for her, but his mind was already racing ahead. “Where is his protection officer?”
“I had him wait at the ground-floor study, Your Grace,” Ramsey panted.
Groups and couples were milling on the terrace and the garden that came into view. Heads were turning toward him, expectations reaching out to him like tentacles.
He changed course toward the servant entrance at the east wing.
“What other information do you have?”
“None, Your Grace,” Ramsey said. “I came to find you as quickly as possible.”
“You did well,” Sebastian said, all but shouldering his way through the back door into a dimly lit corridor. Two maids froze on the spot, their eyes widening beneath their white caps as if they’d seen a ghost when he strode past.
There wouldn’t be a note from Peregrin had anything happened to him. Unless it was a ploy. He forced that thought aside until he reached his study. A tall, burly man hovered by the door, his bowler hat in his fist by his side. Craig Fergusson. The man had been in his employ for a decade. He had one task—to guard his brother, discreetly and effectively. He suppressed the urge to grab Fergusson by the throat to shake an answer out of him right here in the hallway.
Ramsey lunged ahead to push open the door, and everyone filed into the study.
Sebastian rounded on the protection officer. “What happened?” he snarled.
Fergusson gulped. “Last night, we stayed over at the hotel in Carmarthen—”
“Yes?”
“And this morning, when I was waiting for his lordship and his valet in the hallway to come down to the breakfast room, I became suspicious because the young lord always likes to eat plenty, but the train was about to leave. So I got a feeling and went to investigate. I found the valet in the antechamber, knocked out clean by some laudanum—”
“Knocked out?” Sebastian interrupted, every hair on his body standing on end.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Fergusson said. “I only got the man to wake with some good slaps. He’s still groggy. He said Lord Devereux had asked him to share some wine the night before, and then he quickly fell asleep and heard nothing.”
Disbelief momentarily eclipsed alarm. “He thinks my brother drugged him?”
Fergusson shifted uncomfortably. “It appears so, Your Grace.”
Peregrin’s valet had been with the family for twenty-five years; he had been Sebastian’s valet before he had given him to Peregrin, to make sure his brother was surrounded only by the most trustworthy people. That man was probably not part of a ploy.
“I understand there is a note,” he said.
Fergusson nodded as he fingered an envelope from his satchel. “He left this on his bed.”
Sebastian snatched the letter from the man’s hand.
The thick paper was from his own stationery. He broke the seal and tore the envelope open with his fingers. Two lines, in Peregrin’s loopy handwriting.
Sir,
In regards to the Royal Navy, I have given it due consideration, and I simply cannot do it.
Respectfully,
P.
I simply cannot do it.
Very likely not abducted, then.
Sebastian briefly closed his eyes. His heart began to beat again, a hard tattoo against the wall of his chest. Not abducted. Not hurt. But the truth was that the little runt had bailed on him.
He very carefully placed the letter onto the desk. “Any indication where he is now?”
Fergusson shook his head. “No one’s seen him. Several trains and plenty of coaches are leaving from the train station from six o’clock in the morning. I brought every schedule.”
Sebastian ignored the papers Fergusson laid out on his desk; he already knew that there were several routes to coastal towns, and at least one train stopped at Plymouth. Ferries were leaving from there. His brother could well be on his way to France. And his protection officer was presently here at Claremont.
An emotion moved through him, almost too strong to be contained.
He went behind his desk, whipped out a sheet of paper, and began jotting down instructions.
“Get the coach ready,” he said to Ramsey as he was writing, “and send a cable to Edward Bryson that I will see him this evening.”
“The h-head of Scotland Yard, Your Grace?”
Sebastian looked up sharply. “Is there another Edward Bryson who could be relevant to this situation?”
Ramsey turned crimson. “No, Your Grace.”
“After you have wired him, inform the town house. Fergusson, be ready to leave in twenty minutes. We are going to London.”
Ramsey and Fergusson bowed and hastily headed for the door.
Annabelle made to follow them, and Sebastian put down the pen. “You stay, miss,” he said. “If you please,” he added