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“I think I preferred Catherine in her rags,” grumbled the Earl when he reached Stefton’s side.

“Why? Don’t tell me, my friend, that you are jealous of the attention she receives!” The Marquis’s smile was faintly sneering.

The Earl scratched the side of his face and frowned. “Aye, and it’s humorous even to me,” he said matter-of-factly.

The Marquis’s smile faded, and he looked closely at his friend, his eyes carefully hooded. “Perhaps as a fairy godfather I overplayed my hand,” Stefton drawled.

Soothcoor looked across the ballroom floor to where Catherine was dancing. He paused a long moment. “Aye,” he said finally, softly, “perhaps you did at that.”

The dance ended, and Catherine’s partner escorted her back to her courtiers' circle. Soothcoor murmured his excuses and quitted Stefton’s side to return to Catherine.

The Marquis again crossed his arms on his chest and leaned against the wall, hooking one foot across the other.

A harsh frown carved deep furrows between his brows and alongside his nose, sharpening the planes of his face. His eyes were cold as stone.

He watched Susannah come to her side and whisper in her ear.

Quickly Catherine rose and went off with her toward the library.

Susannah was probably telling her of the betrothal, he thought angrily.

Explosively, he came away from the wall and walked quickly, with the catlike grace typical of him, toward the staircase.

He had to get outside for a breath of air.

“Oh, Susannah, I’m so happy for you!” Catherine hugged her cousin then stepped back to study her radiant features. “You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

“So do you,” Susannah said softly.

Catherine laughed. If one looked closely, one could see faint smudges of gray under her eyes and an over bright, feverish quality in them. Susannah did, and her heart went out to her cousin.

“He’s watched you all evening, you know.”

“Yes, my uncle’s loyal watchdog, undoubtedly on guard to protect my purse more than my virtue.”

She tossed the words out casually, but the underlying bitterness twisted Susannah’s heart.

She wished there was something she might do to ease her cousin’s pain.

Catherine had done so much for her. Perhaps she should gather her courage in her hands and confront the arrogant Marquis.

He’d always frightened her and made her feel the stammering schoolgirl.

But for Catherine, she’d surmount her fears.

Catherine leaned her forehead against the cool marble of the library mantel. “When is the wedding to be? I fear I shan’t be able to attend as I am leaving for Yorkshire within the week.”

“Catherine, no!” protested Susannah.

“Catherine, yes,” she corrected, summoning yet another smile.

She was so tired--tired of all the lies, the subterfuge, the sorrow.

“My mother is also getting married soon, remember. I have to get back to wish her well, or she’ll fret herself right out of the engagement! ” she said with a hollow laugh.

Susannah laid a comforting hand on Catherine’s shoulder. “I understand,” she murmured.

They stood there a moment, Catherine fighting back the same tears she’d fought against all week.

Angrily, Catherine tossed her head back, willing the tears not to spill from her eyes.

She gulped air almost hysterically, then ordered her breathing to relax.

She closed her eyes. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to be alone for a minute,” she said tightly.

Uncertainly, Susannah’s hand slid from her shoulder. She gazed at Catherine anxiously, her teeth biting her lower lip until she tasted a drop of blood. “All right, if that is what you want. Just remember, Catherine, you have many friends who care for you.”

Catherine opened her eyes and smiled mistily at Susannah. “I know that cousin, I know that, and believe me, it is appreciated.”

Susannah nodded, looked as if she were going to speak again, then changed her mind and turned away, walking quietly out the door. Catherine watched her go, then sank down into her favorite armchair by the fireplace and let her head sink into her hands.

“Her cousin just came out of the library, but our little wren is still in there,” Kirkson informed Panthea as he walked past her.

“How convenient,” she murmured. She continued down the hall, stopping by the library door and glancing back briefly. She smiled assurance, then pressed the latch and went inside.

From the mansion’s deep shadow, Stefton cursorily watched the fidgety behavior of a team that drew up before Harth House.

A woman and a man soon came down the townhouse's steps escorting a swooning woman swathed in a voluminous dark cloak.

They placed her in the carriage. Then the gentleman jumped in, leaning out for a brief word with the lady who had aided him and ordered the driver on with a wave of his hands.

There was something about the stance and posture of the woman left behind that was familiar, but Stefton couldn’t place it however much it nagged at the fringes of his memories.

He raked a hand through his hair, causing several locks to fall and curl across his brow.

The woman stood for a moment on the flagway, watching the carriage turn the corner at the end of Upper Grosvenor, before turning back to the house.

It was then, by the light of the flambeau at the doorway, that Stefton saw her face. It was Lady Welville.

Suddenly, an awful, cold feeling grabbed at his insides and twisted them tight, the pain shooting down through his toes and upward into his brain.

His breathing became harsh. He leaned out of the shadow and into the street light, his face transformed into a mask of steel and his eyes to obsidian.

He ran back to Harth House, taking the steps two and three at a time.

No one was waiting by the door to let guests in and out, and the hall, shadowy and dark from guttered candles, was strangely deserted.

The clutching cold feeling grew, spreading through his limbs.

He fought against the lethargy it threatened.

He ran across the hall and up the stairs to the ballroom.

He stopped abruptly at the doorway, his breathing rapid now, sweat glistening on his brow.

Panthea was just easing into a conversation with the dowagers.

A nice touch, that, Stefton thought grimly, but he was not one to be intimidated by haughty dowagers or public scenes.

Not now. If he was correct, there wasn’t time for niceties.

He strode over to Panthea, grabbed her by the shoulder, and twirled her around. “Where’s he taking her?” he ground out, his face a death’s-head white.

“Oh, la, Oliver, you startled me,” began Panthea coyly, batting her lashes at him.

His expression did not change. “Do not try it,” the Marquis warned softly. “Where is he taking her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Panthea said with a touch of nervous asperity.

“Panthea, do not make me do something that you will have cause to regret.”

His unwavering gaze unnerved Panthea. She absently plucked at the folds of her gown. “What do you see in her anyway?” Panthea demanded petulantly. “She is just a little brown wren.”

They were beginning to draw a crowd. Even the orchestra stopped playing. The Marquis continued to stare silently.

“It was his idea,” protested Panthea helplessly.

“I am warning you, Panthea, you’ll tell me now what I want to know or suffer the consequences as his accomplice in a kidnapping.”

“Easy, man,” murmured the Earl of Soothcoor, coming up to his side.

She licked her lips nervously and looked around at the crowd.

She was backed into a corner. “Oh, Stefton, it was just that Miss Shreveton!” she said lightly.

“She and Kirkson are just running off. They say they can’t put up with such formality any longer.

I can’t say that I blame them. It is a pretty stuffy lot. ”

The Marquis’s fingers curled around her upper arm. “No games, Panthea,” he said harshly, shaking her like a doll.

All eyes were turned upon them.

Tears began to roll down Lady Panthea’s cheeks, and for once they were not artifice.

“All right, all right,” she wailed weakly.

“He is taking her, and not by her consent, but I swear to you, I don’t know where!

He wouldn’t tell me. He said it was safer if I do not know. ” Her hands covered her weeping eyes.

A murmur of horror swept the company. Stefton flung her arm aside, his mouth working furiously before any words would come out. He turned and scanned the assembly. “Soothcoor! Find Chilberlain and meet me at Vauden as soon as possible. We haven’t a moment to lose!”

He turned back to glance briefly at Panthea, his eyes empty. “I recommend you seek a warmer climate for your health, one where your devious charms can be appreciated.” Suddenly he was gone, and the muted whisperings increased in volume.

Frantic, Panthea looked around for a sympathetic face. There were none. Each face read condemnation clearer than the last. Panthea whimpered, screamed, and fainted.

“I’m sorry, milord, but the gray’s come up lame,” the groom said when Stefton asked for his favorite mount. “Lame! When did that happen?”

The man shrugged, suddenly nervous before the Marquis’s probing gaze. “I—I don’t know, milord. Mr. Friarly took him out to exercise earlier, and when he brought him back, he was favoring that leg.”

"Seems Kirkson’s paying your man." The memory rang a warning bell in the Marquis’s head. “Where’s Friarly?"

"In his quarters, milord. Shall I fetch him?”

“Please,” said the Marquis equably as the Captain and the Earl arrived at the stables in the Vauden Mews.

“Do we ride together or split up to see if we can determine which direction he took?” the Captain asked, swinging down from his saddle.

“Together, for I believe we are about to discover not only his direction but his destination,” said the Marquis, a cold smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

Behind him came the clatter of boots down the stairs.

The Marquis’s smile broadened, and he held up his hand to forestall further questions from his friends.

“You wished to see me, milord?” asked Friarly, still tucking his shirttails into his breeches.

“Yes, Friarly. Tell me, how long have you been in my employ?”

Puzzled at the question, the groom’s brows knitted together. “I don’t rightly recall, milord. Five, maybe six years.”

“And in that time, have I ever given you cause to distrust my judgment?”

“Oh, no, milord. Quite to the contrary.”

“Good, for I am going to tell you what, in my judgment, is the proper punishment for employees who take money from others to do some disservice to their employers.”

The groom blanched. “Milord?” He backed up, running into a stall post.

“Particularly,” the Marquis went relentlessly on while moving to block the man’s escape route, “if the disservice also leads to the ruination of an innocent young lady.”

Friarly looked anxiously from the Marquis to the Earl and the Captain, but they looked as forbidding as the Marquis. They spread out to block any path of escape. He looked back at the Marquis and extended a shaking hand in supplication. “Please, milord!” the man gabbled.

“Yes, Friarly? You wish to venture an opinion as to the punishment?”

“I didn’t know what use he was going to make of it. At least, not until it were too late!”

“Ah, but I disagree with you. You could have come to me, revealed all, and been a hero instead of a wretch who lames horses to prevent their being ridden to save a lady’s virtue.” The Marquis grabbed the man by his shirt, slamming him up against the stall. “Where’s he taken her, you maw-worm!”

“Crowden Park! Crowden Park!” screeched the man, his eyes showing white all around. “Please, milord! Have mercy!”

“Crowden Park,” murmured Stefton, stunned. His grip eased, and the groom slid to the floor, sobbing apologies and begging for mercy. “Stephen!” the Marquis bellowed.

“Yes, milord,” said a sandy-haired youth, coming out of the shadows.

“Saddle and bridle the bay, then lock Friarly in the tack room until I return.” He looked down at the gibbering groom. “If I were you, I’d pray no harm has come to her.”

“Isn’t Crowden one of your properties?” asked Soothcoor.

“Yes, on the road to Ilford.”

“East out of London. Not a direction we’d a been likely to go searching,” the Earl observed.

“Precisely.”

The gentlemen were grimly silent as they absorbed the implications of that fact. Finally, the Earl stirred and threw the reins he held back over his horse’s neck and prepared to mount. He paused and looked back at the Marquis. “Oliver, save a piece of his hide for me,” he said softly.

The Marquis nodded curtly.