Author: Anne Stuart

“It didn’t come to that,” he said with an ugly turn to his mouth. “She left on her own.”

Reading’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

“Someone saw her departing soon after you left. Were you fool enough to go after the sister?”

“You knew I would,” Reading said.

“Indeed. You’re still young and foolish enough to believe in love.”

“And you don’t, Francis?” he said gently. “I think Elinor loved you.”

“I didn’t give you leave to call her by her given name,” Rohan snapped drunkenly.

“I wasn’t aware that it was your permission I needed,” Reading said wryly. “Where is she?”

“Damned if I know.”

“You most certainly are.” Reading kept his voice pleasant. “How do you know she’s gone?”

“Went back to her room. Rooms. I put her away from the riffraff, and when I went to find her she was gone.”

“Perhaps she knew that was what you wanted.”

“How the hell did she know what I wanted?” Rohan argued with drunken logic. “I didn’t know what I wanted.”

Reading looked at him in frustration. “You’ve cocked this up badly, Francis. It isn’t at all like you—you have more finesse. I can only think there must be something else at play here. Perhaps something on your part.”

“I beg you, Charles, spare me your sentimentality,” Rohan said.

Reading shook his head. “I need to find her, Francis, for her sister’s sake if for no other. I would think you’d feel some responsibility…”

“None,” he said succinctly, taking another drink from the bottle. “She may go wherever she wishes and tup anyone she chooses. I’m done with her.”

Charles rose, crossed the room and grabbed the bottle, smashing it in the fireplace. Rohan leaped from his seat with drunken fury, murder in his eyes, and then his face went blank as he stood there for a moment, then gracefully passed out in Charles’s arms.

Charles let his old friend down carefully on the littered floor and went to the door. Willis was already waiting, with coffee and food on a tray, a bowl of warm water and fresh clothes over his arm.

“What happened to her, Willis?”

“It’s uncertain, Mr. Reading, but I had word that she was seen leaving in the company of a gentleman.”

Alarm swept through Reading. There was no member or guest of this devil’s retinue who was a fitting companion for Elinor Harriman.

“I believe it was Baron Tolliver. He’s a relative newcomer, and I gather he has some relation to the lady.”

“So she’s safe.”

Willis looked torn. “As for that, I’m not certain, Mr. Reading. I took it upon myself to see what I could find out about the situation. He’d hired a carriage to transport them to Calais, from whence I can only assume he’s planning to return to England. With Miss Harriman.”

He should be relieved. If she was with the titular head of her family then he should have nothing to worry about. Except that this was the very man that Rohan had been gathering information about, though he’d been damn secretive about it.

The time for secrets had passed. “Bring some very cold water, Willis. I think it’s time for Lord Rohan to face the mess he’s made of his life.”

“Indeed, sir.” He nodded, bowing.

Charles didn’t wait for Willis’s return. He opened the doors to the snowy terrace and went back to Rohan’s unconscious body. He was too big to lift, so Charles simply dragged him across the floor to the door, hoisting him over the doorjamb until he went face-first in the snow.

He came to quite quickly, heading for Charles once more. “Enough,” Charles thundered, holding one arm out to keep him at bay. “You’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for yourself. It’s time for you to sober up and do something.”

“I could do your intended,” Rohan said evilly in a deliberate attempt to get Charles to hit him.

“She’s my wife, you degenerate bastard. And you know perfectly well she’s not the Harriman you want. Elinor went off with that new cousin of hers—she’s probably in England by now. We’re going to have make absolutely certain she’s—” He stopped as Rohan began to curse. “What?”

But Rohan seemed to have shaken off the vast amount of whiskey he’d had. He rose to his full, impressive height. “Get my valet,” he snapped. “And order my coach.”

“Willis is bringing water and fresh clothes,” Charles said warily. “But why bring your coach? She’s already back in England by now, and you certainly can’t even think of going there.”

“Can’t I, Charles?” he said in a grim voice, stripping off his torn and stained waistcoat and shirt. “I’m not convinced she’s safe with him. I had him removed from the property at the beginning of the Revels, but he must have somehow gotten to her anyway.”

“And she’s safer with you? Allow me to doubt that,” Charles said derisively.

“You don’t understand. He’s not her cousin. He’s not the true heir to Harriman’s estate, but he presented papers that Harriman’s daughter had died in France.”

Charles froze. “How did you discover this?”

“I can get any information I need, you know that,” he said, his voice dark. “Young Marley, the Duke of Mont Albe, all had knowledge of the so-called Marcus Harriman. He’s a fake, Charles. He’s her bastard half brother, and I can’t believe his intentions have anything to do with Elinor’s well-being.”

Charles felt the ice that he’d dumped Rohan in begin to form in his veins. “Bloody hell. That would explain a lot. Neither you nor I were satisfied that Lady Caroline started that fire, and you yourself said the attempt on your life might have been a mistake. Miss Harriman had accompanied you only minutes earlier, and it would be simple enough for him to have hired a marksman, one of the disaffected soldiers who roam the streets.”

Rohan was splashing water on his body. “If he’s taken her back to England it’s in order to kill her. And I’ve been sitting here for days, drinking.”

“We could be worried for nothing,” Reading said. “After all, the estate’s entailed. What could he hope to gain?”

Rohan shook his head, then moaned, putting his hands to his temples. “Devil of a headache,” he muttered, momentarily distracted. Then he looked up, steely-eyed. “The estate isn’t entailed. Not even the title. She inherits it all, and if she marries, her son inherits the title. I don’t think our so-called Baron Tolliver is going to let that happen.”

He strode to the door, filled with feverish energy. “Willis, damn you!” he shouted into the darkened hallway. “What’s taking you so bloody long?”

“I’m coming, my lord!” Willis’s voice wheezed from a short distance away.

“Tell me what to do, Francis,” Charles said urgently. “You have no choice but to stay here, but I can go after them, catch up with them before anything happens.”

“It might already be too late. He could have tossed her over the side of the boat,” Rohan said bleakly. “But no, he didn’t do that. I’d know. In my heart, I’d know.”

Charles stared at him, stupefied. “You have a heart, Francis? Surely not.”

Rohan turned to look at him. “We still haven’t settled our duel,” he said in an evil voice.

“You really wish to waste time with such inconsequentialities?” Reading said. “Don’t glower at me—I’ve known you too long to be intimidated by the King of Hell. You’ll have to give up that title, you know. You’ll be drummed out of the Heavenly Host.”

“God deliver me from their tiresome playacting,” Rohan said wearily.

“Lord save us, first you have a heart, now you have a god? Will wonders never cease?” Charles said, turning back to close the door that was still blowing icy air and snow into the library. “One thing is certain. I’m not letting you go anywhere near England. Not that you’d be fool enough to even think of it, but you’re out of your mind already, and it would be just like you—”

Something crashed down on his head. One moment he was lecturing his old, dissipated friend, the next he was falling toward the littered, snowy floor of Rohan’s library, and then everything went black.

Rohan didn’t stop to consider what drove him, what he was risking. There wasn’t time. He had no idea when Marcus Harriman had departed with his half sister, but any kind of head start was unacceptable. He’d done nothing but drink for the past three days—they would have left anytime, while he’d be feeling sorry for himself.

He tied his old friend up deftly, bitterly amused at the realization that the only reason he knew how to bind someone was for some of the Heavenly Host’s more interesting games. Charles would be ready to kill him when he awakened, but at least Rohan would have a head start. He knew full well that there was no way Charles would stand by and let him put his life in jeopardy by returning to England. He also knew there was no way he could stop him.

He moved quickly. He had no line of credit or bank in England, necessitating that he take a large amount of cash from his Paris bank. He sent Willis ahead to Calais to hire a boat—he needed one ready to sail at the first tide, and he had his valet pack his plainest clothes. He left the Maison de Giverney less than an hour after Charles had arrived, taking his horse and riding toward the coast hell-for-leather.

He stopped only to change horses, pushing on at a madman’s pace. It was sheer luck that he decided that one more change was necessary, and he stopped at a small inn some ten miles from the coast. Sheer luck that when the man accosted him he didn’t simply shoot him and move on.

It was the Harrimans’ erstwhile coachman, though his name escaped Rohan. It didn’t matter—the man knew who he was.