The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,73

stepped into the stirrup and flung his other leg over. The horse shied and veered to the right, but Graham pulled the animal’s head straight and gave him a kick.

He narrowed his eyes on his task as they galloped out of the yard. At one time in his life, he would have prayed for guidance when a disaster happened. But not now. Strength and resolve would locate Lucy. Hadn’t he proved his worth time and time again in battle? He’d find his daughter himself, not offer halfhearted prayers to a God who may or may not remember him.

The voice in his head told him to be careful. But his heart told him to press on.

Harder.

Faster.

Every minute was vital, every second, crucial. Graham urged his nameless horse into a faster gallop, and for once the horse obeyed without a protest.

They flew over the fields with little more than the filtered moonlight as their guide. Thundering hooves pounded the frozen ground. The wind whistled in his stinging ears. He leaned low. The horse’s mane smacked against his face as icy bits of snow stung his eyes.

Ahead, a smattering of lights twinkled through the black boughs of Sterling Wood. If he weren’t aware of the situation, he would guess a celebration was being held at Winterwood, a ball for the entire county to attend. Torches dotted the landscape. People darted to and fro. Had it really only been three weeks since his first dinner at the estate? It looked much the same now as it had then. But everything had changed. He had changed.

No-Name sensed his urgency. The beast didn’t let up until his master pulled him to a stop. Gravel slid and crunched beneath the animal’s weight. Graham swung from the saddle, tossing the reins in a stable boy’s direction.

Several people lingered outside. Some faces he recognized as belonging to servants at Winterwood. Others he didn’t know.

Graham stomped up the steps. The butler met him at the door. “We’ve been expecting you, sir.”

“Where’s Miss Barrett?”

“She is in the drawing room, sir.”

Graham jogged across the vestibule, giving no heed to the trail of dirty snow in his wake.

He spotted Jane Hammond first. The vicar’s wife sat next to the fireplace. After stepping into the room, he saw that Amelia sat next to her. Motionless and pale, she stared unblinking into the flames, the light casting vibrant shadows on her tearstained face. Always before her posture had been pristine—shoulders straight, head high. Now she sat hunched like the rag doll he’d seen in Lucy’s nursery a few days past.

Graham didn’t hesitate. He swept his hat from his head and strode toward Amelia. “Who are all these people?”

She licked her lips before speaking. “The man in the yellow waistcoat is Mr. Singleton, the constable, and the men with him are from the village.” He followed her eyes to a small cluster of men gathered by the window that included George Barrett. She dabbed the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. “Edward is here.”

Under any other circumstances, Graham would have been furious. Now concern for Lucy dominated every thought. He scanned the room and saw Littleton seated in the far corner of the room with two other men. The scoundrel reclined in the settee with one leg crossed over the other and his arm extended across the furniture’s back.

Littleton looked up and nodded. Graham’s jaw twitched. “What is he doing here?”

“You were right.” Amelia lowered her voice and leaned in. “He was still here when we returned from the vicarage.”

“Who’s that?” Graham nodded toward a middle-aged man who stood alone near another window.

“That is Mr. Charles Dunne, Mrs. Dunne’s husband.” She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “One of the footmen rode out to his farm as soon as we discovered that Lucy and Mrs. Dunne were missing.”

Missing. The word rang in his head. The word made it sound like they were looking for a lost trinket or animal. But they were searching for a person. Persons. Lucy and this poor man’s wife.

“Are there any signs of them at all?”

Amelia didn’t answer, just shook her head and looked down. Her hair, which earlier in the evening had been pinned up so elegantly, now curled wildly around her face. He wanted to offer her comfort, but the memory of their argument earlier in the evening gave him pause. But still he stepped closer, not wishing their conversation to be overheard. Propriety would say he stood too close. But what did it matter? She would be