Page 33 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

The Marquess sighed dramatically, moving to close the drawing room door before returning to stand before the unlit hearth. “What exactly do you wish to know?”

“Where is my husband searching today? I know he left at dawn.”

“Ah.” He hesitated, clearly torn between loyalty to his friend and the compelling earnestness of the woman before him. “That is… somewhat complicated.”

“I am not unfamiliar with complexity,” Beatrice countered. “Philip is not only Leo’s cousin, but also my dearest friend. If he were truly in danger, I could not forgive myself for remaining passive.”

She saw the Marquess’s resistance waver. After a moment’s internal debate, he crossed to a writing desk and retrieved a folded piece of paper.

“Stagmore sent me this note this morning,” he explained, offering it to her with evident reluctance. “He’s investigating an address in Lambeth. The supposed residence of Anna Finley’s cousin.”

Beatrice unfolded the note, quickly scanning its contents. The address was in an area she knew only by reputation. Respectable enough by modest standards but far removed from the polished elegance of Mayfair.

“I must go there,” she declared, rising from her seat with sudden determination.

“I beg your pardon?” The Marquess’s expression suggested he feared she had taken leave of her senses. “That would be entirely inappropriate, not to mention potentially dangerous. Leo would be justifiably furious.”

“I am not asking for your permission, Lord Tillfield,” she replied, her voice calm but resolute. “I am asking for your assistance. You know these areas far better than I, and I would prefer not to venture there alone.”

“You cannot be serious,” he protested, though the weakening conviction in his tone suggested he recognized the futility of his objection. “Stagmore will hold me personally responsible if any harm comes to you.”

“Then we must ensure that no harm comes to me,” she countered pragmatically. “I will go regardless of your decision, but your accompaniment would certainly increase the safety of the venture.”

The Marquess studied her with newfound respect, apparently recognizing the steel beneath her composed exterior. “You are remarkably determined for a woman Society described as a wallflower.”

“Generally, Society observes what it expects to see,” Beatrice replied simply. “Will you help me, Lord Tillfield?”

A brief silence stretched between them as the Marquess weighed his options.

Finally, he sighed with theatrical resignation. “I suppose someone must ensure you don’t come to harm. Though I should warn you, Leo has a hot temper.”

“I am quite familiar with my husband’s temper,” Beatrice assured him, a faint smile touching her lips. “Now, perhaps you might suggest a more suitable mode of dress for our excursion? I fear my current attire would attract undue attention in Lambeth.”

The Marquess’s eyes widened slightly, before he smiled with genuine amusement. “You continue to surprise me, Your Grace. Wait here, I believe I have something that might serve.”

He returned moments later with a dark woolen cloak, plain but well-made, clearly designed for a woman of modest means rather than a duchess.

“This belonged to… my sister before her marriage,” he explained, offering no further details about how such an item had found itself in his bachelor lodgings.

“It’s perfect,” Beatrice declared, donning the garment over her silk gown.

The hood, when pulled forward, effectively obscured her features, while the voluminous folds concealed the quality of her dress.

“We shall take my unmarked carriage,” the Marquess decided, apparently resigned to his role in this unfolding drama. “If we are to court disaster, we might at least attempt discretion.”

Within the hour, they were traveling through London’s gradually changing streets, the elegant facades of Mayfair giving way to the more modest but still respectable structures of the commercial districts, which in turn yielded to narrower thoroughfares and increasingly diverse architecture.

“I must insist that you follow my lead,” the Marquess cautioned as their carriage approached the neighborhood Leo had identified in his note. “This is not the ton, Your Grace. The rules of engagement differ considerably.”

“I understand,” Beatrice assured him, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribs despite her outward calm.

The anticipation of confronting Leo’s displeasure paled beside her determination to participate actively in Philip’s recovery.

The carriage halted at the edge of a modest street lined with narrow houses, their facades respectable if somewhat worn by time and weather. The Marquess assisted her descent with practiced gallantry, though his expression remained troubled.

“That building there,” he murmured, indicating a three-story structure with faded green shutters. “According to Leo’s note, that’s where Miss Finley’s cousin resides.”

They had scarcely taken two steps toward the building when a familiar figure emerged from a neighboring alleyway.