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“I’m noticing a trend of the lady passing on your company,” Rothesby drawled. “Perhaps you might allow me to take her off your hands, after all.”

Ignoring that good-natured ribbing, Andrew scoured the club, frantically searching for her.

His heart thudded a sickly beat against the walls of his chest.

What in hell was she thinking? Didn’t she have any idea the danger she might find herself in at this hell?

Amongst the patrons, Andrew caught a glimpse of her satin turban: never more grateful he’d insisted she don that article.

“Waters?” Rothesby called, concerned.

Andrew took off after Marcia as she maneuvered around guests, weaving and sliding between them with the stealth of London’s best pickpocket.

Then, he lost her.

Dread tightened in his stomach.

“Mar—” Cutting off that damning shout, he increased his pace.

Not that he needed to bother yelling for her. She’d never hear him above the din of this place.

Andrew shoved his wave through the same crowd Marcia had raced through, elbowing men out of the way, and earning angry shouts from drunken patrons. And then she broke free through the crush, and disappeared down one of the many halls of Cyprian’s Den.

Sweat slicked his palms, and he quickened his stride.

Madness tightened its hold over him.

Why in hell had he agreed to take her here.

Why?

Why?

It was a litany in his head as he reached the hallway she’d disappeared down.

Absent of any patrons, silence filled the hall, punctuated by the revelries behind him.

“Dorothy,” he shouted, using that middle name she’d given Rothesby. Those unanswered two syllables echoed from the walls. Andrew paused beside the first door, and pressing the handle, let himself in.

A couple in the throes of making love gave no outward indication they’d heard them.

Andrew closed the door hard on those pitchy screams and groans, and continued on to the next room.

With every room, and every tableau he interrupted, his panic spiraled.

“Dorothy,” he called again as he entered a fourth bedchamber.

A pair of women, locked in one another arms paused in their embrace. “We could be her.” One of the ladies giggled. “Would you care to—?”

Andrew shut the door on the remainder of that invitation.

He reached for the next handle and let himself in.

An eerie silence filled the bedchamber.

White, from the satin wallpaper that adorned the walls to the sheets and coverlet upon the massive four-poster bed, and the filmy gauze covering that hung upon that. The stark color, amidst this house of sin, teased an illusion of innocence. Andrew passed his gaze over the room.

“Dorothy?” he called into the quiet, stepping deeper into the room.