The Duke's Dangerous Wager

Chapter 25

Tristan leaned low over the mare's neck, his eyes tracking every shadow and indentation in the dirt. The trees opened up, and the trail turned to join the main path. He stopped, twisting his fingers through the horse's mane. She nickered and tossed her head, as if sensing his frustration.

Benedict paused beside him, eyeing the ground. "It is impossible to follow," he said. "Whatever trail there was has been trampled by many other passing carriages and horses."

A sick feeling of helplessness twisted in Tristan's chest, chilling him like ice.

"We're losing time," Tristan muttered, his jaw clenched tightly. Where had she been taken? The thought gnawed at him—the notion of her out there, vulnerable, frightened.

"We should alert someone, her family, if no one else."

Tristan inhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Her father's heart is weak. I fear he would not survive the shock."

"The kidnapper intends to demand a ransom," Benedict suggested, though his voice did not sound certain.

"If I count, Everly is well known among the ton," Tristan said thoughtfully, running his teeth over his bottom lip. "But I do not think he has so grand a wealth as to tempt a kidnapper."

"Perhaps you are not the intended target—or perhaps he was not the intended target," Benedict said quietly. "The fiancée of a wealthy duke would fetch a handsome price."

Tristan stiffened. "Ride to my house and fetch Mr. Ralston. He handles all of my affairs. We must prepare to pay the ransom, if it is called upon."

"Where will you go?" Benedict asked.

"I shall go to her family's house. Perhaps there is a clue," Tristan said.

Benedict nodded and spurred his horse onward without another word.

Tristan turned his horse in the direction of Isla's home and gave the mare her head. She eagerly lengthened her stride, drinking in the wind with noisy snorts as she pounded down the dirt path toward town.

Horses of the ton paused, gawking at him as he galloped past, but he paid them no heed.

What good was his reputation when Isla's life was in danger?

He pulled the mare to a halt on the street outside Viscount Everly's house. She nickered and stamped her feet on the cobblestones, as if disappointed that the ride was over.

Tristan dismounted and grabbed a passing servant boy, who tried to back away. "Take care of my horse," Tristan snapped. Other servants peered through the windows and doors as he shoved the boy toward the mare, who stamped her feet and turned, displeased at the idea of a stranger handling her.

The footman barely managed a stammered greeting before Tristan pushed past him, striding down the hall.

"Your grace, you cannot simply—" the footman began.

"Where is Miss Isla's room?" Tristan demanded.

"Up the stairs, third on the right," the footman stammered.

Tristan took the stairs two at a time and threw open her door. The sight of her things—her small writing desk, the simple bed, a half-finished embroidery by the window—made his chest tighten.

Where are you, Isla?

He moved to the desk and scanned its surface, desperate for any clue. A worn journal sat atop, next to a letter opener and a scattering of folded papers. With a steadying breath, he began to open the drawers, careful not to disturb things more than necessary.