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“Hmm,” Charlotte said noncommittally, though she looked mollified. “The general knows where she is. While we wait for his reply, I will ring for refreshments. I do not want you to grow parched.” She rang her bell again and ordered a pair of trays brought ‘round.

“Do you think Her Majesty is becoming fond of me?” Peregrine whispered to Charity while the Queen was issuing orders. His eyes sparkled wickedly, amused by the sudden show of civility.

Charity coughed lightly into her fist, stifling a laugh. “Please do not put yourself right back into her black book by commenting on it.”

Two footmen, twins of above average height and black hair, brought a tray each, one with a steaming silver teapot and porcelain cups, the other with plates of sandwiches, their ends free of crusts. Her Majesty gave a nod of encouragement, all but demanding Charity and Peregrine help themselves.

For the second time in as many days, Charity found herself with a steaming cup of tea as her only shield against a formidable opponent.

Considering the fearsomeness of Lady Fitzroy’s plan cast a pall over the room.

The meetings taking place at the other end of the palace were testament to the seriousness of the situation.

“There is still time,” the Queen murmured as if hearing their thoughts.

“I want this Goldbourne here. Right now. We cannot afford to delay. I assume you know what the man looks like, Lord Fitzroy? I cannot send guards to search , but if you were to go to his bank, acting in capacity as my representative , I believe I should feel compelled to send men to guard your safety.”

Peregrine nodded, a slight smile on his face. Her Majesty would use the excuse of protecting him to discreetly exceed her authority and aid in the search.

A light tap on the door interrupted them from further discussion. The Queen called for the person to enter. It proved to be the original footman she had sent off with the message for General Billingham.

“He has ordered his carriage prepared, Your Majesty. He will be going to fetch her. But he says the marchioness was moved to a house outside of London, so it will take some time to retrieve her.”

“We are losing time,” the Queen said with a glower at the messenger. “Duchess Atholl, go with the general’s carriage and fetch the marchioness directly. You may use the ride back here to apprise her of the situation and gain her thoughts.”

Charity gathered her skirts and bobbed a curtsey, determined to be on her way.

She retraced her steps to the courtyard outside the palace.

As promised, a tall black carriage with bright blue trim was waiting.

General Billingham himself helped her inside and then gave the directions to the carriage driver.

The carriage lurched into motion, the turn of the wheels matching the roiling in Charity’s stomach. They had an inkling of what Lady Fitzroy intended, but it remained far from clear whether they had a chance of stopping it.

Traffic had not abated during her time inside the palace. The carriage’s slow progress only added to her woes. She closed her eyes, focusing on her breath.

She did not hear the latch of the carriage door slide open, and knew nothing was afoot until a strange man in a brown cloak climbed in and pushed into the space beside her, his weight rocking the stopped carriage.

“Who—?” Charity said, so shocked she did not scream. Instead, she looked into the heavily-stubbled face, most of which was hidden beneath a hood .

The man smiled at her. A pitying one—not predatory. “Hallo, Your Grace,” he said. “Now I’d ask you not to scream, seein’ as I’ve no wish to hurt a lady. But if you do, I’ll have to shut you up sharp. Just business, yeah? You understand.”

She felt faint. This was the man who had tried to strangle Peregrine. She was certain of it. “Are you going to murder me?”

“No, sweetheart,” he said offhandedly, reaching into his pocket for a flask. “Ain’t here for that. Not today, anyhow. Be a good girl and drink this, would you?”

“I will not,” Charity breathed. “It might be poison.”

The man’s mouth kicked up in a smirk, and he uncapped it, wafting it under her nose. It was bitter smelling, like alcohol and something earthy. “Laudanum, Your Grace. I’m afraid I’ve got to insist. Can’t have you knowin’ where we’re goin’. And if you won’t drink—” he shrugged.

He’ll hit you , her mother finished, and Charity shivered.

“For what it’s worth, it’d be a damn sight easier to cut your throat than to talk you into poisonin’ yourself, sweetheart. So let’s not make it ugly.”

“You promise I will wake up from this?” she asked, her hand shaking as she took the flask.

“On my black heart, I swear it. Drink up.”

Charity put the flask to her lips, recognising the same familiar, acrid taste that she had been dosed with again and again during the week she had been held against her will.

The man watched her steadily, waiting. And finally, she took her courage in both hands, downing it. Her last clear thought was that this time, neither Peregrine nor anyone else was going to get there in time to save her.