The Double Wager

Chapter 13

The Duke of Eversleigh was from home most of the next day. His wife had not been up when he finished breakfast. So he left without seeing her and was busy until late in the day. Despite the cool reception his suggestion had bad from Henry the night before, he pressed on with his plan to finish his business in the city within the next day or two. He felt that she needed to get away from Cranshawe. His own preference was always for the country, especially at this time of year, when the city was hot and dusty. The children, too, he felt, would be happier with more freedom.

Eversleigh was not sure if his marriage could be saved. His wife had obviously accepted his offer only to win that absurdly childish wager. It seemed as if she had regretted her decision ever since. For one night he had hoped that perhaps she was beginning to lose her abhorrence of his touch. But he had rushed his fences and driven her farther away.

Perhaps in Kent he would be able to woo her trust and, eventually, her love. They would be in a quiet, relaxed atmosphere, free from the constant tedium of social activities, free to spend their time doing what they both enjoyed best, riding in the wide open spaces.

So Eversleigh spent the day with his man of business, settling his affairs for the following few months, at least. He went immediately to his room on returning home and summoned his valet to help him get ready for dinner.

"A letter for you, your Grace," that individual said, handing him the folded sheet that Henry had given to Betty's care the night before, "to be delivered to you as soon as you returned home this afternoon."

"Ah!" said Eversleigh. "Why was it not dealt with by Ridley?"

"It is personal, I understand, your Grace," his valet replied. "Her Grace entrusted it to her maid's care."

Eversleigh gave his servant a swift glance and took the letter. When he had finished reading it, he threw it down onto a dressing table and shocked his man by swearing aloud.

"When was this given to you,, John?" he asked.

"At noon, your Grace."

"And how long had the maid had it?"

"I did not ask, sir."

"Summon her," Eversleigh ordered, picking up the letter again and pacing the floor as he reread it.

A frightened-looking Betty knocked timidly at the door a couple of minutes later and bobbed a curtsy when she was let inside.

"This letter," Eversleigh said, "when did my wife give it to you?"

"Last night, your Grace."

"And why was it not given to me this morning?"

Betty was twisting her apron around and around one finger. "Her Grace told me I must not give it to John until noon today, your Grace," she explained, "and I was to tell him to hand it to you when you came in."

"I see," he said, terrifying the poor girl further by fixing her with a stare from beneath his heavy lids. "Have you seen my wife today?"

"No, your Grace."

"No?" His eyebrows rose disdainfully. "Is it -not part of your normal duties to help her rise in the mornings?"

"Yes, your Grace, but she was gone when I took her chocolate upstairs this morning."

"Indeed?" he said. "And what time was that?"

"Nine o'clock, as usual, your Grace."

"Did it not strike you as strange that she was not there?" he asked.

"Her Grace sometimes rides early, sir," she replied.

"I see. But did it not alarm you when she did not come home, even at luncheon time?"

"Yes, your Grace," she whispered.

"Speak up, girl," he barked. "Did you tell anyone of your fears?"

"I spoke to Miss Manford and the young lady and gentleman," Betty said.

"Ah, the Bow Street runners," Eversleigh commented.

"They helped me search the room, your Grace."

"Indeed? And by what right, may I ask, did you do such a thing?" Eversleigh asked.

"Mr. Ridley suggested that we see if the duchess had taken anything with her, your Grace."

"Ah, the plot thickens,", he commented with irony. "And what did you find, Betty?"

"Some clothes and a valise have been taken, your Grace, she replied.

"And anything else? Any jewelry or other valuables?"

"No, nothing, your Grace."

"Little fool!" he exclaimed savagely. "No, not you, girl," he added when an already overwrought Betty burst into tears. "John, send Mr. Ridley to me."

John ushered Betty out of the room ahead of him. Ridley arrived a few minutes later.

"Well, James," Eversleigh said, "what do you know of my wife's disappearance?"

"Nothing, your Grace, except that she has gone," said Ridley, "and has taken a small amount of hand luggage with her. I have checked at the stables. She has taken no horse or carriage."

"So she is still here in London," Eversleigh mused, "or has taken the stage somewhere."

Ridley did not reply.

"How much money had she, James, do you have any idea?" the duke asked.

"She received her allowance three weeks ago, your Grace. The next one is due next week."

Eversleigh slammed the letter down on the dressing table and swore again. I am a prize fool, do you know that, James?" he asked.

Ridley was wise enough not to offer an opinion.

"I would return that ring and that signed document anonymously," Eversleigh continued. "I did not wish to give her the humiliation of knowing that I had discovered her secret and paid her debt. And it never for a moment crossed my mind that she would think that rogue cousin of mine was responsible."

"Did she think that, your Grace?"

"Yes, and has confessed all in a farewell letter to me, Eversleigh answered with vicious self-reproach in his voice. "Where would she have gone, James?"

"I have spent all afternoon searching my mind for an answer, your Grace," Ridley said.

"To her brother, do you think?"

"We have checked there, sir."

"Ah. 'We' being you and the Bow Street runners, I presume?"

"The Bow-? Yes, your Grace. Sir Peter and his wife know nothing of her whereabouts. We did not hint that the duchess had disappeared."

"Thank you, James," Eversleigh replied dryly. "I suppose all of London will know of it before the world is much older."

"Not from me, your Grace."

"Hmm. I believe I shall pay a call on my illustrious heir, James."

Ridley coughed. "He is in London, sir, and has not had contact with her Grace today. He lunched at Watier's and visited Tattersall's this afternoon. He is currently at White's, I believe, sir."

Eversleigh gave him an interrogative glance, eyebrows raised.

Ridley coughed again. "I promised Miss Manford a few days ago that I would have him watched, your Grace. I have taken the liberty of engaging the services of one of the younger footmen."

Eversleigh regarded his secretary through his quizzing glass. "I seem to have a houseful of spies," he commented. "We should perhaps hire ourselves out to the government for use against the French. That will be all, James. And, ah," be added as Ridley turned away, "if my household has not collapsed without the services of that footman for a few days, I could probably do without him for a while longer."

Ridley bowed his head. "He shall receive your instructions," he said curtly, and left the room.

Eversleigh rang for his valet again.

"A clean neckcloth, John," he ordered, "and my cane, please. Instruct the cook that I shall not be home for dinner."

Five minutes later, Eversleigh was again leaving the house to begin the tedious task of visiting every stagecoach stop in London in the hope of discovering some clue as to Henry's whereabouts. He tried not to think about where he would begin looking for her in the city itself if he could find no evidence of her having left it.

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Henry sat on the stagecoach for much of the day, although she had had a long wait after her dawn departure from home. She had an inside seat, which would have been a blessing on most occasions. But inside a stage, sandwiched between an amply endowed matron and a thin man in dark city clothes, was not the place to be on a sweltering hot day in July, especially when one was wrapped in a heavy gray cloak to camouflage the fine appearance of a peach-colored muslin day dress. Henry was conscious of leaning into the fat lady to her right, while the city man, gazing through the window to his left and apparently lost in thought, leaned into her left side, his thigh pressed knowingly against hers, his upper arm brushing her breast whenever a jolt in the road gave him the excuse to move. And it was a very bumpy ride.

Henry was thankful when they stopped longer than usual at two inns on the way and there was time to get out and stretch. Although she was hungry at both stops-she had had nothing to eat since the supper at last night's ball-she dared not have more than a glass of lemonade each time. After paying for her coach ticket, she had very little money left. And it had to last until she found a position somewhere. She smiled with gratitude, then, when the plump lady nudged her painfully in the ribs and passed her half of a meat pasty. Henry felt she had never tasted anything so good in her life.

The only thing that gave her any comfort at all on the interminably slow journey was the plan that gradually took shape in her mind. She would see Oliver Cranshawe plead and beg and squirm within the next few days. Revenge on him would never begin to make up for the ruin of her marriage and the loss of Marius, but at least it would give her great satisfaction and occupy her thoughts for a few days. She composed in her mind the words she would write to him.

It was late afternoon when Henry finally finished trudging the three miles from the coach stop to Roedean. How dearly familiar the house looked, she thought as she approached the main door. If only the door would open and she could find inside her father and Giles, the twins and Manny. How happy she would be! But perhaps not. Always from now on there would be Marius. His memory would prevent her from being completely happy ever again.

The butler himself answered the door to her knock. He and the housekeeper and a few underservants were the only ones who had been kept on by Sir Peter Tallant on a permanent basis. Other servants would be hired from the village when the family came down for the summer in a few weeks' time.

"Miss Henry!" he exclaimed in surprise, rushing forward to relieve her of the valise that was beginning to feel as if it was loaded with gold bricks. I mean' your Grace! What brings you into Sussex? If we had known, we could have prepared. And where is your carriage?" He peered beyond her into the empty driveway.

"I came on the stage, Trevors," she replied, "and I wish my stay here to remain a secret. Please, will you promise not to tell anyone?"

"Of course, Miss Henry, if you say so," Trevors assured her. She had always been a favorite with the house staff. She could twist them all around her little finger, her father had been fond of saying.

The saying proved to be still true. While Henry sat in lone state in the dining room partaking of a cold dinner, the housekeeper bustled around upstairs making sure that her bedroom was properly cleaned and aired. All the servants promised that no word of her whereabouts would be given to anyone. They did not ask questions, though they must have wondered what their little girl was doing at home scarcely six weeks after causing a local sensation by marrying a duke.

Henry waited until next morning before writing the letter to Oliver Cranshawe that she had planned the day before in the stagecoach. But she wanted to make sure that it went on the day's mail coach so that he would receive it the next day. She did not wish to be sitting around waiting forever. She enjoyed writing it a good deal more than she had enjoyed writing to her husband.

Dear Oliver,

You were quite right, of course. You said that I should be forced to see things your way soon. I see clearly that I have no choice but to comply with your demands for settling my debt. I propose to accept defeat gracefully. You will find me at Roedean. Marius believes me to be visiting for a week. So you see you will be able to claim your night with me without fear of interruption. If I like what transpires-and I begin to think that, after all, I may-perhaps I shall allow you to extend your stay. I shall be awaiting your arrival hourly.

Yours, etc.

The letter was sealed and handed to the butler. He promised to see that it was taken to the mail coach with some letters that Sir Peter's bailiff had ready. Neither of them remembered that the bailiff had arrived at the house that morning and had not been informed of the secrecy of Henry's visit. One of his letters was a weekly report of estate business to Sir Peter Tallant.

Henry's next task was to visit her father's gun room. He had been an avid hunter and had taught all four of his children to shoot. It was several years since Henry had held a gun in her hand; she would need practice, she knew. She examined them all and noticed that they were all gleaming. Someone in the household, probably Trevors, took pride in keeping them in top condition. After much deliberation, she chose a dueling pistol. It could be held and fired easily in one hand. It would be easier to hide on her person than a larger gun would be.

She found ammunition for the gun in a drawer. She carefully loaded it, scooped up a palmful of extra bullets, and ran up to her room, the pistol clutched in her other hand. She had noticed the night before that the breeches and shirts she had always worn for riding were still in her closet. She pulled on the breeches now and selected a loose white shirt. She filled her pockets with bullets, carefully pushed the pistol into the waistband of the breeches, beneath the shirt, and strode out to the stables.

She regretted the absence of jet. She wondered briefly if Marius would keep him or send him back to Roedean. Either way, it would not matter to her. She would not be able to take him where she was going. She chose the only horse from the stables that was likely to be reasonably fast, saddled him, and set out for the lower meadow, which was out of earshot of the house and of the tenants' cottages. It was almost completely surrounded by high hedges, and a fence ran down one side of it, too. Henry had never been able to understand why it was there. Of what possible use could a fence be on one side of a field?

However, it suited her purpose now. She gathered some leafy twigs from the bushes, balanced them one at a time on top of a fence post, and used them for target practice. For an hour Henry shot at the twigs, varying the distance and the angle. Finally she was satisfied that her aim was accurate, even allowing for the pistol's slight kick to the left.

"Now, you may come whenever you wish, Oliver Cranshawe," she muttered with a grim smile as she swung herself up into the saddle again.

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The following morning Giles was picking moodily at a plate of eggs and ham, letting the conversation of Peter and Marian wash over his head. He was feeling worried and guilty. He had spent much of the previous day at Eversleigh's house, going over and over again with Manny and the twins and that Ridley fellow the train of events that had led to Henry's disappearance. How could she have been such a little idiot as to have got herself into such trouble, and all for his sake? And where could she have gone? The only apparent possibility was Roedean, and Eversleigh had already had that checked with no luck. Ridley had thought it probable that she had very little money with her, and Betty was willing to swear that she had taken nothing of any value, except the sapphire ring. And Giles was pretty sure that she would never sell that. Even her gold wedding ring had been found in her jewelry case.

There were only two pieces of comfort. One was that Eversleigh had paid off the moneylender; so they at least knew that Henry was in no danger from him. The other was that Ridley's spy had reported that Cranshawe was behaving in no way out of the ordinary. He was still at home or frequenting his usual haunts. He had had no visible contact with Henry.

But those were small comforts. Giles cursed himself now for ever having been weak enough to accept help from his sister. He should have been man enough to go to Peter or Eversleigh and begged a loan. He might have known that Henry did not have that sum on hand, that she would do something silly in order to get it.

The worst aspect of the situation was that one felt so helpless. One did not know where to start looking or where to make inquiries. Giles had made some afternoon calls on mutual acquaintances. But the necessity of making his inquiries in such a roundabout way that no one would suspect the truth was frustrating in the extreme. He longed to grab each person by the throat and demand to know if she were hiding Henry in a closet somewhere. He did not know what he would do today. It seemed fruitless to go back to Eversleigh's, and yet he could not imagine himself staying away from there.

"What the devil is Henrietta doing at Roedean?" Peter was saying.

Giles stared, the words so pertinent to his thoughts that his mind could not grasp the meaning for the moment.

"Henrietta at Roedean?" Marian echoed.

The fact finally registered on Giles' mind that Peter was holding a letter in one hand.

"What is that? Let me see!" he cried, grabbing the sheet of paper from his brother's hand.

"Giles, really," Marian said, shocked.

"Evans says there that she arrived two days ago, alone," Peter explained to his wife.

"How very peculiar!" said Marian. "She had quarreled with Eversleigh, you may depend upon it, my love. I al-ways knew that Henrietta was too undisciplined to cope with marriage to a duke."

"Yes, and be is not the man to help her cool her heels, either," her husband agreed. "I confess myself disappointed in Eversleigh. I had thought him to be made of sterner stuff.''

"So she is there, after all," Giles was muttering. "I deserve to have my nose punched for not guessing. Of course, the little numbskull would get the servants on her side.''

"This needs to be investigated personally," Sir Peter said decisively, throwing down his napkin beside his empty plate. I shall see about having the carriage made ready immediately after luncheon. My love, will you have a valise packed for me? I shall be away from home for at least one night, I should think. I shall write to Eversleigh and tell him where he may find his wife."

"If he wants her back," sniffed Marian.

"I shall come with you, Peter," Giles decided impulsively. He abandoned his plate of still-untouched eggs and followed his brother from the room.

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Oliver Cranshawe had gone riding before breakfast. He had hoped to see the little duchess in the park. She had been lying low for the past two days avoiding him, he believed. The silly little chit! Did she think she could avoid him forever? If she did not reappear very soon, he was going to have to pay her a call. And to hell with Marius if he were there too. He could hardly prevent his cousin and heir from entering the house.

Cranshawe was quite determined to press his advantage. He must be very close to winning. And what a victory it would be. Once he had bedded the chit, he would inform Marius of the fact-probably by letter. He would go to France until the worst of his cousin's temper had cooled. Cranshawe did not fool himself into thinking that he would stand a chance in a duel with Eversleigh, even if he had the choice of weapons. But the marriage would be ruined. The duke was too proud a man to take her back after another man had possessed her, especially his heir.

When he returned to his house, Cranshawe thumbed idly through his morning mail before going in to breakfast. Nothing but a thin trickle of invitations; the Season was coming to an end. There was one letter that had apparently come from out of town. He took it into the dining room with him and set it beside his place on the table while he went to the sideboard to fill his plate with steaming food. He opened the letter after the first pangs of his hunger had been satisfied.

Suddenly Cranshawe's fork clattered to his plate and he leaned back in his chair, a smile spreading slowly across his face.

"So, my dear Henry," he mused aloud, "we have come to the play's last scene. And I predict it will be a lively and a satisfying one. I think you owe me that extra time, my dear, though I shall not be able to avail myself of more than one night. I have never had to wait so long for a woman, but I find that the longer I wait, the greater my appetite.

He proved that one of his appetites, at least, was in no way dulled. He finished his breakfast before ordering that his horse be resaddled immediately and brought to the front of the house, and that his curricle and pair be ready to leave in one hour's time. Before leaving the house, he ordered his valet to pack a bag for him with enough clothes to last him for a couple of days, and a trunk to be taken to Dover the following day in preparation for a trip to the Continent.

Cranshawe rode directly to Suzanne Broughton's house and followed the butler upstairs to that lady's bedchamber. A maid answered the knock on the door and would have barred the way into the room, saying that her mistress was still in bed, but Cranshawe shouldered his way past both the butler and her.

"Why, Oliver, my dear boy," Suzanne said, startled, "to what mad passion do I owe this honor?"

Cranshawe ignored the flimsy and scantily cut nightgown, the long, thick hair that fell around her shoulders, and the seductive smile that spread across her face.

"I don't have much time, Suzanne," he said. "Dismiss the servants, please."

Suzanne waved away the pair, who were still standing in the doorway, and slid lower on her pillows. "Well, Oliver?" she asked.

"I have all but achieved my goal," he began. "The dear duchess has invited me to her brother's house in Sussex. She is alone there. Once this day's work is over, Suzanne, I believe you will find your way quite easily back into Eversleigh's graces. Who knows? Perhaps he will even divorce the little whore and marry you."

She smiled. "And why have you raced over here to tell me this, Oliver?" she asked.

"I want you to drive him mad, my dear," he said. "See him today and tomorrow. Drop hints in his ear, sympathetic hints, of course, that will help you gain your own ends. You must not, of course, tell him where he may find us. But your word in his ear will make my letter the more credible when he does receive it."

"I have always said you are the devil, Oliver," Suzanne commented. "Now I perceive that you are on your way to hell."

"But what a way to go!" He laughed.

"I believe you really fancy the freckle-faced redhead," she said.

"I must confess that I do not expect to find the process of seduction at all unpleasant," he replied.

"Go, you rogue," she directed, and don't worry. Marius shall be driven mad. So mad, in fact, that he will be forced to seek comfort in my arms."

They both laughed.

Before the luncheon hour, Cranshawe was on his way to Roedean, driving himself in a fast curricle. He stopped only once to change horses and to partake of some refreshments.

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Philip was stretched out on his stomach on the schoolroom floor, one hand inside Oscar's cage. He was trying, in vain, to train the parrot to perch on his wrist. Oscar fluttered around inside his cage, flapping his wings and treating the intruding hand to a string of oaths.

"Oh, bless my soul, what are we going to do about that bird?" said Miss Manford, who was busy clearing away books and papers at the end of the morning's lessons. "Do find the pink blanket, Philip."

Cleopatra purred contentedly on Penelope's lap in the window seat. Her back was being stroked at a very comfortable tempo.

"I wonder where Henry is now," Penelope sighed.

As if in answer to her question, there was a brief tap on the door and James Ridley walked in without invitation, waving an opened letter in his hand.

"Eugenia, children," he said, unusual animation in his voice, "she is safe!"

"Henry?" shrieked three voices in unison.

"Yes," he said, the duchess is at Roedean. Sir Peter Tallant has just written to inform the duke of the fact."

"Does his Grace know?" Miss Manford asked.

"No, I am afraid not," Ridley answered. "It is almost impossible to know where he might be found. I have sent a messenger to White's, though, on the chance that he will go there for luncheon."

He hurried from the room again, while its three occupants all proceeded to talk at once. Brutus decided to add his voice to the general chorus.

Fifteen minutes later, as Miss Manford and the twins were about to sit down to their midday meal, James Ridley again rushed into the schoolroom, this time without so much as a courtesy knock.

"Bless my soul!" Miss Manford said. "What is it, James?"

"Cranshawe is on his way to Roedean," he announced.

All three gasped and stared at him openmouthed. Then three voices were all clamoring for attention.

"How did he find out?" Philip asked.

"How do you know he is going there?" Penelope asked.

"Oh, the poor dear duchess, will she be safe?" wailed Miss Manford.

"I have not heard from his Grace yet," Ridley said, agitatedly. "It may take hours to find him. And there is not a moment to lose. I shall have to go myself."

"Where?" Miss Manford asked, hands flapping. "To Roedean? Oh, James, do have a care. He may be armed and dangerous. But, yes, of course, you must go. oh, how brave you are."

"I'm going too," Philip announced.

"And me," said Penelope.

"Oh, really, no children," wailed Miss Manford, "you must stay out of this. But, of course, the dear duchess may need our help and comfort. oh, dear, I wish I knew what to do."

"It is most courageous of you to be willing to go, my dear Eugenia," said Ridley, -and I really believe it might be for the best. I shall order his Grace's fastest-traveling carriage brought around immediately. I shall pen a swift note to leave for the duke and hope that he returns some time this afternoon."

Twenty minutes later the carriage was on its way, carrying four anxious people, and-inexplicably-three pets. The twins had loudly proclaimed that the latter could not possibly be left behind, and Miss Manford had been too agitated to argue.

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Eversleigh had been at White's since midmorning. He had left home early, but he was experiencing the same frustration that Giles had felt. He did not know where else to look for Henry. He had no leads. His evening spent going from one stagecoach stop to another had proved fruitless. It was not that no one had seen Henry. Everyone had seen her. According to many of the people he questioned, she had been driven off in every possible compass direction. Eversleigh had never suspected that so many young Englishwomen had auburn curls and freckles and possessed gray cloaks or green pelisses (the two outdoor garments missing from his wife's wardrobe) and brown bonnets. He had given up his inquiries in despair before midnight.

A few hours later he had hauled his head groom out of bed and sent him galloping to Roedean. It seemed unlikely that Henry would choose such an obvious destination as a hiding place, but it was worth a try. He had been reluctant to go himself, afraid that he would miss some news of her in London. The groom had returned, very tired, before noon with the news that the servants at Roedean had seen and heard nothing of his wife.

The rest of the previous day Eversleigh had spent wandering around to every possible place where she might be, and attempting to behave with his usual air of unhurried boredom while he talked and questioned very discreetly. There had been no news at all of Henry. He had sought out the footman who was spying on Cranshawe, but with no results. There was nothing suspicious about his heir's movements.

Now, today, he did not know what to do with himself. He cantered through the park, led his horse idly down Bond Street, looking with apparent unconcern into each shop and even into Hookam's Library. Eventually he went to his club, acknowledging for the first time the hopelessness of his search. If Henry really wanted to hide from him, she could remain hidden for a lifetime, and there was nothing he could do about it. Eversleigh sat in the reading room at White's Club, staring ahead of him in despair. A few of his acquaintances, passing the open doorway, would have stopped to exchange courtesies, but passed by when they noticed the expression on his face.

A footman found him there eventually and handed him a note. Eversleigh recognized both the handwriting and the perfume clinging to it, and almost threw it from him in disgust. But, in his present mood, almost any activity seemed better than none. He opened Suzanne's letter. She asked him to visit her that afternoon. Again he almost threw the note down, but then his attention was caught by the last sentence: "I wish to talk to you-about your wife, Marius, Do, please, come!"

Mrs. Broughton had no way of knowing the true state of affairs in Eversleigh's home. She hoped that Marius would come later in the afternoon. She had not expected to have him announced and ushered into her drawing room a mere half-hour after she had sent the note (and at the exact moment that James Ridley was dispatching his own messenger to White's). She rose to her feet, smiled warmly, and extended- a hand to her visitor.

"Marius," she began, "it has been a long time."

"What do you wish to tell me, Suzanne?" he asked, standing just inside the closed door and looking at her from beneath dropped lids.

"Gracious, Marius, let us not be in such a hurry," she purred. "Come and sit down. I shall ring for some refreshment.''

"What do you know of my wife, Suzanne?"

"About your wife?" she repeated, a puzzled frown on her face. "Oh, a mere trifle, Marius. Gossip, no doubt."

"Tell me, Suzanne," he urged softly. He had not moved from his position before the door.

"Sometimes you can be most uncivilized, Marius," she said. Then she gave a low laugh. "But, then, I think that is what I always liked most about you."

Eversleigh's eyes were glinting as be grasped the handle of his quizzing glass. "Your information, Suzanne, please," he said. "We will dispense with the games."

She looked at him coolly and lifted her chin. "You really have lost your head over her, have you not, Marius?" she said coldly. "I suppose I should be glad that she has proved to be such a slut. But I feel only sorry for you. It seems she prefers a younger man, my dear."

"I am sure you will explain yourself," he said, his hand still clasped on the quizzing glass.

"Oh, I hear that Oliver Cranshawe is currently enjoying her favors," she said, sauntering over to a love seat and seating herself gracefully. Her back had scarcely settled against the cushions before two hands closed like steel bands around her upper arms and she was jerked to her feet again.

"Where is she?" Eversleigh asked softly.

"Marius, let me go immediately!" Suzanne ordered, fear flashing in her eyes for one moment.

"Where is she?"

"How would I know that, Marius?" she replied. "Is she not at home?"

"You seem to know that she is not," he said. "You can have got your information only from Cranshawe himself. You will tell me, Suzanne."

"Marius, really," she said, attempting a light laugh. "You are letting yourself become foolish over the little girl. Oliver did not tell me where they were going."

Eversleigh finally released her shoulders. He lifted his hands and encircled her neck with them.

"Suzanne," he said very softly, "you were always a vixen. I am ashamed that-I ever responded to your animal appeal. But it would not hurt me in the least to squeeze the breath from your body right now. I shall do so if you will not tell me where I may find my wife." His thumbs increased their pressure ever so slightly on her throat.

Her eyes bulged with terror and she grasped his wrists and dug in her fingernails. "They are in Sussex, on her brother's estate," she gasped.

Eversleigh's hands immediately left her throat. He turned without a word and strode from the room.

"I hate you, Marius!" she shrieked after him. I hope you are too late!" She picked up a porcelain figurine from the table beside her and hurled it at his retreating back. It smashed into a thousand pieces against the inside of the closing door.

Eversleigh did not waste time returning home. He already wore riding clothes and had his fastest horse with him. He turned its head immediately for the outskirts of London and the road to Sussex, cursing himself for a fool in not having gone there himself the day before. He, too, made only one stop on the road, but it was a lengthy one. His horse lost a shoe on an open country road and he had to lead it slowly for two miles before he found a forge and a smith, who worked with painstaking care despite the barely leashed energy of the human animal who paced up and down before his smithy in silence.