Song of the Heart - Alexa Aston Page 0,94
next the old devil’d dragged her off. It was none of our business.” The fish seller crossed himself for good measure.
Garrett mounted Ebony. He had no time to waste. Without a backward glance, he made for Lord Fenton’s. When he’d last met with de Picassaret in London, it had been there. He only prayed Fenton had again played host to the Frenchman.
He rode like a madman through the narrow streets, shouting warnings to those who crossed his path. Madeleine’s abuser had found her. It was de Picassaret all along. Now the truth stood before him. Henri’s own wife had run from him—and that wife had been Madeleine.
She had tried to put him off when she spoke of the sanctity of marriage vows. She’d been speaking of her own vows with Henri. Garrett’s love for her—both physically and emotionally—must have torn her apart.
Yet she loved him. He was certain of it. They had a spiritual connection that ran greater than the physical. He had promised himself he would find the man who’d tortured this woman, who’d marred not only her body but her soul. He would kill the French bastard before he let de Picassaret touch Madeleine again.
But would he be too late?
He reached Fenton’s in a quarter of an hour. No groom was in sight to take his winded horse. He looped Ebony’s reins to a post and dashed to the door. He rapped the knocker in a steady stream. When no one answered, he beat on the door with his fists.
“Open up!”
He’d about given up hope when the door opened a slit. A young boy of eight or nine poked his head out.
“No one’s here, my lord. Lord and Lady Fenton are gone to the country. Can’t help you.”
He started to close the door but Garrett forced his boot in. “I’m here to see Monsieur de Picassaret. My name is Montayne.”
The boy looked at him now in recognition and smiled. “You’re the owner of the dark beauty.”
Garrett had seen the admiring glances the lad had given his horse the last time he was here. “Yes, my horse is named Ebony.”
The child relaxed a bit and opened the door to him, motioning him to come in. “The Frenchman is gone, my lord. I heard him tell Mum that they was going home to France.”
“Where is your mother?”
“She went to Bessie’s to help her have a babe. She helps with birthings all the time,” he said with pride.
Garrett knew it would be hard to track the woman down. He must get what he could from the boy. “Was the comte leaving for France today?”
The boy screwed his eyes closed for a minute. “I dunno. Maybe. I think his servant said something about Tuesday.”
“Tomorrow,” Garrett said aloud. He tossed the lad a coin and started down the steps. If Henri had already left Fenton’s, he’d most likely be down on the waterfront, especially if his ship left on the morning tide. Garrett prayed he would find them there.
He mounted Ebony. The youngster called out to him. “Tell his wife I hope she gets all better.”
He whirled. “What did you say?” he demanded, reining in so suddenly that Ebony reared under him. “Speak, boy!”
The child took a step back, his eyes round. “She’s in a bad way. She fell down the stairs. She couldn’t even walk. The comte’s servant had to carry her.”
Wheeling his horse in a tight circle, Garrett spurred him through the gate. Between Fenton’s and the waterfront he saw nothing but a blur of colors, felt nothing but the pounding pulse of his anger.
He would kill de Picassaret.
At the office of the harbormaster, Raleigh greeted him. “Already back, my lord? I’ve not seen the lady in question.”
Garrett shook his head as he caught his breath. “Which ship leaves for France tomorrow?”
“The Avril. It sails at sunrise.”
“Check the manifest for Henri de Picassaret.”
Raleigh burst out laughing. “No need to do that. Seems the man bought half of England while he was here. Wouldn’t surprise me if’n the ship sank under the weight he carries back.”
“Do you know where he stays?”
Raleigh cocked his head to one side as he thought. “I’d venture The Wild Duck.”
“Tend my horse.”
Garrett hurried through the seedy side streets near the port. He reached the inn quickly and inquired which rooms belonged to Henri de Picassaret.
“Not here. Went out with his servant.”
Garrett slapped a gold coin on the table. “Which rooms?”
The innkeeper appraised him for a moment, scratching his scraggly beard. “I could let you wait in his