“Like murder and kidnapping?” Mason retorted. “We’re aware.”
Warfield did turn his head then, giving Mason an intense look. “Worse.”
An icy fear slid down his spine. “What does he want?”
The marquess frowned and the angles of his face sharped. “I suspect it has something to do with the prior duke’s work.”
Katherine’s instincts had been right.
Mason’s chest tightened painfully and a growl rumbled up from deep in his core. Dammit. He’d feared the kidnappers would turn their attention to her if they couldn’t get to Freddie, but he’d believed he’d be able to protect her.
He should have had her locked in her bedroom—and him with her—until this whole fucking business was dealt with.
While his head and heart churned with emotions he hadn’t felt since he’d gotten Claire back, he started to notice the distance between them and the black carriage was slowly widening. The curricle was slowing. Mason turned to snatch a fistful of Warfield’s coat. “What the fuck are you playing at, Warfield?”
Unperturbed, the marquess replied, “I told you I know where he’s taking her. At present, I don’t believe he realizes hes’s being followed. If we hope to have any element of surprise, we’ll need to be stealthy in our approach. I know another way.”
“Why should I trust you?”
The other man’s expression darkened as a tic became visible at the edge of his jaw. “I’ve no desire to see my cousin harmed,” he muttered angrily.
Mason scowled. “That’s why you’ve been following them?”
“It is, actually. I was trying to determine if they were in any danger. When I realized they’d enlisted a guard, I figured they’d be safe.” Warfield sneered. “Apparently, I was wrong.”
It was unbelievably difficult to resist the urge to send a swift jab into the man’s arrogant face, but Mason somehow managed. “And why’d you think they might be in danger? What else d’you know?”
The marquess clenched his angular jaw and stared straight forward. When he finally replied, Warfield’s voice was as black as the night sky above. “That is none of your concern.”
Losing patience, Mason tightened his grip on the man’s coat and leaned forward to stare directly into Warfield’s unnaturally light eyes. “Everything about this is my fucking concern. Talk.”
The marquess narrowed his gaze to glittering slits. “Release me, Mr. Hale, or I may decide not to assist you.”
“I don’t need your bloody help.”
Warfield’s expression hardened. “Yes. You do. You’ve no idea what you’re up against.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m getting the woman out of there and that gentleman can go to the devil.”
“That he will.” He tipped his head forward. “We’re approaching the estate.”
Mason released him. Reluctantly. They were driving along an ancient lane crowded with old twisty-limbed trees. It took a moment to realize it was the mews that ran behind walled estates far larger than any seen in central London.
The marquess directed the horses off the lane to a spot between two spreading oaks. After applying the brake and securing the reins, Warfield leapt to the ground. Hale was already there.
“Follow me. And stay quiet.”
A short grunt was Mason’s only reply. The lord’s attitude was getting on his last nerve, but he’d ignore it if it meant getting Katherine out of those bastards’ hands.
Creeping silently beneath a slivered moon, they approached an ancient mansion near the end of the lane. The imposing house and grounds were unkept, dark, and silent, suggesting the place had been abandoned some time ago. They stopped when they reached the high stone wall separating the garden from the lane.
Peering over the wall, Mason scanned the house for movement, light, voices, anything. “You sure they’re here?”
Warfield tipped his head to the shadows around old stone-built stables located on the far side of the garden. Barely visible was the black carriage.
“Let’s go,” Mason growled as he planted his hands atop the wall in prep to vault over.
Warfield stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, gripping with surprising strength. “Do you want the woman safely recovered?”
“I want her out of there. Now.” The tension in his body was about to explode. And the violence in Mason’s expression had to be obvious, yet the marquess stared calmly back at him.
“You can’t just charge in with fists flying. There are sure to be guards inside. No telling how many.”
“I don’t give a bloody fuck.” He turned back to the wall and leapt over in one smooth movement. Landing in a crouch on the other side, he scanned the shadows around him. Nothing moved. Through the bramble of overgrown hedges and bushes, he studied the back of the house, looking for a way in. He’d rather not break through a window when the noise would alert those inside to his presence—Warfield did have a point about stealth—but he didn’t relish having to waste time searching the place for a proper entrance, either.
Sensing another presence, he turned to his left to see Warfield walking silently toward him. “The gate was unlocked,” the lord offered casually.
“How d’we get in?”
“There’s a door round by the stables.”
Mason took off through the garden at a crouched run. As he came around the corner of the house, he noted two large men leaning negligently against the house. One of them was strikingly familiar—the retired Runner, George Boothe.
He experienced a brief moment of satisfaction when he saw the flash of fear in Boothe’s eyes a second before Mason’s fist had him crumpling to the ground, knocked out a second time. The second man put up more of a fight, but it was still a useless endeavor and he soon joined Boothe in an unconscious heap.
The door they’d been guarding was unlocked and allowed Mason into the dimly lit hall of a servant’s entrance. With his eyes already acclimated to the darkness outside, it wasn’t difficult to make his way into the house, listening intently for anyone else who might be lurking about.
After a moment, he felt Warfield join him.
They said nothing as they continued silently forward. The hall led to a kitchen that
