Page 91 of Her Duke in Shining Armor
It felt hard to swallow that a lady of her stature was being forced to hide away in a slum yard. Aaron had averaged nine hours of sleep in the last five days combined and with every ticking hour he grew more agitated. The day was crawling to a close but the haze of the summer sun was still lingering over the cobblestones he was starting at.
He had filled his days with making sure that Burns’ family would be taken care of by a monthly stipend and he made funeral arrangement for him. He had not heard anything much from Brisdane but he knew the man had to be going crazy. His daughter, who had proof of his mistreatment of his wife, was missing and the only person who knew of her whereabouts was one that wouldn’t be afraid to put a gun in his face.
Things were looking grim and doubts were setting in. What if he and Eleanor were wrong? What if Lady Brisdane had truly died of natural causes despite the abuse she had suffered by the hand of her husband? Would that be significant enough to send the man to prison?
His study door was knocked on and absently, Aaron gave Hiddleston permission to enter. “My apologies, Your Grace but I have a missive for you.”
“From?”
“The Chief Magistrate, Your Grace.”
Spinning around, Aaron took the letter from the silver platter and read through it grimly. It was a summons for him to give up Eleanor’s location to him in three days or his position would be in peril. Crunching the letter in his fist, Aaron decided that they could strip him of all he had but he was not going to betray Eleanor.
“Hiddleston, light a fire.”
“It would kindle faster if you placed it on a cobblestone outside, Your Grace,” Hiddleston’s words were dry as the air outside.
Dropping the letter, Aaron sat at his desk and clasped his hands under his chin while his leg bounced. He had three days where his life, legacy, and love rested on a thin line. Scrubbing both hands over his face he prayed for a miracle.
Chapter 25
Eighteen hours. That was how many hours Aaron had left until he had to present himself to the Chief Magistrate and be forced to reveal Eleanor’s location. It was getting too close for Aaron’s comfort and he felt anxiety begin to strangle his chest.
Nothing was going right. There was no word from McGowan and the prisoner was still tight lipped. Someone had to break and Aaron felt that someone was him. His patience had been chipped away by worry for Eleanor and ambivalence about who had ordered the man to kill him.
In the middle of his coffee, it all came to a head. He had to do something or else he would be fit for Bedlam. There was not much he could do about Eleanor’s grandfather but there was one thing he could do about the would-be murderer.
He had enough of this inaction with the mercenary and decided that something had to be done. He shrugged a coat on, and directed a footman to go to Newgate where they had transferred the man. Aaron would become a barbarian if he had to be. He needed an answer to confirm if it was Brisdane or Wyndrake that had sent him.
His uncertainty would end that day.
The carriage had barely rounded a corner when another vehicle came around and screeched to a halt right in front of it. Aaron was nearly thrown to the other side of the carriage if his long legs and reflexes had not stopped him.
“What the deuce is going on?”
Having learned once, Aaron got a firm hold of his pistol and stuck his head out the window. Ignoring the annoying whinnying of the horses, Aaron looked over at the carriage which was black and nondescript, probably a rented hackney, but the driver was someone Aaron had been praying for. It was McGowan.
Without preamble, Aaron left the carriage and went over, taking care to tell his driver to be calm.
“McGowan,” he said. “Do you have him?”
“Aye,” the man grinned, “Wasn’t that hard to find.”
Gripping the handle Aaron pulled it open and spotted a man, olive-skinned with dark auburn hair, streaked with gray and deep-blue wary eyes.
“Hamilton Burchell, Earl of Norwich, I presume,” Aaron asked even as he could see the resemblance between him and Eleanor.
“Yes,” the man’s voice had a soft French accent. “May I ask why I was uprooted from my home and carried here?”
“You were not manhandled, were you?” Aaron pressed.
“No, but—”
“Forgive my brevity,” Aaron cut in. “But I need your help. It pertains to your granddaughter Lady Eleanor.”
The Earl’s body language changed entirely, “Where is she?”
“She is safe,” Aaron added. “But our business cannot be discussed here. Please, come to my home so we can speak freely.”
