Page 27 of The Fighter who Needed Me
Brooks
Whitechapel, England Jan 1813
Brooks stayed on the floor next to his door that night.
And in the morning, he could stand it no longer and he went in search of his wife. He would steal her from her parents if it was the last thing he did.
He dressed quickly after the fastest bath he had ever had, and then rode across town to her Mayfair townhome.
But when he knocked on the door, no one answered.
He knocked again, and still nothing, which gave him pause.
Normally he would be turned away from the house by their butler by now. The man was always efficient at his job and would have answered the door by now.
Walking around to the back again, he waited to see if anyone would come and go from the house.
Normally there would be maids, footmen or cooks coming in and out at all times.
This time was not the same. The house sat silently, and Brooks felt in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong.
Pulling the lock picks from his jacket pocket, he quickly unlocked the back door like he had the other day and expecting to be caught by a cook or a maid, waited for the inevitable scream.
Which never came. Instead he was once again met with silence. His stomach was twisting in knots when he saw the kitchen empty of people.
This was a sight he should not have seen. Normally this would be a bustling place, with cooks and maids in and out doing their work.
He moved in the room and went into the main part of the house, past caring that someone could see him.
Except once again, it was dead silent.
He ran straight up the stairs for Persephone’s room and when he opened the door, the sight he was dreading greeted him.
She was gone. Her clothes had been cleaned out, but pieces still remained as if someone had packed in a hurry and had left things behind.
Her bed was a mess of blankets, and there were bottles of medicine on the floor, smashed and broken.
Her brushes and combs were sitting on the dressing table still, but one had fallen to the floor as if it had been dropped in haste.
He fell to his knees on the carpet, knowing in his soul that she was gone. That her parents had found out somehow that she was trying to leave and had taken her from him to stop her.
He roared in agony, feeling as though his heart was being ripped from his chest and he sat in her room, trying his best to keep from collapsing further.
She was gone. And he did not know where to find her. Did not know if he would ever see her again.
He stayed on the floor of her room, on his knees until he heard a soft sound, like crying.
He shot to his feet and looked around her room, listening until he heard it again.
It came from the small room next to Persephone’s and he walked to the door, trying to open it.
It was locked, but he pulled his foot up and kicked it, making the door slam open and the light from Persephone’s windows to flood the tiny room.
A small figure was on the floor, with their arms wrapped around their knees.
When the light hit the person, he recognized her as Persephone’s maid that had come to the country with them.
She had a split lip, a bloody nose that had dried on her upper lip, one eye was swollen shut, and she cradled her hand to her chest while the other stayed around her knees.
