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She bucked, thrashing at him with her arms. He grunted and grabbed her hands, holding them out from her sides. He lowered his face to within inches of her own.

“I shall enjoy taming you as we wait and see if that fine husband of yours is willing to pay for your return.” His breath was redolent of porter and overripe cheese. Elizabeth turned her head away from the smell. He laughed, pressing the outline of his swollen member tightly against her body.

He looked up at Atheridge. “The rope, you idiot! Help me tie her up.”

Quaking, Atheridge dropped to his knees, handing him the rope. “D-did you get a carriage?”

He knotted the rope about her wrists, pulling it cruelly tight when she attempted to flail at him. “From the stable,” he answered shortly.

“Here? Her own carriage? If Thomas finds it missing—” he trailed off miserably.

“That’s why you’ll have to come with me to see it’s brought back before he’s about.” Tunning grunted as he deflected a kick.

“Me!”'

“Know anyone else whose neck threatens to be stretched if he don’t?” He quickly captured the errant leg and bound the two together. He sat back on his heels and studied her bound figure. “Are you sure you don’t want a tumble?” he asked Atheridge.

He laughed at Atheridge’s choked denial. “Well, help me get her out of here.”

Elizabeth shuddered as they grabbed her, squeezing her eyes shut to close out his gloating image. She was terrified, but knew she must master her terror if she was to have a chance to escape.

“Oh, Thomas, quit now. Mind your manners,” Ivy said, playfully batting at the grinning youth nuzzling her neck.

“It’s you I’d rather mind, in all manner,” he mumbled into her soft skin.

“To be sure, you rascal,” she said, pulling away and adopting a prim mien as she straightened her clothes.

Thomas sat back, laughing. “You’re a saucy miss. It would serve you right if I left you to those London wolves.”

He stood up and stretched. “Speakin’ of London reminds me, I’ve a harness to mend afore morning. Be a pet and walk me to the door.”

“Walk you to the door? Get on with you now,” she said pertly.

“’Tis a cold, cold night; I could use a kiss at the door to warm me,” he said glibly.

“You do tell a tale,” she protested. “Well, come on now, if that’s your payment, let’s be about.

My lady’s fired to patch things with my lord and would be mighty unhappy if we couldn’t be off first light.

But let’s go quiet like, I don’t fancy runnin’ across Atheridge or that hatchet faced wife o’ his. ”

He nodded his understanding as he grabbed his coat off the peg and opened the door to his room.

They stood listening at the doorway then slowly stepped into the hall, grimacing as a floorboard creaked.

They exchanged quick, warning glances. Thomas grabbed Ivy’s hand and led her stealthily toward the back stairs and down two flights to the butler’s pantry.

“What was that?” Ivy tugged on Thomas’s arm to halt him. “Listen!” she hissed. She crept toward the dining room, then on through to peek out its open doors into the foyer hall.

She nearly gasped aloud, quickly clamping a hand across her lips to still any sound. She beckoned urgently for Thomas to come look.

Mrs. Atheridge stood by the front door, holding a small lantern while Atheridge and Mr. Tunning, hunched over, descended the stairs. They appeared to be carrying something between them. Thomas squeezed Ivy’s shoulder when they saw the dark bundle move.

Tunning laughed softly. “Your struggling just fires my blood. Think that fine husband of yours will take back soiled goods?”

“Sh-h—” hissed Mrs. Atheridge, glancing about the hall.

Thomas and Ivy ducked out of sight. Ivy, biting her lip, looked up at Thomas anxiously, silently asking him if they should intercede.

Slowly he shook his head. The devil was in Tunning, right enough, and no telling what he was liable to do if they rushed to save the Viscountess.

Tentatively he looked into the hall again, in time to see Tunning sling her over his shoulder while Atheridge opened the door and his wife held the lantern high to guide their steps.

In the wavering lantern light, the Viscountess’s face was ashe,n yet bore resolute courage.

Thomas knew she would not submit easily to Tunning.

Through the open door he saw the horse and carriage from the stable.

A silent whistle passed his lips at the kidnappers’ audacity.

He smiled suddenly when he remembered the worn harness.

In the hands of a driver like Tunning, it wouldn’t last long.

He pulled Ivy back into the butler’s pantry and on into the kitchen.

“What are we going to do?” wailed Ivy softly, clutching at his sleeve.

“You’re going to go to your room and stay there till I return,” he instructed, gently disengaging her grasp.

“I—I couldn’t!”

“Yes, you can. I’m going to ride hell-for-leather to London for his lordship.”

“It will take too long!”

“Not if I ride cross-country—and remember, they’re driving with a bad harness. But standing here jawin’ ain’t helping. Watch out for hatchet face. I’m off.”

“Thomas, wait!”

He turned back to her, about to protest, when she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

“That’s to ward off the cold and speed you on your way,” she said softly.

He grinned, swooping to pick her up and give her a hearty kiss, then he sped for the stable.

By the light of day, at a carriage trot, Larchside was situated two hours out of London.

At night, with only a faint half moon to guide a horse by, it should have taken longer.

Thomas reached London in little over an hour.

He sent up a prayer of thanks to his maker as he made his way to the house on Upper Brook Street, and added a request for the Viscount to be home. He wasn’t.

Thomas swore softly as he guided the tired horse to St. Ryne’s club.

Somewhere on the road to London, every minute began to feel like hours, and the hearty confidence he’d shown Ivy dwindled away.

Perhaps he should have gone directly to the magistrate, or maybe roused the Humphries.

Lines of worry etched his brow as he pounded on the club door.

He rudely pushed past the porter into the hall.

“See here, man, what do you think you’re about?” demanded the porter.

“I’ve got to see the Viscount St. Ryne,” gasped Thomas, heading for the stairs.

Two burly footmen barred his path.

“You’ll wait outside and we’ll inform his lordship when he’s free,” pronounced the porter as the two footmen grabbed his arms and hustled him to the door.

Thomas savagely twisted free and ran up the stairs followed by the footmen while the porter shouted from below. The footmen caught up with him on the landing when Thomas paused in uncertainty as to which way to proceed.

The hue and cry caught the attention of several gentlemen who immediately began to place bets among themselves as to the young stranger’s success against their footmen.

Thomas’s desperation giving him strength, he landed several flush hits, engendering a smattering of applause from his audience and a renewal of betting activity. But he was becoming winded.

“I’m for St. Ryne—they’ve got her ladyship!” he blurted out before a punishing left deprived him of breath.

One gentleman in the group straightened.

“Hold!” he commanded. The footmen and Thomas reacted instinctively to his voice.

The man strode forward briskly to fix Thomas with a quelling stare.

“What is this about the Viscountess?” Thomas swallowed convulsively.

“Mr. Tunning and Mr. Atheridge, sir, they bound her and took her. Mr. Tunning don’t mean well by her neither. ”

The gentleman swung around to one of the footmen nursing a sore jaw.

“You,” he ordered, “go round to my stables and have them saddle my two fastest horses and bring them here.” He pulled off a signet ring from his little finger.

“Use this ring as authority. Have them here in less than fifteen minutes and there’s a gold crown in it for you. ”

“I say, Branstoke, what is this all about?” asked one of the sprigs of fashion ogling the fight.

“Stanley! Fetch St. Ryne immediately, even if you have to drag him here.” Branstoke’s voice thundered, a far cry from his habitual languid tones.

Young Stanley reacted instinctively to the voice of authority, just as Thomas and the footmen had, and trotted off to discover in which room St. Ryne sat.

Beyond seeing that he did as ordered, Branstoke scarcely paid him heed. He turned back to Thomas, dragging him out of hearing of the curious. “All right, lad, tell me what happened.”

The words tumbled out of Thomas’s mouth as he explained what he and Ivy saw. Branstoke’s brows drew together as he listened and a crowd began to gather, filling the hall.

“Thomas! Stand aside. Let me pass!” St. Ryne’s voice came from the far side of the crowd, where he was rudely shoving his way through his fellow club members, ignoring their disgruntled oaths.

“My lord!” gasped Thomas, when he saw him finally push his way through.

“What’s going on? Stanley babbled something about Elizabeth.” He grabbed Thomas by his coat, nearly pulling him off his feet.

“Kidnapped, she was, my lord, by Mr. Tunning.”

A small uproar swept through the crowd. St. Ryne ignored them, his attention on Thomas. “When? How?”

Branstoke laid a hand on St. Ryne’s arm. “I’ve sent for two fast horses. Your man can give the details on the way.” He clapped Thomas on the back. “Will you be all right, lad? You’ve been through a lot already.”

“I’m fine, sir. ’Sides, I’d do anything for her ladyship.”

“Enough! We haven’t any time to lose,” snapped St. Ryne, heading for the stairs, Thomas and Branstoke following.

“But, I say, St. Ryne, you’re in your evening dress!” protested a town tulip, eyeing him through his quizzing glass.

“I’d go buck naked if it would get me to her faster!” he called back over his shoulder.