CHAPTER 208: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHT

Few Hours Ago...

The city was a blur of hurried faces outside the carriage window, but Prescott saw none of it. His mind was a frantic storm of dead ends and missed opportunities. For a week, he had been looking for Baron Edgar. A whole week. And today was the day of the meeting, the day Augusta would make her final move to seize control of everything. If he did not find the Baron, all hope was lost.

He had searched everywhere. He had spent days checking every discreet boarding house, respectable inns and private hotel in the city and its surrounding towns, places where a man could be held quietly. He had sent discreet inquiries to private sanatoriums and asylums, places where an old man could be declared mad and forgotten. He had staked out the residences of men known to do Augusta’s dirty work, watching for any sign of a high-value prisoner. He had even questioned servants, bribed informants, and followed a dozen false leads that all ended in disappointment. Nothing was found. The old Baron had vanished without a trace.

The carriage rattled over a cobblestone street, the sound matching the frantic rhythm of his own heart. Time was running out. He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, frustration and despair a bitter taste in his mouth. He had failed.

Then, a thought cut through his panic. He had been thinking like a common kidnapper. But Augusta was not common. She was arrogant, audacious. Where would she hide someone so important, a man whose absence would surely be noted? He asked himself the question again, turning it over in his mind. Where will the Baroness hide someone that no one will ever suspect?

Not in a secret location. Not in a place far from watchful eyes. The answer was the opposite. She would hide him in the one place everyone could see. A place so obvious, so outrageously bold, that no one would ever think to look there.

Prescott sat up straight, his eyes wide with a sudden, chilling certainty. The Ellington Manor.

She was hiding him in his own home.

"Driver!" he snapped, his voice sharp with urgency. "Turn around! Back to the Ellington manor, and be quick about it!"

The carriage wheels screeched as it made a sharp turn. He asked himself " Where would she hide him in that big house?"

Augusta’s carriage had already left for the meeting by the time Prescott arrived, which was exactly what he had hoped for. He entered the grand, silent house and went straight to the butler’s pantry to look for the cellar key hoping his guesses were correct but it was gone. His brain started working overtime, thinking. " Who else is in charge of the manor?" The answer struck him immediately as he left the pantry to find the head housekeeper.

Mrs. Gable was in the main hall, overseeing a young maid polishing the silverware.

"I need the cellar keys, Mrs. Gable," Prescott said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Mrs. Gable, a woman whose loyalty to Augusta was absolute, turned to him with a nervous smile. She chuckled, a high-pitched, anxious sound. "Oh! Why would you need the cellar keys, Mr. Prescott? Is there a special wine the Baroness requested? I can get it for you.."

"The keys are not on the rack in the butler’s pantry where they have always been kept," Prescott replied, his eyes sharp and assessing, ignoring her question. "So I ask you again. Where are they?"

Mrs. Gable’s smile faltered. She began to fidget with her apron. "Well, the Baroness... she said she wanted to renovate the cellar. She said it is too dark and gloomy down there. So, she removed the keys herself and gave them to the workers that will be coming for the renovation."

Prescott stared at her, his expression cold. "That’s the point of a cellar, Mrs. Gable," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "To be dark and gloomy, to maintain the quality of the wine." He took a slow step closer to her. The young maid, sensing the tension, quickly made herself scarce. Mrs. Gable instinctively took a step backward, her eyes wide with fear.

"You are the head housekeeper," Prescott continued, his voice a low, menacing purr as he advanced on her again. "So it is natural that you would know where the key is. But what is not natural is how you tell a lie. You are a very bad liar, Mrs. Gable."

He stopped right in front of her, so close she could feel the cold radiating from him. He stretched out his open hand. "The key."

The silence in the hall was absolute. Mrs. Gable stared at his outstretched hand, her face pale, her breathing shallow. He did not blink, did not move. He simply waited. After a long, agonizing moment, her resolve crumbled. With a trembling hand, she reached into the deep pocket of her dress and pulled out a single, large, ornate iron key. She placed it in his palm without a word.

Prescott closed his hand around it and walked away, heading for the back of the house where the cellar entrance was hidden.

He found the door at the end of a narrow corridor. And standing before it were two large, thuggish men he recognized as hired muscle Augusta sometimes used. They straightened up as he approached, blocking his path.

"The Baroness gave us strict orders," one of them growled. "No one goes down there."

Prescott didn’t waste time arguing. In one shockingly fast motion, he drew a small, heavy pistol from inside his coat. Before they could even process what was happening, two loud gunshots echoed through the manor. The men crumpled to the floor without a sound.

Inside the cellar, Baron Edgar heard the shots. His heart hammered in his chest. A rough, dirty cloth was stuffed inside his mouth, and his hands and feet were bound tightly to a rickety old chair. He had been here for a week, fed only bread and water, left alone in the cold and the dark.

He heard the clinking sound of a key in the cellar door lock. The door creaked open.

Edgar’s muffled shouts increased as he saw Prescott silhouetted in the doorway, a smoking pistol still in his hand. Prescott saw the old Baron tied up, and his calm demeanor broke for a second. He ran to him, crouching down as his nimble fingers worked at the thick knots on Edgar’s legs and hands.

"Are you alright, my Lord?" Prescott asked, his voice full of a genuine concern that surprised even himself.

Edgar nodded his head. As soon as the ropes fell away, Prescott quickly removed the gag from his mouth. Edgar coughed, his throat raw.

"Take me to the meeting," he commanded, his voice a hoarse, powerful rasp. "Immediately."

Prescott helped the old man to his feet, and together they rushed from the house and into the waiting carriage. They drove to Ellington Textiles with the speed of light. As they arrived, they could hear a commotion from inside the council room. Edgar shook his head. He had heard enough. He went in without a moment’s hesitation, Prescott following close behind him.

He burst through the doors of the council room. "Enough!!!" he said, his voice cutting through the tense standoff.

Everyone stared at him, their faces a gallery of shock and disbelief. He walked down the table, his eyes locked on Augusta, whose face had crumpled in pure, pain-stricken terror.

"I don’t know if my son consented to this," Edgar said, his voice ringing with authority as he gestured to the papers on the table. "But I certainly do not. And as the majority shareholder and owner of this establishment, my consent is the only one that matters."

Delia looked at him, her eyes filled with overwhelming joy and relief. "Grandfather..." she breathed.

Edgar’s gaze shifted to her. He saw the large, rough hand of the guard still gripping her wrist. He pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at the guard.

"Let go of her now!" he roared, his voice a thunderous command.

The guard, terrified, instantly released Delia’s wrist and bowed his head in submission.