He drew a blank at Brooks's and Watier's, but the footman at White's acknowledged that Lord Stoneridge might be on the premises. He left Jonathan kicking his heels in the hall and sailed up the gilded staircase to the coffee room.
Stoneridge looked up from his conversation with Major Fortescue as the footman coughed at his elbow. "Well?"
"There's a young gentleman inquiring after you, my lord. Should I deny you?"
"That rather depends on the identity of the young gentleman." Sylvester raised an eyebrow.
The footman extended the silver tray with a card. "Now what the devil does young Lacey want with me?" Sylvester said, frowning. "You'd better send him up."
Jonathan appeared in the doorway a minute later. He stood looking round with every appearance of fascination, then flushed slightly as several gentlemen raised eye glasses and stared fixedly at the inquisitive intruder in this exclusive salon. He made his way hastily across the room, tripping over a small spindle-legged table in his embarrassment, righting it swiftly, only to catch his toe in the fringe of a Turkey carpet.
"It is something of an obstacle course, I agree," Stoneridge observed. "Pray sit down, Mr. Lacey, before the obstacles get the better of you."
"Your pardon, Lord Stoneridge." Jonathan mopped his brow with a large checkered handkerchief. "But I have been looking all over for you."
The first faint prickles of unease crept over Sylvester's scalp. "I'm flattered," he said calmly.
"Fairfax sent me with a message. A matter of the utmost urgency. I'm not at all sure what it could mean."
The prickles ran rampant up and down his spine. "It's to be hoped I shall. Pray continue."
"He wishes you to meet him at Hall Court, off Ludgate Hill – I believe that's correct. Oh, and he said to come prepared. He said you would know what that meant."
"Indeed, I do." Sylvester rose, no sign on his face of his inner turmoil. "Obliged to you, Lacey." He nodded briefly. "You'll pardon me, Peter."
"Of course. Anything I can do?"
But the offer was made to the earl's back as he strode from the salon.
What the hell trouble was Theo in now? He couldn't begin to imagine, and speculation was terrifyingly futile. His unease that morning had obviously been justified.
Concentrating only on immediate plans, he strode back to Curzon Street, where he thrust a pair of dueling pistols into his belt, dropped a small silver-mounted pistol into his pocket, tucked his sword stick under his arm, and slipped a wicked stiletto-bladed knife into his boot. Edward had said to come prepared.
He would make faster time on horseback, and within ten minutes he was galloping Zeus toward the Strand.
Theo swam upward through a murky pond where weeds snatched at moments of lucidity and waves kept tumbling her back into the dark world below. But slowly, her mind cleared and her eyes opened. Her head was pounding as if half a dozen hammers were at work, and gingerly she turned sideways on the pillow, feeling at the back of her head for the source of the hammers. Her fingers encountered a lump the size of a gull's
She was feeling sick and giddy, and her eyes could make no sense of her surroundings. Something heavy was round her right ankle, and experimentally she moved her leg. There was a heavy clunking sound, and whatever it was rasped painfully against her ankle bone.
The dark waters of the pond closed over her again, but this time she fought back, dragging herself upward into the light. It was a dim light, but the fog was clearing from her mind despite the continued pounding in her head.
Someone, and it hadn't been Neil Gerard, had hit her on the back of the head. They'd been driving up Ludgate Hill. She'd said that it seemed a strange route to take when they should be crossing Blackfriar's Bridge. Gerard had smiled and said he had something of interest to show her.
Then they'd turned aside into that reeking, gloomy court. And like the dumb fool she was, she still hadn't grasped what was happening. She'd sat there like a gaby a minute too long before going for her pistol, and someone had hit her from behind.
Without much hope she felt in her pocket. No pistol. Sylvester was right, Theo thought disgustedly. She was a naive, impetuous baby who needed all the protection and surveillance a caring and watchful husband could give her. If she ever got out of this situation in one piece, she'd lock herself in her room and give him the key!
Struggling up onto one elbow, she surveyed her surroundings. It was a small room lit only by a grimy skylight. She was lying on a narrow cot, on a straw palliase covered with rough striped ticking. Apart from this there was a table and chair, and a small coal fire burning in the hearth.
There was a chain around her ankle. Her right leg was shackled to the bed. Sitting up properly, Theo stared in disbelief; then she reached down, ignoring the pounding in her head, and lifted the chain. It was heavy, but it seemed long enough to allow her to get off the cot. Carefully, she stood up; her head swam, and cold perspiration broke out on her forehead as a wave of nausea washed over her. She sat down again and waited for the moment to pass.
Then, with renewed effort, she stood up and took a step toward the table in the middle of the room. The chain had sufficient play to enable her to get that far. There was a carafe of water on the table, and she drank thirstily. The cold liquid helped to clear her mind even further, and she continued her investigation of her prison.
She dragged the chain to the door. There were heavy bolts at the top and bottom on the inside – useful should she decide to lock herself in. Again without much hope, she raised the latch. It came up sweetly, and the door swung open onto a narrow passage. Her heart lifted and she stepped forward, only to discover she was at the limit of her chain, and the links bit into her ankle bone.
Theo pulled the door closed again and returned to the bed. Her foot kicked something as she sat down. At least Gerard or his assistant had provided her with a chamber pot. But what did they want with her?
There came the sound of footsteps in the passage outside, and instantly she lay down again, closing her eyes. It might be useful to pretend she was still unconscious, at least until she had a better sense of what was intended.
Gerard came into the room, closing the door behind him. He trod softly to the cot and stood looking down at the white-faced, unconscious figure. He laid a hand on her brow and was relieved to find her skin warm. Dan didn't know his own strength, and Neil had been afraid the blow had been unnecessarily hard. He needed the Countess of Stoneridge alive and well when it came to negotiating with her husband.
He allowed his gaze to roam over the still body. The soft rise and fall of her breasts, the way her skirt clung to her flat belly. The hem was rucked up, showing the curve of her ankle and calf. He bent and pushed it up a little farther, remembering the vibrant sensuality that had so struck him when he'd first laid eyes on her. His hand slid up her silken-clad leg beneath her skirt and petticoat. A madness seemed to have entered him. There was something incredibly exciting about having this immobile, unaware body at his disposal. His fingers insinuated themselves into the leg of her drawers, creeping upward over the warm skin.
And then there was a loud banging at the door. With a muttered curse he jerked his hand away and straightened.
" 'Ow is she?" Dan's huge head appeared around the door. "Awake yet?"
"Not as yet" Gerard moved casually away from the cot "Send that girl of yours to me. To the front room."
"Fancy a bit, do ya?" Dan chuckled and his red eyes leered. "Well, you do good by 'er, an' I've no objections. I'll listen out fer yon missie fer a spell."
Gerard said nothing but drew his arm sharply aside as he passed so that he wouldn't brush against the man. Dan's sneering chuckle followed him as he went to the front room that he'd once occupied, to await the scrawny maidservant he'd used there before to ease his hunger pangs.