“In ceremonial dress, yes, but in jeans, boots and a cowboy hat, no one in Roxbury will know me from Adam.”
“You expect to just walk right into the manor and start asking questions?” Victor demanded.
Roland bit back an irate retort. He’d learned long ago that he got farther with his autocratic parent if he applied cold logic. “I expect to find a job somewhere on the place, possibly the stables. I’ve no doubt the Montagues have as much difficulty finding good help in that area as we do.”
Victor gave him a blank look, and Roland smiled inwardly. Victor was the last person to know about the difficulties of finding good help. He had others to take care of those small details of everyday life for him—and Roland was one of those others, especially when it came to an area of such intense personal interest for him as his horses.
Grayson was nodding. “It might work. It just might work, especially if you put in your first appearance in Roxbury before the festivities end.”
Rafe slapped Roland on the back. “Grayson is right. No one would expect a self-respecting royal to leave the party before it’s over.”
“You’ll be missed,” Sara worried aloud.
Roland smirked. “I haven’t been so far, Mother, not even by you, it would seem.”
“But you’ve been in attendance at every…” She broke off as Roland shook his head. “But you agreed…” When he shook his head again, she collapsed back against the sofa cushions in disgusted defeat.
“I agreed to accompany you and Father here to the festivities. I didn’t agree to take part in them myself.”
“But what have you been doing with yourself?” Victor demanded.
Raphael coughed to stifle a chuckle and said, “He’s been in the stables, I would imagine.”
Roland grinned at his astute brother. “Your father-in-law hasn’t anything to compare with Thorton stock, despite the size of his stable.”
Rafe clapped an arm around Roland’s shoulders. “I say Roland gets this assignment.”
“I agree,” Grayson seconded.
Victor studied Roland for a moment, then nodded his head sharply. “All right. Roland is our man in Roxbury. Grayson investigates Maribelle and coordinates the operation.”
“What about me?” Rafe asked.
Victor sighed. “You and I will quietly set about freeing up some of our assets. Whoever the blackguard is behind this, he’ll be asking for money, if only to throw us off the track and hide his real identity now that the shipping contract is settled. If all else fails, we’ll pay his bloody ransom.”
“And bring that poor girl home,” Sara added firmly.
The men shared a look among themselves, agreeing in silence not to mention the very real possibility to Sara that, even with the ransom in hand, the kidnapper might still be willing to rid him or herself of witnesses, most especially the victim. But they weren’t about to let that happen, not to a Thorton.
“Don’t worry, my lady,” Grayson said. “Whoever she is, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“If she’s our sister,” Raphael began.
“We’ll bring her home,” Roland added.
“Where she belongs,” Victor finished implacably.
For the first time, it seemed, the Thorton men were of one mind and one purpose. Shipping contracts and ceremony be damned. This was family. This was real. And Roland sensed that it was going to change them all.
Chapter Two
Roland stood atop a grassy knoll in the soft light of this spring morning, listening to the sound of his horse cropping the rich fodder beside him, and staring at the centuries-old seat of the Montague family. The island nation of Roxbury itself was smaller than its neighbors, but the house in the distance was, in fact, nothing short of a castle. Built in the Austrian style, it was a rambling confection spun of salt-white stone, complete with turrets and an apron wall that was once part of significant fortifications. The outer wall with its cannon platforms had been torn down long ago, leaving a nearly unobstructed view of the castle itself from this vantage point.
Roland shook his head. The castle was a beautiful sight, but he was not concerned with aesthetics. It was the sheer size of the place, the number of rooms that troubled him. A hostage could be hidden in any of several dozen places within those walls, but instinct told him that none was.
In the three days he had been here, he’d asked for and received an “insider’s” tour of the castle from an accommodating maid, and he had carefully, casually questioned the staff about the possibility of an incognito guest on the premises. His questions had aroused no apparent interest or discomfort. If his sister was being held by the Montagues, it was not, apparently, here.
His sister. Roland marveled that his stiff, autocratic, duty-bound father had, for once in his life, surrendered to the temptations of normal human frailty. He marveled at the growing sense of affiliation and affection that he himself felt for a woman he had never met, whose very existence had been unknown to him until a few short days ago. It was as if he knew her on some elemental level, as if she had always been there, a part of him that he had only recently identified. And he was worried for her. Was she safe? Frightened? Lonely? Did she know that someone, anyone, cared? Had she any hope of rescue?
A movement in the outer yard caught his eye, and he focused there for a moment. Someone had come—several someones by the looks of things. A number of cars were parked in the carriage niches built into the apron wall. He had heard nothing from his room atop the stables last night, but the party must have arrived then. He’d been up with the dawn, and no one had arrived since then. Indeed, the household was only beginning to awaken now. After resetting his worn, dingy gray felt cowboy hat so that it rode lower on his forehead, he mounted the big bay gelding he’d chosen to exercise that morning and kicked into a gallop. As Rollie, newly hired stablehand and ostler, his absence would be noted soon.
He walked the bay into the stable some ten minutes later to find Jock Browning, the stable master, hitching his suspenders over his shoulder with one hand and gesturing to a pair of stirrup boys with a buttered croissant held in the other. A short, bow-legged man in his fifties with wild, graying brown hair and dark-brown eyes, Jock was a true horseman, and he had claimed to recognize a kindred spirit in Rollie Thomas, stable hand. Roland couldn’t help wondering if he’d feel the same way about Roland George Albert Thomas Thorton of the royal house of Thortonburg. Jock turned at the sound of Roland’s mount on the cobblestones and called, “We’ve a busy morning here, boyo. Unless he’s lathered, leave that one saddled in the near stall and come give a hand.”
Roland led the bay inside the stall and looped the reins around the holding cleat, then produced an apple core from his pocket, a remnant of his own meager breakfast, as a treat. With the horse munching contentedly, he went out to receive his working orders.
“What’s up, Jock?”
“Eh, the prince and princess arrived last night with a pack of good-timers in tow, and Prince Damon sent word that they’d be riding early this morning, fifteen to twenty of them.”
Roland whistled, suitably impressed, he hoped, for Jock’s satisfaction. “That’ll take just about every head of stock on hand.”
Jock nodded and bit off a huge chunk of his croissant. After chewing energetically for a few moments, Jock said, “We’ll saddle ’em all ’cept the palomino, the blood bay and the dun stallion.”
Roland nodded. The pale-golden horse with the ivory mane and tail was only newly broken to the saddle. An animal of uncertain temperament, the sleek mare had not yet been given a name,