Read Chapter 24: The Abduction

The convent gate swung shut behind them with a finality that made Eleanor’s chest tighten. Sister Marguerite had been kind, if guarded, and had agreed to send word to Lady Margaret via the telegraph office in the village. Isabelle—who called herself Soeur Claire now—had promised to meet them in the parlor at dusk with her Testament and her letters. James leaned against the stone wall of the corridor, pressing a hand to his side. The bandage beneath his coat had bled through again.

“You should sit,” Eleanor said.

“I should find us a carriage.” He smiled, but the color had drained from his face. “We can’t walk to London.”

“We can’t walk to the end of this corridor.” She took his arm. “Wait here. I’ll fetch Isabelle and we’ll decide our next move together.”

She left him in the shadows of the cloister and followed the winding passage toward the chapel. The air smelled of candle wax and old stone. A bell rang somewhere above, a single, mournful note. Eleanor’s footsteps echoed too loudly, and she caught herself holding her breath.

The door to the visiting parlor stood ajar. That was wrong. Sister Marguerite had locked it. Eleanor pushed it open.

The room was empty. A chair lay overturned. On the floor, a silver rosary glittered in the last slant of evening light, its chain snapped. And beyond the window—which had been forced open, the latch splintered—Eleanor heard the clatter of hooves and the sharp crack of a whip.

She ran.

“James!” Her voice broke as she burst back into the corridor. He was already moving toward her, his hand pressed hard against his side. “They’ve taken her. Out the window—a carriage—this way.”

They raced through the convent’s rear garden, past the vegetable beds and the washing line, through an iron gate that hung open. The lane beyond was empty save for a cloud of dust hanging in the air. Eleanor’s heart hammered. Then she saw it—a black carriage, already a hundred yards ahead, careening toward the narrow streets of the village.

“There!” She pointed.

James grabbed her hand and they ran. Her skirts caught on the hedgerow, and she tore the fabric free without slowing. The carriage lurched right, disappearing between two stone buildings. James gritted his teeth. They reached the mouth of the alley just in time to see the carriage turn again—left this time, down a street so narrow that its wheels scraped the walls.

“We can’t outrun it on foot,” Eleanor said, breathless.

“There.” James nodded toward a brewer’s cart parked outside a tavern, the driver nowhere in sight. “Horses.”

They were not going to ask permission. James unhitched the nearest horse with shaking hands, grimacing as the movement pulled at his wound. Eleanor hauled herself into the saddle and reached down for him. He mounted behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist, and she kicked the animal forward.

The chase was a blur of cobblestones and shouting. They rounded the corner and caught sight of the black carriage again, now weaving through the market square, scattering baskets and pigeons. Eleanor leaned low over the horse’s neck. The carriage driver glanced back and lashed his whip harder.

They gained ground. The distance closed—fifty yards, thirty. Eleanor could see the carriage’s rear door, the curtain drawn. Isabelle was in there. She had to be.

The carriage swung hard into a maze of alleys near the Seine. James swore under his breath. “Eleanor, this is a dead end.”

It wasn’t. The black carriage knew the way. It slipped through a gap that looked impossible, between a chandler’s shop and a tall, crooked house. The horse Eleanor drove shied at the narrow opening, and by the time she urged it through, the carriage was gone.

They emerged onto a wider boulevard. Nothing. No black carriage. No sign of Isabelle. The Paris traffic moved placidly around them, indifferent.

Eleanor slid from the horse, her legs weak. “No.”

James dismounted slowly, wincing. He scanned the street, then walked a few paces toward a storm drain where a scrap of white fluttered. He bent and picked it up. A woman’s glove, fine kid leather, with a small embroidered crest at the wrist—a falcon grasping a key.

“That’s not Isabelle’s,” Eleanor said. “She wore wool mittens.”

James turned the glove over. Inside, sewn into the lining, was a name in faded thread: *Lucien Duret.*

“Duret,” James repeated. “The earl’s man in Paris. A fixer. He’s the one who arranged false papers for Ashworth’s London accounts. The same man who—according to my uncle—keeps a ledger of every bribe the Beaumonts have ever paid.”

Eleanor stared at the glove. Lucien Duret. She had heard the name once, in a whisper between her father and his solicitor, months before the engagement was announced. She had assumed it was a creditor. Now she knew better.

“If Duret has her,” she said slowly, “he won’t take her to a prison. He’ll take her somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can make her disappear.”

James pressed his hand to his ribs again, and this time the fabric of his coat came away dark with fresh blood. He swayed.

“James.” Eleanor caught him. “You need a physician. Now.”

“No.” His voice was thin but firm. “If we stop, we lose her trail. Duret’s men will have her locked in a basement by morning. We can’t afford sleep.”

Eleanor looked down at the glove in her hand, at the falcon and the key. Then she looked at James—pale, bleeding, stubborn. She wanted to argue. She wanted to drag him to the nearest hospital and demand he rest. But he was right. Time was no longer a luxury they possessed.

“There’s a physician two streets over,” she said quietly. “He was recommended by a woman at Moreau. We’ll stop for ten minutes—only ten—and then we find Duret.”

James nodded, swaying again. Eleanor slipped her arm around him to steady him, and together they began to walk.

The glove was still in her hand. The falcon’s claw gripped its tiny key, and Eleanor had the strange, sick feeling that the key was not ornamental. It was a message. A taunt. The earl knew they were coming. And he was already a step ahead.