Beyond Seduction

Chapter 16

They gathered outside the Scales & Anchor, a crowd large enough to fill the street. Abel Griggs and his lads joined them, as did many of the local men and boys. It was early evening when Gervase organized the assembled multitude into groups and sent them out searching, quartering the town, spreading outward from the old docks where Ben had last been seen.

Leaving Abel installed on the bench outside the Scales & Anchor to receive any reports, Gervase took Madeline’s arm and together they walked swiftly to the mayor’s house, a short distance away.

“Good gracious!” Mr. Caldwell, the mayor, was shocked by their news. “Of course you must search. Do you have enough men? We could call out the militia-entirely appropriate in such a case.”

Gervase inclined his head, acknowledging the offer. “No need as it happens, not because we can’t use the men, but because most have already joined us.”

“Good, good.” Short and tending toward rotund, Mr. Caldwell bobbed his head, looking stunned. “Shocking thing, to have a youngster kidnapped.”

“Indeed.” Taking Madeline’s arm, Gervase eased her away-before Caldwell started speculating on Ben’s plight, something Madeline didn’t need to hear. “If you’ll excuse us, we must get back to the search.”

“Of course, of course!”

With a nod, her face expressionless, Madeline turned away and let Gervase lead her down the path and back into the street. Her features were set; she felt locked away inside herself, as if everything were happening at a distance, yet she knew that it was real, the here and now.

She knew Ben had been kidnapped and was in danger.

Gervase had explained all she hadn’t known while they’d waited for the others outside the inn. In large measure the explanation was incidental; to her, the only thing that mattered was Ben-finding him, rescuing him, safe and unharmed.

Her detachment, she was beginning to realize, was a boon.

If she thought about the situation too much, let possibilities form and take shape, panic welled and threatened to overwhelm her, to sink her mind in a morass of emotions, but with Gervase beside her she could hold back the black tide and function as she needed to-as Ben needed her to.

Gervase’s hand tightened over hers on his sleeve. “One thing at a time-that’s how to approach this.”

Her gaze on the pavement ahead of them, she nodded.

The sound of clattering hooves, deep woofs and a sudden hail had them both looking up. Two riders were walking their horses up the street, a gentleman and a lady, with two huge hounds ranging alongside, drifting from one side of the road to the other, scenting this, then that.

Drawing rein just ahead of them, the riders dismounted, the lady kicking her feet free of her stirrups and sliding down before the man could assist her. He glanced at her, then, his reins in one hand, came forward. Smiling. “The old tar outside the inn said you’d come this way.”

Gervase’s lips lifted; he shook hands with the gentleman, then turned to Madeline. “Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel, and his wife, Lady Penelope. The Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne.”

Madeline forced a weak smile and shook hands.

“Just Charles,” the gentleman said, squeezing her hand in kindly fashion. He was as tall as Gervase, but black-haired, with large dark eyes; beyond that, they were of similar build, and shared the same elusive sense of intentness, of being very much alert and aware, even when relaxed.

“You must be quite frantic with worry.” Lady Penelope, a willowy blonde with a look in her gray eyes that said she was not to be trifled with no matter what her husband might imply, took both Madeline’s hands in hers and smiled understandingly. “And do call me Penny.” She looked at Gervase. “So we’re here-the dogs are here. I suggest we make a start so we can find this young lad.”

Charles flashed Madeline a grin. “She’s a bossy sort.”

Madeline raised her brows. “In that case, she and I will get along famously.”

Penny chuckled. “Indeed.”

The dogs pressed close, one on either side of Charles and Penny, looking up at Gervase and Madeline with great canine grins, as if they, too, were eager to get on.

“I brought two pieces of Ben’s clothing,” Madeline said. “Things he’s recently worn. I left them in my saddle pocket.”

“Our horses are at the inn,” Gervase said. “We can start from there.”

They walked quickly back to the inn, dogs and horses in tow. Madeline noticed Penny glancing at her trousers, visible beneath her gown’s hem given she was striding along.

Penny was striding, too; although a few inches shorter than Madeline, she was taller than most ladies. As they reached the archway leading into the inn yard, Penny caught Madeline’s eye. “I confess I’m intrigued. I assume you ride astride? How do you find others take to the trousers?”

Madeline’s smile was wry. “I’ve been wearing them-usually under a riding dress-for more than a decade, so everyone around here has grown used to the sight. But I have to ride a lot, and this is Artur”-she gestured as she led them to where the big chestnut stood tied to a rail-“so a sidesaddle isn’t really an option.”

“Oh, but he’s a beauty.” Penny stroked Artur’s long nose, appreciatively cast her eye down his length. “Powerful, too.”

Madeline nodded as she pulled Ben’s clothes from her saddle pocket.

Beside them, Charles nudged Gervase. “We’re redundant.”

“Not for long.” Madeline turned with the clothes. She offered them to Charles. “How do you want to do this?”

After consulting with Gervase, Charles elected to put both dogs on leashes. He pulled the long leather strips from his saddlebags. “We don’t want them finding the scent and then racing too far ahead of us. If your brother’s on his own, he might get a nasty shock to see these two charging toward him.”

“They won’t hurt him,” Penny put in.

“But they won’t be very friendly toward anyone who’s with him, regardless of whether they’re friend or foe.” Charles finished fastening the leashes; he handed one to Penny. “Let’s go to this bench he was last seen sitting on and start from there.”

They did. Abel stayed on outside the inn, but those searchers who had returned-all with no news-followed Charles, Gervase, Penny and Madeline down to the old docks. The shadows were starting to lengthen. The tavern was deserted; all the patrons were helping with the search.

Charles had the dogs sit before the bench, gave each a piece of Ben’s clothing to sniff, then he showed them the spot on the bench where Edmond said Ben had been sitting. Both dogs sniffed, milled, danced-looked up at Charles expectantly; this was clearly a game they knew. “Find,” Charles said.

Instantly both dogs put their noses to the ground, turned, and headed back along the dock, then up a street that ran roughly parallel to Coinagehall Street.

Everyone followed, hurrying. Charles and Penny jogged, keeping the dogs from racing ahead. The wolfhounds tracked with confidence and ease, moving fluidly; it seemed Ben’s trail was, to them at least, obvious.

The small procession tacked onto a side street, then swung around another corner. The turns continued, but it was apparent that their quarry had struck across the town in one definite direction.

Gervase felt his chest tighten as that direction became plain. He glanced at Madeline, saw from her set expression and the dawning horror in her eyes that she had worked it out, too.

As he’d feared, the dogs reached the High Road, ran a little way along, then stopped. And sat. And looked at Charles; even unfamiliar as he was with the beasts, Gervase could interpret their confident and satisfied demeanor.

They’d followed the trail to the end.

Charles glanced around, then cocked a brow at Gervase.

“The London road.” Face impassive, he turned to Madeline. “The man brought Ben here, then he got into-or was put into-a carriage.”

Madeline met his eyes; her face was nearly as expressionless as his. She nodded, then looked around. Then she turned to those who had followed them through the streets. The group had halted a few feet away, not liking the conclusion of their search any more than Gervase and Madeline.

Somewhat to Gervase’s surprise, Madeline singled out three of the men. “Harris, Cartwright-Miller. You all live in this area, don’t you?”

All three nodded, pushing through to the front of the small crowd. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Right-come with me. Ben was taken in broad daylight in the middle of the afternoon. This is one of the busiest parts of town at that hour-someone must have seen something.”

Gervase joined them; he went with Miller down one side of the street, knocking on doors, speaking to the occupants. The shops along the street had closed for the day; all had their shutters up, but most of the shopkeepers lived above their premises; once they understood what had occurred, all were only too happy to answer their questions.

They soon found three different people who unequivocally confirmed than Ben had been steered by a man, not a local and not a gentleman, to a waiting carriage, then lifted into it. No one had noticed him struggling, but all agreed he’d been lifted quickly, and might not have had time to react. Then the man had climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and the carriage had rolled off-toward London.

“Four good horses.” Charles repeated the words of one of the witnesses, an ostler from one of the inns who’d been passing.

Gervase met his eye, then looked at Madeline. “London. No reason to have four unless they’re traveling that far.”

Madeline looked into his amber eyes and tried to contain her fear. Whoever had abducted Ben, they were taking him to the capital.

They hurried back to the Scales & Anchor, mounted up, and took to the London road in the wake of the unknown carriage. There was an outside chance that the barriers outside Falmouth had been put in place in time…they rode furiously, the sun sinking at their backs.

The last red-gold rays were fading, the sky in the west ablaze, when they came into sight of the improvised blockade, a gate set across the highway manned by soldiers from the Pendennis garrison.

The lieutenant in charge came up as they drew rein. He recognized both Gervase and Charles, and snapped off a salute, with a nod for Madeline and Penny.

“No sign?” Gervase asked.

“No, sir. We halted every carriage and cart and searched them. No boy of any sort has gone through.”

Gervase looked at Madeline, met her eyes. “We’ll continue on to London.”

We. There hadn’t been any question, of course, yet Madeline had been relieved not to have had to argue. Being left in Cornwall while Gervase chased the carriage to London was unthinkable; she couldn’t not follow Ben, no matter that it was unlikely they could catch the carriage before it reached town, and that she had no notion of how to proceed once they got there.

Gervase would have; she clung to that and asked no questions-explanations would only slow them down and she could ask all she wished in the carriage once they were away-and let him organize all that needed organizing.

He was good at it, and thorough to boot. At his suggestion they rode to the main posting inn just outside Falmouth. By then, evening was drawing in, the long twilight taking hold; it deepened as the innkeeper, recognizing both Gervase and Charles, leapt to carry out Gervase’s orders. Ostlers scurried, readying horses, a coach was selected and made ready, and the inn’s best coachman summoned from his cottage.

The inn yard was lit by flickering flares by the time all was ready.

Charles and Penny, who’d declared themselves at Gervase’s and Madeline’s disposal, had agreed to go to Crowhurst Castle, to explain and watch over things there and at the Park. Gervase concisely outlined the mission he’d delegated to Harry-to watch over the beach where the boys had found the brooch.

“I’ll go to the beach myself, speak with Harry, and ensure the watch is kept up day and night. No telling what this blackguard or his henchmen might do.” Charles met Madeline’s eyes, took her hands in his, pressed reassuringly. “Don’t worry. You two concentrate on getting young Ben back safe and sound-you can leave all here to us.”

Sober and serious beside him, Penny nodded. She held Madeline’s gaze. “We’ll watch over your other brothers. We’ll be here when you get back.”

Madeline tried for a smile, but it was a weak effort. Having some other lady step in to watch over Harry and Edmond-she knew without asking that Penny understood; she’d mentioned she’d had a younger brother herself-was a huge relief. With that aspect taken care of, she could indeed focus her entire being on rescuing Ben.

Gervase turned aside as someone called to him.

Opening the door of the carriage, a sleek vehicle with four strong horses between the shafts, with the experienced driver who swore he knew every pothole on the London road and just how to manage his leaders to get the best pace now on the box, Charles handed Madeline up.

Then Gervase was back; with a last word to Penny, then Charles, he climbed into the carriage and sat beside her.

Charles leaned in through the door. “If you reach London without catching them, call on Dalziel.”

Grim-faced, Gervase nodded. “I will.”

Charles saluted, stepped back and shut the door. He called up to the coachman.

A whip cracked, and they were off.

Night had fallen, the darkness dense and complete beneath thick clouds before Madeline’s mind cleared enough to appreciate the comfort of the coach, the warmth of the bricks Gervase had placed at her feet, the softness of the traveling rug beside her on the seat.

They were incidental comforts, but soothed nevertheless. The weather had turned; the night was cool.

Her blood seemed cold, too-too chilly to warm her.

Glancing out of the window at the variegated shadows flitting past, she wondered how far they’d come, how far ahead of them the carriage fleeing with Ben was.

Large and solid beside her, a source of steady warmth-steady reassurance and comfort-Gervase had closed his hand around hers as they’d left the inn yard in Falmouth, and hadn’t once let go. Now he lifted that hand, brushed his lips to her knuckles. As if he could read her mind, he murmured, “We’ll check at the major posting houses. It’ll take a few minutes, but if they halt on the road, we don’t want to overshoot them.”

She looked at his face, his profile. “Do you think they will stop?” She hadn’t allowed herself to imagine that.

He sighed. His lips twisted. “No. Whoever he is, he’s not stupid. He knows a hue and cry will be raised and that we’ll search for Ben. What he couldn’t know is that we’d realize so soon that he’s heading for London. He won’t expect us to be so close on his heels.”

She nodded and looked forward, letting her fingers lightly grip his, letting his hold on her hand, letting him, anchor her. One part of her mind was simply frantic; she’d never in her life felt this way-so at the mercy of a situation that was far beyond her control.

So helpless.

So vulnerable, not over her own well-being, but over the well-being and the life of one who, she knew, had been a surrogate child. Ben was the baby she’d reared; she held him closest of all to her heart.

If it had been herself at risk, she wouldn’t have felt this clawing panic, this fragility. An attack on her she would have met and weathered without emotional strain; an attack on Ben-on any of her brothers-was different. Such an attack held the power to devastate.

Gervase settled her hand on his thigh, his long fingers locked around hers. The steel beneath her hand, the sense of protectiveness the simple act conveyed…she noticed, appreciated, gave mute thanks, but could not, at that moment, find words to phrase her gratitude.

He hadn’t bothered to waste so much as a minute trying to leave her behind; he’d understood, and accepted, and bowed to her right to go with him after Ben. Most men, especially gentlemen, would have argued, and been grumpy when they lost. Instead, he’d done everything possible to ease her way, to support her in her quest…no, their mutual quest. That felt odd in one way, but strangely right. He’d earned the right by his behavior, his understanding, to stand by her side.

Closing her eyes, she swallowed. Took a moment to savor that truth, one moment to acknowledge it. And what it meant, what it portended.

Loving him was one thing, accepting him into her life quite another. Had she already let him in, unconsciously, without, until now, being aware of it?

Regardless, now was not the time for thinking of such things. She breathed in, let the subject sink deeper into her mind, refocusing instead on Ben, and their chase.

Normally a fast, well-sprung carriage would take two full days of traveling to reach London; even with good horses, the journey meant well over twenty-four hours on the road, even in summer. But most carriages didn’t drive through the night; they, however, were. It was risky, more because of the state of the roads than due to any corporeal threat, but that was why Gervase had insisted on Falmouth’s best coachman, and he’d hired his mate as well, so they could spell each other through the night, and then on through the following day.

The rhythmic rocking of the carriage, the swift, regular thud of the horses’ hooves, reassured her; they were doing all they could. Gervase’s hand remained locked about hers, his shoulder beside hers, there for her to lean on-something she’d never imagined she would ever do-his hard thigh solid and warm alongside hers. Every touch, every nuance of his presence calmed and steadied her.

They were on the villain’s heels and traveling as hard and as fast as it was possible to go. All that remained was to wait, to exist in a sort of limbo of heightened but restrained expectation, until the other carriage slowed and they caught it-or, better yet, it stopped.

The carriage they were chasing didn’t halt for the night. They didn’t, either.

They got confirmation of its passing at numerous post-houses. They would stop and Gervase would get out to make inquiries; usually within minutes he would be back and they’d be on the road once more.

The night waned; dawn came and the sun rose, and they continued on at their near breakneck pace. The day wore on; Madeline felt cramped, limbs and muscles protesting the unaccustomed inactivity, but she wasn’t about to quibble, let alone complain.

Despite their unrelenting pace, Gervase was assiduous in insisting she, and the coachmen, too, got down to stretch their legs at regular intervals, usually while they were changing horses. While the coachmen oversaw the ostlers, he’d escort her into whichever inn they’d stopped at, order something light and quick for them both, sending ale and sandwiches out to the coachmen.

Breakfast and lunch were taken in that fashion.

Although the breaks were kept to a minimum, they were another example of Gervase’s protectiveness, an all-but-instinctive habit of ensuring the welfare of those in his care. Even if those people tried to argue, as, on the first occasion, Madeline had. She’d been overruled in a tone one degree away from dictatorial…she’d noted it, but, subsequently, when she’d realized the wisdom behind his actions, she’d inwardly shrugged and the next time complied without caviling. There was, it seemed, a time and place for authoritative men.

They rattled into Amesbury in midafternoon. The coachman’s mate blew on the yard of tin; when they swung under the arch of the Blue Gun & Pistols, the ostlers were already leading out fresh horses, others waiting ready to unbuckle the harness and lead their current four animals away.

Madeline got down, but remained in the yard watching the activity while Gervase circulated, questioning the head ostler, then, at his direction, climbing onto the inn’s front porch to speak with an old man in a rocking chair.

He returned as the final buckles on the harness were being tightened; the coachmen were already on the box, reins in hand.

His face grim and set, Gervase nodded curtly to them. “On to London.” Gripping Madeline’s arm, he helped her up the steps into the carriage, then followed.

She waited until they were bowling along again before asking, “What is it? What did you learn?”

He looked at her for a moment, then said, “Nothing new. It’s just that…” Frowning, he paused, staring, she suspected unseeing, across the carriage.

She waited. Eventually he went on, “They passed this way a few hours ago. The old man on the porch used to be the head ostler here-his eyesight’s excellent, and he knows carriages and horses. He saw the carriage we’re after go past.”

Black, relatively new, with a green blaze on the door; they’d got the description from the first posting inn beyond Falmouth.

“He recognized the carriage’s marking-he said it’s from one of the major London posting inns. But it was the horses that caught his eye. Prime ’uns, he said, hired nags but the best to be had, which explains why we haven’t caught up with them. They’re using the same quality of post-horses we are, which means there’s money behind this. The plan and its execution are the work of someone other than a London flash cove.”

Madeline studied his face. “You thought some gentleman, some man of our class, was involved-someone who could have seen the brooch at Lady Felgate’s ball, or known someone who had.”

He sighed and sat back. “Indeed. That’s what’s worrying me. If he-the man behind this-was in Cornwall, where his wrecked cargo also presumably is, and I do think we’re on sound ground assuming only he would have recognized the brooch, then why is he taking Ben to London? Why not question him in Cornwall, and then go straight after the lost cargo?”

She didn’t even try to think it through. “Why do you think?”

He drew a long breath, let it out with, “I think he’s leading us away.” He paused, then went on, “I think all this is part of his plan-not just the flight to London but us following as well. That’s the reason he’s spending money so freely to keep his carriage ahead of ours-he intended all along for us to follow. He can’t know we are, but he’s assumed we are.”

She grimaced. “He’s right.”

“Indeed. He chose to kidnap Ben-or at least one of your brothers-not solely to learn where they found the brooch, but also because any of them would be the perfect pawn to draw us-you and me-away from the peninsula. He doesn’t know Charles is there in our stead. With us gone, he’ll assume the peninsula itself will be largely rudderless, at least in terms of dealing with the likes of him.”

Cold fear had welled; it clutched her heart. “What will he do with Ben when he reaches London?”

Gervase glanced at her, met her eyes. “We’ve been assuming he’s with Ben in the carriage, but on reflection I don’t think he is. He’s too canny, too clever. He’ll have had his henchmen seize Ben. He’s probably already in London, waiting for them to deliver him there.” He paused, imagining it-imagining what he would do were he in the villain’s shoes.

“He’ll speak with Ben and ask about the brooch-he may try to disguise his purpose but he will, eventually, ask. The circumstances of that meeting will make it impossible for Ben to identify him later-he’s too clever to take that risk.”

He drew in a long breath. “And for the same reason, I think, once Ben gives him an answer, that he’ll order his henchmen to release Ben somewhere in London. He knows we’ll be searching, and he has no reason to be party to murder-as long as Ben can’t identify him, he has nothing to fear.”

Madeline had been following his reasoning; she nodded. “And leaving us quartering London, of all places, trying to locate one ten-year-old boy…that will keep us fixed there for the foreseeable future.”

“Leaving the peninsula, as far as he knows, open territory, undefended.” Gervase studied her face; the afternoon sunshine lit the hollows and planes, showed the strain of the past twenty-four hours, but he could see nothing in her features or her eyes, when they met his, to suggest she’d followed where his mind had ultimately led.

Summoning a smile, he raised her hand to his lips, kissed, then lowered his arm and faced forward. “We’re doing all we can to catch that carriage-at the moment, that’s all we can do.”

He felt reasonably certain the villain would order Ben’s release somewhere in London-most likely in the stews. What he wasn’t anywhere near as confident over was whether the man’s unsavory henchmen would follow his orders to the letter, or instead decide to make what they could off a gentry-bred ten-year-old boy.

That was the stuff of nightmares, but every bit as bad was the thought of what might transpire should the henchmen obey-and leave Ben wandering the slums of London. With no protector, alone-helpless.

Evening was closing in when they reached the outskirts of Basingstoke. The nearer they’d drawn to the capital, the more other carriages, carts, mail coaches and drays had thronged the road; their pace had fallen significantly.

Madeline bore the frustration by silently repeating Gervase’s observation that the traffic would slow their quarry just as much.

Neither of them had slept the night before, just short naps, unsettled, no real rest; tiredness was now a real burden, dragging at her mind.

The horn blared; a minute later they turned under the arch of the Five Bells, one of the town’s major posting inns. The instant the carriage rocked to a halt, Gervase opened the door and got down, shutting it behind him. Madeline leaned across the carriage and watched as he spoke with the head ostler, whose team was wrestling the big post-horses out of their harness.

Gervase asked questions, the head ostler answered, then Gervase nodded curtly; he paused for a second, then turned and strode back to the carriage. Face grim, he opened the door, and held out his hand, beckoning for her to take it and descend.

Grasping his fingers, she did; looking into his face, she asked, “What is it?”

He met her eyes. “They stopped here to change horses. The head ostler got a chance to glance into the carriage. He saw a young lad-Ben-asleep on the seat, wrapped up tight in a blanket. Ben might have been tied up, restrained in some fashion, but the ostler didn’t see any bonds. However, from his description of the two men in the carriage, we were right in thinking they’re just henchmen-the reason the ostler glanced in was because he couldn’t imagine where such men got the coin to travel in such style.”

“So…” Madeline glanced at the front of the carriage, at the shafts propped on blocks as the horses were led away. Not seeing fresh horses being led out, she frowned. “I assume we’ll be off as soon as possible…?”

Brows rising, she glanced at Gervase; he met her eyes.

“Their carriage is more than an hour ahead of us. We’ve caught up significantly, but we’re four to five hours from the capital-even racing as we are, we can’t catch them in that time, over that distance.”

The fear she’d held at bay throughout the day clutched at her heart. She kept her eyes on his, held to the contact as she prompted, “So…?”

He didn’t look away. “So we’re going to have to accept that they’ll reach London ahead of us and disappear into its streets-and we’re going to have to search for Ben there, when they let him ago. The one point in all that in our favor is that it won’t be immediately. The villain will need to meet him first, so the earliest they’ll release Ben will be tomorrow afternoon.”

She searched his amber eyes, read in them a steadfast, rock-solid promise that they would find Ben. She eased out the breath tangled in her throat. “So what now? What do you suggest?”

“We’ll continue to London, but there’s no longer any sense in pushing ourselves or the horses.” He glanced around. “We’ll take a break here-have dinner, a short rest-before taking to the road again. This is an excellent inn-their table is highly regarded.”

She didn’t think she could eat, or if she did, all food would be tasteless, but she’d lectured her brothers often enough over recklessly taking unnecessary risks.

Gervase’s lips eased as if he read her mind. “You’ll be little use to Ben when we find him if you’re fainting with hunger.”

She humphed. “I never faint. But perhaps dinner would be wise.” Now she thought of it, she hadn’t eaten anything substantial since a light lunch the day before.

Gervase took charge, leading her into the inn, sending the coachman and his mate into the main taproom to eat and refresh themselves, then commanding rooms in which he and she could wash away the dust of the road and the day, before retreating to a private parlor where a substantial dinner would be served as soon as they were ready. While it felt odd to have someone else organizing things for her, giving orders for her comfort, he was efficient and effective, and seemed to know precisely how not to step on her toes, how to make it feel perfectly natural for her to metaphorically lean on him, to allow him to care for her. Seductive support-that’s what it was-but in this instance she let it wrap about her.

Shown to a pretty bedchamber, she glanced into the mirror, sighed, and set to work to repair the depredations of the journey. A quick wash revived her; the maid shook out her gown, frankly scandalized at the trousers she still wore beneath.

Redonning her gown, she removed the trousers; arriving in London in such attire definitely qualified as another unnecessary risk. Letting down her hair, she combed her fingers through it, subduing it as best she could, then she twisted the mass back into a knot and secured it, more or less, with her remaining pins.

Returning downstairs to the private parlor, she found Gervase, similarly refreshed, waiting. They sat down at the table and the food was brought in; contrary to her expectations she could taste the game pie well enough, and she was indeed famished.

Between them they accounted for most of what the beaming inn wife set before them. Nevertheless she felt a spurt of relief when, as the innkeeper cleared away their plates, Gervase gave the order for their coachman to make ready and the fresh horses to be put to.

As the door shut behind the retreating innkeeper, Gervase turned to see her wiping her fingers on her napkin. “No need to rush-we’ll be on our way soon enough.”

Laying the napkin aside, she frowned. “How will we proceed when we reach London?” Her head felt clearer-clear enough to ask a question she hadn’t, until then, spared much thought for; she’d been focused on catching up with the carriage and Ben before town.

Gervase had given the matter long and considerable thought. “We’ll go to the Bastion Club.”

She frowned. “I thought it was a gentlemen’s club.”

“It is-or was. But of our seven members, five are now wed, and other than me, no one actually stays there anymore. Christian Allardyce, the other yet to marry, has his own house in town. He only uses the club as a bolt-hole-a place to hide from his female relatives and others who want to hound him.”

“Oh.” Her expression suggested she was intrigued-intrigued enough to fall in with his plan. “So we can go there, and…?”

“Using the club as a base, I’ll organize a search for Ben. I’ll call on whoever’s in London-Christian’s there, I know. I’m not sure about Trentham-or Dalziel.”

“Your ex-commander?”

He nodded. “He has…abilities, facilities, minions we can only guess at that he can mobilize.” Pushing back his chair, he rose.

She frowned; giving him her hand, she let him draw her to her feet. “But will he? Dalziel, I mean. After all, he doesn’t know me or Ben from Adam.”

“That won’t matter to him. It’s the need he’ll respond to-a young boy abducted in these circumstances, then abandoned in London.” He felt his jaw, his face, start to set in stony lines; he tried for impassive instead. “He’ll help-he won’t need to be asked twice.”

She seemed to accept that. He led her to the door. Pausing before it, he met her eyes. “Ready to go on?”

Lifting her chin, she nodded, every inch his Valkyrie. “Let’s get back on the road.”

They rolled into London in the predawn. The sky had barely lightened from the night’s black velvet, the eastern horizon a pale stripe of dark gray pearl. They hadn’t pressed the horses but had made good time; it was between three and four o’clock, the hour in which no one stirred, honest man or villain. The streets were silent as their horses, tired but still game, plodded on.

Madeline sat forward looking out at the sky. Gervase studied her profile, knew she was thinking of Ben, wondering where he was, how he was, whether he was well. Finding Ben; his entire personal focus had drawn in to just that-nothing else rated, not until he had Ben back in Madeline’s arms.

He’d given the coachman directions several times. When the carriage turned into Montrose Place, he leaned out and called softly, “Number twelve-the green gate ahead on the left.”

The coachman drew rein; the carriage slowed, then rocked to a halt immediately before the gate.

Opening the carriage door, Gervase stepped down to the pavement. The house, like all the other houses in the street, stood in darkness. He turned back to Madeline, leaning forward to peer through the door at the shadowy outline beyond the stone wall. “Wait here. I’ll go and rouse them.”

He’d arrived at the club in the dead of night on a number of occasions, so it was no surprise to find his confident knock answered within minutes by a sleep-rumpled Gasthorpe dragging on his coat. What always amused Gervase was that the portly ex-sergeant-major, now majordomo, seemed able to scramble into his clothes and look passably neat in just those few minutes.

“My lord!” A smile lighting his face, Gasthorpe beamed and swung the door wide. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you back.”

“Thank you, Gasthorpe, but I’m not alone. I have a lady with me-the Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne-and we’ll need to use the club as our base.” Gervase met Gasthorpe’s widening eyes. “Miss Gascoigne’s young brother has been kidnapped. We chased the blackguard’s carriage to London, but couldn’t catch it-we’ll need to organize a search come first light.”

At the first sign of trouble, Gasthorpe’s eyes had lit. “Naturally, my lord.” Glancing out into the night, noting the carriage at the curb, he drew himself up. “If you’ll conduct the lady indoors, I’ll have a chamber-the larger one to the left of the stairs-ready momentarily.”

Gervase nodded, relieved he could rely on Gasthorpe’s abilities and his discretion. He turned to the street, then recalled…and turned back to Gasthorpe. “We had to set out on our chase unexpectedly from Helston. We’ve no luggage, no clothes bar those on our backs.” He grimaced. “And we’ve been on the road more or less continuously since the evening of the day before yesterday. We’ll also need to house the coachmen-there’s two of them-for as long as we stay. I suspect we’ll need to race back to Cornwall at some point, and they’re excellent whips.”

Gasthorpe drew himself up. “Leave everything to me, my lord. We’ve been rather quiet of late-it’s a pleasure to see action again.”

In spite of the hour, despite the situation, Gervase grinned; he knew what Gasthorpe meant. Stepping off the porch, he said, “Incidentally, Lostwithiel sends his regards. I’ve left him and his lady holding the fort at Crowhurst.”

“Very kind of the earl-I hope we’ll see him, and his lady, here one day soon.”

Gervase’s grin grew wider. “I’ll tell him.” They truly would have to rethink their use of the club, or Gasthorpe and his helpers would run mad. None were the usual sort of staff; inactivity didn’t suit them.

Returning to the carriage, he helped Madeline to the pavement; she glanced around while he gave the tired coachmen directions to the mews behind the house, then she let him twine her arm in his and lead her up the path to the door.

“Your butler’s going to be shocked to his back teeth.”

He chuckled. “We don’t have a regular staff. Gasthorpe acts as majordomo. He was a sergeant-major during the wars, and you may believe me when I say that I’ve yet to see him at a loss regardless of the many and varied-and sometimes quite startling-demands we’ve all at one time or another made of him.” He looked ahead to where the hall was now aglow with warm candlelight; beyond he could hear the rapid-fire thump of feet as footmen ran up the stairs, rushing to do Gasthorpe’s bidding. “If you doubt me, just watch how he handles this.”

Madeline did have doubts, severe doubts that any male-oriented household could cope with their wholly unexpected and unprecedented demands, but by the time Gasthorpe showed her into a simply furnished but exceptionally neat and comfortable room, indicated his arrangements with a decorous nod and begged her to ask for anything he’d failed to provide, every last one had been swept away.

“No, indeed.” Tired eyes taking in the fine linen nightshirt laid upon the bed-a man’s but perfectly serviceable in her present straits-and the towel and washbasin with its matching pitcher steaming, the single candle alight on the dresser, she could feel her muscles unknotting. “Thank you-you’ve done excellently. This is more than I expected.”

“If I might suggest, ma’am, if you leave your gown outside the door, I’ll have the maid from next door freshen it for you.”

She felt silly tears prickle at the back of her eyes as she turned to the dapper little man who was so patently delighted to be of service. “Thank you, I will. You’ve been exceptionally kind.”

He smiled and bowed his way out of the door, closing it gently behind him. Madeline sighed, then smothered a yawn.

Ten minutes later, washed and clean, with her hair a loose veil about her head and shoulders, she was sound asleep between the crisp sheets.

Gervase stood in the doorway and considered the sight. She’d blown out the candle but faint light washed the room; by its soft glow he could see that the tension of the day, the tightness about her eyes and lips, had faded.

The observation calmed some restless, primal part of him. He considered the bed-its less-than-adequate width-then with an inward sigh turned away. Shutting the door silently, he made for the bedchamber across the landing.

Gasthorpe had served them tea and crumpets in the library while their rooms were being prepared. When Madeline had retired, Gervase had remained to write notes-calls to action-only two, so it hadn’t taken long.

Gasthorpe had verified that of all the club’s members, only Christian Allardyce was still in town-the others had retired to their country estates for the summer and weren’t expected to reappear in London, at least not within the next few days.

Ben’s fate would be sealed by then; they’d either find him within the first two days, or they likely never would.

Going into his room, closing the door, Gervase forcefully put that thought out of his mind, and concentrated, instead, on how to locate Ben.

Shrugging off his coat, unbuttoning his cuffs, he grimaced. Gasthorpe had his two notes; they’d be delivered with the dawn. The only thing left that he, Gervase, could presently do to improve their chances of finding Ben was to pray that the second gentleman he’d informed hadn’t yet left London.