And in that moment, he knew what he had to do.
To hell with his pride. He was going to Isabella.
Isabella walked slowly through the newly appointed classroom at her Ladies’ Typewriting School, making certain the latest typewriters and desks she had ordered some weeks ago in preparation for an expansion had been properly placed. There were no classes today, and the solitude within the school seemed almost eerie—without the clicking of keys and the rustle of paper, it was strangely quiet and solemn.
Then, she supposed it matched her inner somberness.
As much joy as being back at her school for the first time in so long gave her, her heart remained heavy. Because she was still more torn than ever about Benedict.
She walked down a row of desks, trailing her fingers lightly over the keys of the new typewriters. Demand for ladies with typewriting skills was rising. So many ladies wished to apply for training that she had been forced to amass a list, accommodating each lady in the order in which she had applied. Cambridge University had just accepted a number of her latest typewriters in excellent situations.
The success of her school far exceeded her expectations.
Yet, it was not her school that occupied her mind. When she woke in the morning, when she ate her breakfast, when she read her correspondence, when she planned future growth of her school, when she laid in bed at night, there was one man alone who owned her thoughts. He was the same man who owned her heart.
A creak disrupted the silence of the room.
She froze, alarm clamoring in her heart. It had sounded almost like a footfall. But how could that be? She was alone. None of her staff was present as it was a Sunday. Likely, she had imagined the sound, she told herself. After what had happened to her, venturing about London on her own—an act she had ordinarily undertaken with ease—imbued her with a new sense of trepidation. She had reluctantly accepted Bo’s offer to use Bainbridge’s carriage to bring her here rather than her customary hired hack or the omnibus.
But then she heard another creak.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood.
She was not alone.
Dear heavens. She was certain she had secured the door. How would someone have entered the school? And who? Why?
Heart pounding, fear making her palms cold with sweat, she slowly moved toward the door, holding her breath. The door was ajar. Working carefully, she found her way to the periphery of the chamber, then to the door itself. Through the crack between the door and the wall, she could observe the hall.
And that was when she saw him.
One of the men who had taken her captive.
She gasped, then clapped a hand to her mouth.
“Where are you hiding, Miss Hilgrove?” he called tauntingly. “I know you are in here.”
Icy fear licked through her. She held still, praying he would walk by the classroom, giving her enough time to attempt to escape. But it was not to be. He moved closer, and then his gaze met hers.
A satisfied smile crept over his face. “There you are, my dear lady. Come out where I can see you, and you have my word I’ll not hurt you.”
But she did not move. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to talk with you, is all,” he said. “Step around the door, Miss Hilgrove. I have been watching your school for days in the hopes you would eventually return. Imagine my surprise when you chose to accommodate me by reappearing on a day when no one else is present. I suppose I ought to thank you.”
Her mind was frantic, attempting to think of a way she could escape him. But the windows were on the opposite end of the room, and even if she were fast enough to race across the chamber and throw them open to flee, they were a floor above the streets and pavements below. She would not survive such a fall.
“Come now, Miss Hilgrove. I give you my word as a gentleman I will not hurt you,” he prodded, keeping the barrel of his pistol upon her through the crack.
“You are no gentleman,” she bit out. “Nor do I believe any of your reassurances. I have told you already that I am not privy to the information you seek. Nothing has changed.”
“Very well. If you will not come to me, I will come to you.”
She acted on instinct, slamming the door closed. But she was not fast enough to turn the skeleton key in the lock. He set his shoulder to the door, breaking the latch and forcing it open as she shrank back, bumping into one of the typewriters and setting off a host of clacking keys in the process.
“I knew you were going to be troublesome,” he snarled, stalking toward her, pistol aimed at her heart.
“Isabella?”
The voice echoing through the school was familiar. Beloved.
“Benedict!” she called out. “Be careful! He has a gun!”
The man smacked her across the face. “Shut your mouth.”
Pain exploded, but all she cared about was Benedict. “Do not come in here!” she cried out, pressing a hand to her throbbing cheek.
The man hauled her against him, pressing the barrel of his pistol to her temple and incapacitating her with an arm wrapped around her neck.
“If you go, I will kill her,” he yelled.
“No, Benedict,” she managed past the man’s choking grip on her throat. “Leave me here.”
But Benedict did not heed her. He stood on the threshold, wielding a menacing-looking pistol of his own. His gaze flicked over Isabella briefly, assessing, his jaw tense.
“Release her,” he demanded of her captor.
“Not a chance,” the man sneered. “Remain where you are or I will shoot her.”
Terror clawed at her. Her heart pounded so fast, her mouth dry, her hands, clutching at the man’s arm in an effort to keep him from choking her, shook. “He will shoot me regardless of what you do,” she told Benedict. “Please, you must
