dismayed cry as she sagged against Eleanor, watching Theodore helplessly.
“Move,” the armed man ordered. “We have our orders.”
“Your orders are utter?—”
Acracktore through the room as the pistol went off. Blood sprayed, and Eleanor cried out. Charlotte let out a blood-curdling scream as she reached for Theodore again. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his side.
Panic struck Eleanor, her wide eyes fixed on the men. She spun around and reached for something behind her, but before she could grab it, her body was slammed into the wall.
“Getoff me!” she screamed, kicking back and jabbing with her elbow to no avail.
Charlotte was sobbing. “Tell me he is not dead. Tell me he is not. Tell me—” A hard blow to the head cut her off, and she crumpled.
“Charlotte!” Eleanor screamed, her nerves frayed as she trembled. “Charlotte!”
But her friend lay on the floor, and one of the masked men stood over her. He cocked his head and gave her a mocking bow.
“Your Grace,” he drawled.
Eleanor felt something hit her head before her world went black.
Chaos reigned as soon as Spencer made it back to Everdawn House. He had taken another walk after leaving Theodore’s house with a promise to return home after clearing his head, but he had been too fearful of facing Eleanor bloodied and injured.
But as soon as he saw the broken glass and the trail of blood, his heart rate spiked. He ran, chasing the trail down the hallway.
“What happened?” he demanded, skidding into the parlor.
He found servants on the floor, bloodied and bruised, and Katherine, and?—
“Heavens, Theodore.”
His friend lay sprawled on the floor, his face paler even than his aunt’s.
His heart thundered in his chest.
Eleanor… Where is my wife? Where is my wife?!
Theodore’s eyes closed, his lips pale, but he spoke, “Belgrave.”
That one word was the only warning he needed.
Dread sank into Spencer’s gut like a rock. He staggered backward, gripping the doorframe, barely having entered the room. His legs threatened to buckle, but he would not be weak. No, for he had distanced himself to protect her.
But that had only brought her to the harm he had feared.
Belgrave, Belgrave, Belgrave.
“Men came in,” his aunt whispered. “They—they were masked. I saw them through the window. They took them.” A sob tore from her throat. “They took Charlotte and Eleanor.”
“Where?” he shouted, already running back down the hallway.
But part of him already knew.
The place both of them were meant to end up, according to Belgrave’s and Follet’s plans. The wretched, beating heart of every terrible fate that had befallen those poor women. The place where it had all begun.
St. Euphemia’s.
