What Price Love?

22

Rus was the first person Pris set eyes on as they entered Flick’s front hall. Her smile exuberant, she flung herself into his arms. “You’re going to have a brother-in-law. I’m going to marry Dillon.”

Rus’s face creased in a smile to match her own. “Excellent!” He swung her around and around; Pris laughed, eyes alight.

Adelaide and Eugenia appeared in the drawing room doorway, followed by Flick, all eager to learn what was going on.

With his habitual charm, his eyes on Pris, Dillon told them.

Adelaide shrieked and hugged him wildly. Eugenia beamed, patted his arm, then kissed his cheek. Flick’s smile held a touch of gloating as she lined up to do the same. His smile easy yet arrogantly proud, Dillon received and responded to their congratulations and eager questions.

Pris turned to Rus, eyed him accusingly. “You knew.”

He grinned. “Of course. You were both so obviously in love, you can’t expect us not to have noticed. Even Papa noticed after just one ball.”

She frowned. “How? What did we do that was so revealing?”

He studied her, confirmed her question was serious. “It’s the way you look at each other, react to each other. I’ve seen you with any number of gentlemen, some nearly as striking as Dillon, and you behave as if they’re mere ciphers. You see, smile, talk, even dance with them, yet it’s as if you’re not truly aware of them, as if they’re too weak to impinge on your consciousness. With Dillon…if he’s in the same room”-Rus grinned as her gaze drifted Dillon’s way-“you’re aware of him. Your attention instantly focuses on him. He doesn’t have to do anything to claim your regard-he simply has it.”

Rus squeezed her hand. “And he’s the same, if not more so, with you. For instance, if you tried to slip away, he’d know and look up before you managed to leave his sight.”

Still puzzled, she asked, “And that’s enough for you-and Papa-to be sure he loves me?”

Rus laughed. “Trust us-for a man like him, it’s an infallible sign.”

Pris wondered what he meant by “like him.”

“I’m more than delighted you’ve found him,” Rus went on. “You’ve done so much to make my life right-to give me what I need to be happy-it’s only right that along the way, you found your happiness, too.”

She snorted. “You make Dillon sound like my reward.”

Rus’s eyes twinkled. “If the shoe fits…”

Before she could think of some pithy retort, Flick came rustling up to embrace her, then Eugenia and Adelaide were there, and before she and Dillon could do more than exchange a glance, they were swept up in a giddy whirl of arrangements, questions, decisions, and yet more congratulations. As Dillon had predicted, Flick herded them straight to Horatia’s to spread the news.

Within half an hour, the Cynster ladies were gathering, all eager to assist in organizing the engagement ball Horatia had immediately claimed the right to host.

Dizzying mayhem ensued, principally feminine, although some of the men, like George, Horatia’s husband, looked in to congratulate them and shake Dillon’s hand-then glance around at the company, and quietly escape. Dillon, Rus, and Pris’s father all remained for some time, but once their agreement to the principal event had been elicited, they became largely redundant.

Pris wasn’t surprised when Dillon touched her shoulder, then murmured, “Your father, Rus, and I are going to my club. I have a business meeting this afternoon-I’ll join you for dinner.”

She smiled. “Yes, of course.” She squeezed his hand, let him kiss her fingers and go.

Squelching the errant thought that she would much rather be escaping with him, she turned back to the ladies and surrendered to the inevitable with good grace.

Their engagement ball was held four evenings later at Horatia’s house in Berkeley Square. A formal dinner preceded it, during which the announcement of their engagement and impending wedding was made to a glittering gathering of over fifty guests.

Pris gave thanks for the hours of training she’d endured at the hands of various governesses. “Just as well I am an earl’s daughter,” she whispered sotto voce to Dillon as they stood in the receiving line just inside the ballroom. “How else I would have coped with this I shudder to think.”

Beside her, Dillon snorted. “You’d have coped.” She felt his gaze briefly caress her bare shoulders. “That damn gown alone tips the scales your way-the ladies are almost as distracted as the gentlemen.”

As the extremely haughty Countess Lieven had just bestowed her exceedingly haughty approval, her gaze lingering on Pris’s stunningly designed gown, Pris hid a smile at his growl, and murmured back, “One has to make the most of the weapons one is born with.”

Lord Carnegie reached them at that moment, forcing Dillon to let that comment lie.

His lordship’s dazzled reaction only buoyed Pris’s confidence more. Her gown was one of the few details that the ladies had left entirely to her, judging, correctly, that they could safely leave sartorial matters in her already experienced hands. The creation that graced her person, in figured silk of her favorite shade of emerald green, was an exercise in simplicity and illusion. It didn’t just flatter her figure; while entirely decorous, the tightly fitted, low-cut bodice overlaid with gossamer silk of the same shade and print teased the imagination. The skirts were cut in the latest fashion, slender and sheathlike in front, gathered and spreading at the back.

With Dillon in black and crisp white beside her, they appeared the very epitome of a tonnish couple at their engagement ball.

She could barely wait for their first waltz, for the ball to get under way, to move on and ahead with their lives, but the receiving line stretched as far as she could see. Keeping her delighted smile in place, she shook hands, curtsied, and received the guests’ congratulations.

Somewhat to her surprise, many ladies with daughters in tow seemed quite sincere in their avowals.

“I’m so very glad you’ve both made your choice.” Lady Hendricks, her niece behind her, smiled graciously, shook their hands, then swept into the ballroom, intent on assessing likely victims.

Grasping a momentary hiatus as an old friend paused to chat with Horatia and George, Pris leaned closer to Dillon, and murmured, “Your father told me we’d pleased all the matchmakers by becoming engaged to each other.” She tipped her head at Lady Hendricks. “It seems he was right.”

“Apparently,” Dillon murmured back, “we’d attained the status of ‘too dangerous’-the ladies are delighted we’ve removed ourselves from the lists. With us gone, they hope to get their charges refocused on the main chance.”

Pris laughed and turned back to dazzle the Montagues.

The General had arrived the day before; she’d been touched when he’d spent most of the afternoon with her, both calming and distracting her with talk of Hillgate End, of Dillon’s mother, of his happiness that she would soon be there with Dillon. The simple family life he’d painted had not just appealed to her, but ensnared her; his gentle words had filled her with both expectation and longing, stirring her usual impetuous wildness to seize the moment and act.

She wanted to be there, at Hillgate End, its mistress, wanted, with Dillon, to grasp the life there and live it.

Impatience was building; she’d harnessed it, lecturing herself that this ball, and all the rest leading up to their wedding in a few weeks’ time, was the necessary prelude to that-to gaining all her heart desired.

As they chatted and welcomed and responded to congratulations, she reviewed her mental lists, her preparations for that life ahead, scanning for anything she’d missed or left undone. Any potential cloud that might dim their path, any potential hurdle that might get in their way.

One small item nagged. Barnaby had returned to London, apparently with no news of Mr. X. Amid all the distractions, she’d had no time to hear the whole story, only the conclusion; they’d reached a dead end in trying to identify their villain.

All the men seemed to have shrugged and accepted that what ever financial damage Mr. X had sustained would have to stand as sufficient retribution. She wasn’t so easily appeased, but from what little she’d heard, there was nothing more they could do. That seemed an unsatisfying end to their adventure; she made a mental note to dance with Barnaby and make him tell her the details of his search.

“Lady Cadogan.” Pris curtsied. “How delightful to see you.”

Dillon smiled and bowed over her ladyship’s hand. A twinkle in her eye, Lady Cadogan rapped his knuckles with her fan and advised him to keep his eye on his bride-to-be. He assured her he had every intention of doing so, then watched as her ladyship gathered her husband from the web of Pris’s loveliness and bore him away.

To Dillon’s relief, the stream of incoming guests eased, then the musicians struck up a brief prelude.

As he turned to Pris, took her hand, bowed, and led her to the steps leading down to the ballroom floor, he felt not the slightest tremor of nervousness or hesitation; what he felt was possessiveness and a driving need to have done with all the outward trappings, to have her wed, and his, at home in Newmarket.

It was she who hesitated at the top of the steps, he who, her hand in his, caught her eyes, her entire attention, and, holding it, led her down, out onto the floor as the guests fell back, led her into their engagement waltz.

She came into his arms light as air, a magical Irish maiden. As he drew her close, and the rest of the room dissolved in a whirl around them, he murmured, “You’ve captured me-you know that, don’t you? My heart, my soul, they’re yours forever.”

Emerald eyes, jewel-bright, smiled into his. “You’re the only man I see-that I’ve ever seen. I don’t know why that is, but it’s so.”

They said nothing more; anything else would have been redundant. They revolved around the ballroom, alone as far as they and their senses knew. Other couples joined them; others laughed and smiled. They remained oblivious, unaware.

Nothing beyond their cocoon could break the spell.

When the music ended, it took effort to wrench their minds from their private world and return to the mundane, to the hundreds waiting to chat and claim their company. They both did it because they had to, but just a glance, a touch of gazes, was enough to emphasize just how alike in that, too, they were.

Soon, their eyes said. A promise both were committed to keeping.

Turning aside, they let their well-wishers claim them. Eventually, they were forced to part.

Dillon accepted the necessity, but before leaving Pris’s side, he glanced up, and found her father waiting nearby to assume the duty of watching over her.

With a nod, he passed the baton to the earl, and allowed the crowd to come between him and Pris. The earl, the General, and Rus were all on hand, primed to ensure that what ever might happen, Pris remained safe, that regardless of any threat that might materialize, she would be neither a target nor able to involve herself in any willful, reckless way.

As for him…glancing around, he made his way to where Barnaby stood by the side of the room.

“Becoming inconspicuous was never so hard,” Dillon grumbled as he joined Barnaby. He looked over the sea of guests. “Any action?”

“Not a hint that I can see.” Barnaby grinned dourly. “I spotted the watchers outside. If Mr. X does make a move, he’s going to get a surprise.”

“We can only hope.” Dillon noticed a number of Cynster scions heading their way, smiling and exchanging greetings as they unobtrusively-as unobtrusively as such men could-tacked through the crowd. Over the next several minutes, Demon and Vane, then Gabriel and devil joined them.

“I take it your meeting with Tranter and company was fruitful?” devil raised a brow. “I assume those were his men skulking outside.”

Barnaby nodded. “His, or from one of the others. Mr. X’s underworld enemies seem legion, and they’ve been as stumped as we in identifying him. Until we approached them, I hadn’t realized how deeply they felt about him eluding them. He owes them a fortune, but it’s his anonymity they view as a personal insult-a slap in the face, a matter of honor.”

“Just so.” devil’s lips curved cynically, also wryly. “Powerful men hate to find themselves helpless. Your Mr. X has miscalculated there.”

“Hmm.” Demon glanced around their circle. “If he does move against Dillon, and they nab him, what should we do-haul him free or leave him to their untender mercies?”

They all considered; eventually all looked to devil, but he looked at Dillon and raised a brow. “You’re the most involved”-his glance included others in the room, Pris, Rus, and those involved in the substitution switch-“on all counts. What say you?”

Dillon held devil’s pale green gaze; he considered the possibilities, how he felt-would feel…“I say it depends on his actions. If he strikes, but it’s a token gesture, a jab at me before he goes slinking into the night, then we pull him out and hand him to Stokes. Tranter and crew won’t like it, but handing him over to the authorities was part of our agreement-they’ll accept it.”

“They’ll still benefit,” Barnaby said. “They want him identified so they can pick over his financial bones in case there’s anything they can salvage. And they’re well aware they’ll gain a modicum of status with the authorities for assisting in his capture. So yes, I agree, they’ll go along with that.”

“But what,” Gabriel asked, “if his revenge is rather more than token?”

Dillon met his eyes. “Then we leave him to his fate. If he’s that bent on revenge, handing him to the authorities will only create unnecessary difficulties.”

Lips curved without a trace of humor. “Indeed.” devil nodded. “So that’s what we’ll do.”

Vane looked at Dillon. “Planning aside, have you had any indication he’s preparing an attack?”

Dillon shook his head. “This is all conjecture on our part-we’ve no evidence he’ll try to take revenge at all.”

Barnaby snorted. “If he doesn’t, I’ll eat my hat. The fact he’s lain low and not acted precipitously only confirms that he’s a cool, careful schemer.”

“The most dangerous sort.” devil looked at Dillon. “Be careful.”

Dillon met that direct, faintly disconcerting glance, and nodded. The group parted, donning their affably charming social masks and going their separate ways, but devil’s glance-and the injunction that lay behind it-remained in Dillon’s mind.

Before Pris had come into his life and become such an essential part of it, he would have recognized devil’s look, and understood the implication, but not truly felt it, not as a threat. Now he did. He looked over the heads, and found Pris-the one thing he had to take greatest care of, as devil had intimated. She was engaged with a bevy of guests, Rus by her elbow, her father nearby, fondly looking on.

Conscious that something within him eased, like a beast settling back to semislumber, Dillon smiled at Lady Folwell and stopped by her side to chat.

Pris was safe, the night would soon be over, and their wedding would be one day closer. Despite his impatience to have Mr. X act, be identified, and dealt with, he was equally impatient to dispense with town and head back home with Pris. If Mr. X didn’t act soon, he would consign the substitution racket and its perpetrator to the past, and leave it behind. He and Pris had too much to do, too much to look forward to, to waste time on a ruined villain.

The ball was a certified crush, the evening declared a huge success. Horatia and Flick were both beaming. Dillon danced with them both, grateful but wary, too. Flick informed him that Pris intended to ask Prue to be a flower girl along with Pris’s sisters; he asked if she didn’t think it dangerous to be encouraging Prue to think of weddings-and set her laughing. He didn’t think, faced with the same question, that Demon would even chuckle.

Twirling herself, Pris saw Dillon circling with a delighted Flick in his arms, and smiled.

“Mr. Caxton is indeed a lucky man.”

The comment had her refocusing on her partner, Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace. Pris inclined her head and glanced over his shoulder as he steered her through the turn at the end of the room.

Rus’s words returned to her mind; without looking back at Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace, she tested Rus’s hypothesis that she didn’t truly see men other than Dillon. Abercrombie-Wallace was a typical London gentleman, in age somewhere between Dillon and Demon. He was dark-haired, not quite so tall, a trifle heavier…her physical description wavered at that point. She supposed he had a typical english face, passable enough, with features that owed much to his aristocratic background. He was, she’d gathered, wellborn and well connected, from one of the older families of the haut ton; the quality of his clothes, the diamond in his cravat, smacked of wealth and affluence.

His address was polished, his character rather mild for her taste. He seemed, not shy, but reserved.

Her gaze sliding past his face, she inwardly shrugged. It was hardly a surprise he didn’t impinge on her mind.

“Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace…I wonder, sir, what are your interests in the capital?” She quizzed him with her eyes. “Is it business or plea sure that claims you?” She’d noticed him at the balls they’d attended over the past days; her money was on plea sure.

He might not impinge on her mind, but she’d instantly and completely claimed his. His gaze-he had pale brown eyes-locked on hers. After a moment of rather disconcerting staring silence, he replied, “As it happens, it’s a mixture of both.”

His voice sounded faintly strained; it had been melodically smooth until then. Pris widened her eyes. “Indeed? How-oh!”

She stumbled and nearly fell. Abercrombie-Wallace caught her, steadied her, even while he apologized profusely for his clumsiness; he’d stepped on her skirt. Pris looked down at the lace trailing beneath her hem, and swallowed a curse. She’d have to pin it up.

“Forgive me, dear lady.” Wallace had paled. “If I might suggest, if you have pins, there’s a parlor across the corridor-just through that door.” He nodded to a door in the paneling nearby. “You could repair the damage without having to fight your way up the ballroom first.”

They were at the far end of the ballroom; Pris glanced at the door, then eyed the throng between her and the ballroom steps. “That would be best.”

Abercrombie-Wallace opened the door for her, then followed her through. He closed the door, leaving the corridor dimly lit by a distant sconce. “Over there.” He gestured to a door a little way along the corridor.

Holding her skirt with the damaged petticoat to one side, keeping the trailing lace clear of her feet, Pris headed that way. Wallace reached past her to open the door.

She walked in, one glance verifying that the room was a small parlor looking out on the side garden. The lace caught the toe of her shoe; she looked down, untangling it, then released her skirt and turned to thank Wallace and shut the door.

He was right there-almost face-to-face. The door was already shut.

She opened her lips to send him away-the words died in her throat as he drew something from his pocket and flicked; a long black scarf uncoiled from his fingers.

Hands rising defensively, she dragged in a breath, glanced at his face as she opened her mouth to scream.

He moved like lightning. He wound the material about her head and face, smothering her cry-smothering her. She was immediately short of breath, had to struggle to draw air through the fine-woven material.

“Indeed.” The voice, steely and controlled, came from behind her, a cold whisper by her ear. “If you have any sense at all, you’ll save your energies for breathing.”

What? Who? Blind, dumb, and close to deaf, Pris couldn’t get the words past her lips. But she could guess the answers.

He caught her hands, useless with her senses blocked and in turmoil; he swiftly secured them behind her back, then, holding her before him, guided her forward. He opened a door; faint, her head spinning, unable to do anything but follow his directions, she swayed, stepped out-and felt cool stone beneath her soles.

The waltz came to an end. Releasing Flick, Dillon escorted her back to the chaise where Horatia and Eugenia sat. He allowed them to twit him, then moved away. Instinctively, he scanned the room.

He couldn’t see Pris.

He halted, scanned again, more carefully, telling himself that his suddenly screaming instincts couldn’t possibly be correct…then he saw something that made his heart stop.

Rus-like him searching the guests, unlike him, openly perturbed.

By the time Dillon reached him, Rus was frowning. “Do you know where she is?” he asked without preamble.

“No.” Dillon looked into Rus’s eyes. “I don’t think she’s here, in the house. Is she?”

Rus blinked. His gaze grew distant, then, lips setting grimly, he shook his head. “I can’t…sense her. But it’s just a feeling. Perhaps-”

Fiercely, Dillon shook his head. “She’s not here. I know it, too.”

He glanced around. They stood near the steps and the main doors. None of the others were in sight. “Come on!”

They had to act now, seize the moment, take the risk.

He went up the steps two at a time. Rus at his heels, he strode through the foyer and hurried down the stairs.

Highthorpe was in the front hall.

“Have you seen Lady Priscilla?” Dillon asked.

“No, sir.” Highthorpe glanced at his minion manning the doors; the footman shook his head. “She hasn’t been this way.”

Dillon hesitated, thinking, imagining, then he swore, and strode out of the doors, down the steps into the street. The nearer curb was lined with carriages; on the opposite side a little way back stood a lone black carriage, curtains drawn, the driver and a groom alert on the box. Turning in the other direction, Dillon saw a single hackney idly waiting for some gentleman to leave the ball; the hackney stood opposite the entrance to the lane that ran alongside the Cynsters’ garden wall. He headed for the hackney.

Seeing him coming, Rus at his back, the driver stirred and sat up, gathering his reins. He touched his cap as Dillon reached him. “Where to, guv?”

“Did you see a carriage pick up someone in the lane?”

The driver blinked. “Aye-a friend o’mine picked up a fare there not two minutes since. He-m’friend-was in line ahead of me. A gent flagged him over into the lane. He had a woman with him, a lady-she looked poorly.”

“Poorly how?” Rus asked.

The driver frowned. “Well, she had a veil thing over her head, and she seemed unsteady-the gent had hold of her. He helped her into the carriage.”

“What color was her gown?” Dillon asked.

“Darkish-green, I think.”

Rus swore. “What of the man?”

“Never mind that,” Dillon cut in. “Did you hear the direction?”

The driver blinked. “Aye. Tothill way. The gent said as how he’d direct Joe when they got there.”

Dillon wrenched open the hackney door and waved Rus in. “Can you follow him?”

The driver’s eyes lit. “Easy enough-I know the route he’ll take.”

“Ten sovereigns when you catch him.” Dillon leapt into the carriage, slammed the door on the driver’s cheery, “Right you are!” and slumped onto the seat as the hackney lurched into motion.

He and Rus clung to the straps as the driver set off to claim his reward. They rocked down the lane, clattered down a street, then turned into a more crowded thoroughfare-Piccadilly. They joined the slow river of carriages edging along. Rus swore, and looked out of the window.

The trap in the roof slid open; the driver called down, “I can see Joe ahead of us, sir, but I won’t be able to get up to him ’til we’re out of this crush.”

“Just keep him in sight. As long as we catch him when he stops, the money’s yours.”

“Right!”

A moment later, the driver spoke again, his tone more careful. “Ah…I don’t know as how I should mention this, sir, but there’s a carriage following us. It’s the one that was outside the house when you came out. I wouldn’t mention it, but…I recognize the driver.”

Dillon hesitated, then said, “I know who it is. They’re supposed to be following us.”

“Supposed to be?” The driver sounded intrigued, but relieved. After a moment, he called, “Right you are, sir.” The trap dropped back into place.

Rus looked at Dillon. “Who’s in the other carriage?”

“Most likely a man called Tranter, and some of his men. They won’t bother us, and if we need help, they’ll be there.”

Rus studied him. After a moment, he said, “Who is he-the man who grabbed Pris?”

Across the carriage, Dillon met his eyes. “I don’t know his name, but I’d wager my life he’s Mr. X.”

In the carriage ahead of them, Pris gave up trying to surreptitiously free her hands. He’d used silk to bind them, too; her efforts had only pulled the knots tighter. Relaxing as best she could against what she assumed was a hackney’s seat, she forced herself to calm, to take stock.

She’d nearly fainted when he’d bundled her into the carriage. He’d loosened the silk wrapped about her head, but ruthlessly replaced it once she was breathing normally. The folds were now tight around her eyes, less tight about her lips, and not at all over her nose. She could breathe, but she couldn’t cry out. The best she could do was mumble.

“Why?” She knew he sat opposite her. Was he who she thought he was? Could the Honorable Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace, tallish, dark-haired, slightly heavier in build and older than Barnaby, scion of a noble house, truly be Mr. X?

“I’m quite sure, my dear, that you’re intelligent enough to work it out-your fiancé wouldn’t have missed the chance to crow, to portray himself as a vanquishing defender of the turf.”

His voice was cool, detached. No hint of humanity colored his tone.

“You’re…?” It was too difficult to manage whole sentences.

“Indeed. I’m the one he vanquished.”

She could feel his eyes on her, cold, assessing. “So…?”

“So now I’m ruined!” His façade cracked; emotion spilled through-fury, malevolence, naked hate. Suddenly, he was raging. “Completely and utterly! Like many of my peers, I’ve lived my life on tick, so the fact their bills haven’t been paid hasn’t immediately alerted my creditors. By the time they realize that this time is different, that this time they won’t be paid at all, I’ll be far away. However, I’m not delighted to be forced to leave my life here, so comfortable and accommodating, and disappear. Yet that-” His voice cracked as he spat the word, dripping with malice.

He paused; Pris heard him draw a deep breath, sensed him struggle to resume the mild, debonair mask he showed the world. “Yet that”-his voice was once again a smooth, melodic, well-conditioned drawl-“is what your fiancé has reduced me to. I’ll have to scurry off to the Continent, and live hand to mouth until I can find some gullible soul to supply my needs. But that degrading scenario is not, in itself, why you’re here. You see, now I haven’t even the illusion of funds, I can’t gamble.”

Pris frowned.

“No-not the horses. Cards are my vice, and a very expensive mistress she’s proved to be. But I could keep her, could feed and clothe her as long as I could tap funds from somewhere. And yes, that’s where the horses came in. I care nought for the racetrack, but I found it, and those drawn to it, so useful. So easily twisted to my purpose. It was all working so well, until…until your fiancé, and if I have it correctly, your brother, intervened.”

His voice had altered on that last phrase. Pris fought to suppress a shiver. Was he taking her with him to the Continent?

She gathered enough breath, enough courage to mumble, “So me?”

A long silence ensued, then he said, “So you, my dear, are my revenge.”

In the carriage behind, Dillon reached up and rapped on the trap door. When it opened, he asked, “How far ahead are they?”

“ ’Bout a hundred yard, maybe more.”

“Get as close as you can.”

“Aye, sir. Joe always takes the route down Whitehall-I’ll be able to close the gap then.” The trap fell back into place.

They were rolling down Pall Mall, still slow as the hackney dodged the carriages of gentlemen out for a night in the hells.

“Tothill-that’s the stews, isn’t it?”

Dillon nodded. “One of the many.”

“Why there?”

He hesitated, then answered truthfully, “I don’t like to think.”

The journey seemed interminable, but after heading down Cock-spur Street, the hackney wheeled into Whitehall and picked up pace.

They rattled along at a good clip, then had to slow, with much cursing from the driver, as Westminster loomed on their left and the hackney had to negotiate the largely pedestrian traffic thronging the square before the Guild Hall.

At last they pulled free, but the cursing continued. Dillon risked standing, and pushed up the trap. “What is it?”

“Lost ’im!” the driver wailed. “I know he went up ’ere, but he’s turned off somewheres.”

Dillon swore and leaned out of the window to the right. “Slow down-we’ll search.”

Rus hung out of the other window as they rolled slowly along, but the bulk of Westminster Abbey blocked that side of the street. Then the abbey ended, and he peered into the night. A street opened ahead. As they neared, the driver called, “Should I head up to Tothill, then?”

“Wait!” Rus stared. “Down there-is that them?”

“That’s him!” The driver swung his horse around, and they clattered down.

“Right two ahead,” Dillon called.

“I see him.” The driver took the turn too fast; he slowed, corrected, then swore volubly again. “Gone again.”

“Search!” Dillon ordered.

They headed into a maze of narrow, cluttered lanes and fetid alleyways. It had always struck Dillon as one of fate’s ironies that some of the worst stews in the capital existed in the shadow of the country’s most venerated abbey. They quartered the area, the black carriage now directly behind them; they occasionally stopped to listen, and heard the clop of the other hackney’s horse, but never spotted it. They reached one edge of the densely packed area; the driver slowed.

He leaned around the edge of the box to speak to Dillon. “We’ll never find him this way, guv, but where he’s gone in, he has to come out, and I know where he’ll do that. Do y’want to try that way?”

Dillon hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

Looking across the carriage, he met Rus’s eyes. “Better to risk being a few minutes behind, than losing her trail altogether.”

Grim-faced, Rus nodded.

The driver drove back to the first corner they’d turned down. He’d barely pulled to the side of the road, when he called, “ ’Ere he comes now! Hey, Joe-pull up!” To make sure of it, the driver angled his horse across the street.

His mate drew up alongside the black carriage amid a welter of colorful curses. Dillon jumped down to the street. Rus hit the cobbles on the other side of the hackney.

“ ’Ere.” Joe eyed them warily. “What’s up?” Belatedly, he touched his cap. “Gents?”

A smile was beyond Dillon. “You just carried a fare into the stews. A man and a lady-am I right?”

“Aye.” Joe glanced at his friend.

“Just answer them. They’re not after you.”

“Was the lady struggling?” Rus asked.

Joe blinked. “No…well, not so’s you’d notice. She had this thing over ’er head-she weren’t fighting the gent, but then she couldn’t, could she?”

“Where did you leave them?” Dillon rapped out, hideously conscious of the minutes ticking by.

“Where?” Joe stared at Dillon, then looked at his friend. “Ah…”

Suddenly, a shadow loomed at Dillon’s shoulder. Dillon glanced at the newcomer, who’d approached on catlike feet. The man stood a head taller than Dillon, and was half again as broad, every inch of it muscle and bone. His hands were hams, his eyes small; he leaned close to tell Joe, “Mr. Tranter says as you should tell the gentl’man anything he wants to know.”

Eyes like saucers, Joe just nodded.

The apparition waited, then inquired in the same innocuously dulcet tones, “What, then? Cat got your tongue?”

Joe nearly swallowed the appendage in question. He coughed, helplessly looked at Dillon. “Betsy Miller’s place. That’s where I set them down.”

Dillon glanced at the giant. “Betsy Miller’s?”

“It’s a brothel,” the giant helpfully supplied. “A high-class one. Caters for the likes o’ the pair o’you.” His nod indicated Dillon and Rus.

Over the back of Joe’s horse, Dillon and Rus stared at each other.

The giant nudged Dillon. “Reckon you’ll want to get on your way, like. Mr. Tranter, me, and the boys’ll be right behind yer.”

Dillon slammed the carriage door seconds later.