The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (9 page)

Her instincts had bought her time; it was up to her to use it.

“So.” Setting down her cup, she met his eyes. “My letter to my parents. Is there a desk somewhere?” Dusted and with supplies went without saying.

He pushed back his chair and rose. “I'm using the library as a study. You can write your missive there.”

She waited for him to pull out her chair, then rose and walked beside him out of the room and down a long corridor. She looked about her as they went; the house truly was huge. Revealing its secrets, exposing them once more to the full light of day, and redecorating fit for this century held very real appeal.

At the end of the corridor, he opened a door, held it as she walked through, into a long room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A huge fireplace occupied the center of one long wall, while the opposite wall hosted three pairs of long windows looking out onto a square of overgrown lawn edged with tall trees. Only the nearer end of the room had been cleared of the omnipresent cobwebs and dust. A heavy, ornately carved desk faced down the room, with an admiral's chair behind it, and two armchairs angled before it. Further down the room, holland covers still swathed all the furniture.

Resisting an urge to go and peek under the covers—later—she walked to the desk. Rounding it, she looked at the welter of papers scattered over it.

Dominic walked past her to the other side of the chair, reached across, and swept the papers to one side. “Estate business. I've been attending to what I can while I'm here.”

Opening the central drawer, he drew out a fresh sheet of paper and laid it on the blotter.

“Thank you.” Sinking into the admiral's chair, she reached for one of the pens in an onyx-and-ormolu holder. The inkstand looked like something her brother Alasdair would enthuse over. Now she thought of it, he would enthuse over most of the objects in the house.

Smiling at the thought, she flipped up the lid of the ink pot, dipped the already nicely sharpened nib in, paused, then bent to her task.

Rather than couch her words with any degree of formality, she wrote as if she were speaking; the missive would, she hoped, be more effective that way.

While she scribbled, Dominic—she'd be damned if she thought of him as Glencrae—walked to the nearer window and stood looking out. Giving her privacy, although he would, no doubt, want to read what she wrote.

When she'd written all she thought wise, she read through the whole, then signed and carefully blotted the sheet.

Setting the pen back in the holder, she flipped the ink pot lid shut. The sound had him glancing around. Picking up the letter, she held it out. “Here.”

He met her gaze, then walked to the desk and took the sheet.

Leaning back in the chair, she watched him read it.

She'd opened with an abject apology for not contacting them sooner, explained that she'd been forced to leave to help a friend in desperate need, asked that they concoct some tale to cover her absence, an absence she'd assured them would be temporary, but might perhaps stretch for several weeks, then closed with an assurance that she was absolutely and utterly safe, and in no danger of any kind.

By the time Dominic reached the end, he was frowning. “ ‘Forced to leave'?”

“I thought that skated rather nicely around the reality.” When he arched a black brow, she said, “You'll also notice I've said nothing about
where
I've gone. As you've noted, they'll most likely have assumed that this is something to do with the earlier kidnappings and have blocked the roads north, but the possibility that I'm still in town, and seem to have no expectation of leaving, should at least start them wondering. And the more they wonder, the more likely they'll pull back and start searching somewhere else. Given we have to travel to the highlands, I would prefer to do so without my brothers and cousins on our heels.”

Dominic couldn't argue that. He read the letter again, confirming that her composition was perfectly gauged to, on the one hand, reassure her family, and on the other, to deflect them. Further proof that the woman beside him had mastered skills he hadn't expected her to have. A dab hand at manipulating others, he recognized that talent when he met it.

Glancing down at her, he met her wide, green-and-gold eyes. “You are twenty-one, aren't you?”

“I turn twenty-two in August.” She smiled up at him. “I'll have to put my mind to what your present to me should be.” Her brows rose. “Perhaps we'll have time to look in at Aspreys before we leave town.”

Studying her eyes, he realized she was teasing him; he couldn't remember when last anyone had. He grunted and handed back the letter. “Address it, and I'll have Mulley arrange delivery.” Crossing to the bell-pull, he tugged it.

She folded the sheet, then reached for a pen. “And how do you see this delivery being effected? I'd wager someone from the family will be watching the door in Dover Street.”

“So I would expect. I'll have Mulley give it to one of the street-sweepers in Piccadilly. The lad will deliver it, Mulley will watch to make sure it gets into your parents' butler's hands, then Mulley will vanish. There won't be any way to trace the letter back here.”

Finished with inscribing the address, she blotted the letter, waved it, then handed it to him. “Excellent.”

Mentally rolling his eyes, he took the letter and went to the door. When Mulley arrived, he explained how he wanted the note delivered and handed it over. Shutting the door, he turned, and discovered she'd shifted to sit in one of the armchairs facing the desk.

Elbow on the chair's arm, delicately rounded chin propped in that hand, she was gazing out at the tangle beyond the windows.

Rounding the desk, his gaze on her, he reclaimed his chair.

She turned her head and met his eyes. “So with that taken care of, we should consider how we're to reach your castle. Where is it, exactly?”

“West and a little south of Inverness.” He hesitated, then reached into a drawer and pulled out a map. “Here.” Spreading the map on the desk, he showed her. “However, until my men return and we know what sort of net your family has placed around London, we can't make any definite plans.”

Sinking back into the armchair, she compressed her lips slightly, something he'd noticed she did when thinking. Then she lifted her gaze to his face. “I agree we'll need to wait until they pull back from actively searching every coach, but even once they do, they'll have the people at the posting houses watching for me. Whatever route we decide to take, however we decide to travel, we'll need to devise some way around that.”

From that unarguable conclusion, to his silent surprise they embarked on a freewheeling discussion, first listing, then evaluating all the possible routes and modes of transportation between London and Inverness. Of course, she led, but before long he found himself engaging in an energetic back-and-forth exchange the likes of which he'd never imagined having with any woman, let alone her—his kidnapped angel-cum-savior-cum-bride-to-be.

As a man who valued control, he disliked surprises, but with her, they just kept coming.

L
ady Celia Cynster walked into the library of St. Ives House in Grosvenor Square waving Angelica's missive. “She's written, thank God!”

Celia was followed into the room by her husband, Martin, her daughters Heather and Eliza, and their fiancés, Breckenridge and Jeremy Carling. Celia's elder son, Rupert, better known as Gabriel, and his wife, Alathea, currently residing in the Dover Street house, brought up the rear.

They'd sent word ahead, so they weren't surprised by the gathering awaiting them in the library. In addition to Devil and Honoria, Vane Cynster and his wife, Patience, were there, as were Martin's older brothers, Arthur and George, and their respective wives, Louise and Horatia, along with Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.

Celia swept around the room, touching cheeks and receiving supporting hugs, then she handed Devil the folded note. “It arrived just as we were finishing breakfast.”

Devil glanced at Gabriel. “Who delivered it?”

“A street urchin. By the time Abercrombie registered it was Angelica's handwriting, the boy had vanished.”

Devil grimaced. “No doubt paid to make himself scarce.”

“Yes, no doubt—but get to the point,” Helena said. “Read the note. Aloud, if you please.”

Thus adjured, Devil unfolded the note, briefly scanned it, then did as he'd been bid and read the contents aloud. He concluded with, “And this certainly looks like her signature.”

Gabriel nodded. “It is. And the letter entire is in her hand, too.”

Devil lowered the letter to the desk. He stared at it for several moments, then raised his gaze to Heather and Eliza, seated on the chaise beside Celia. “Do either of you have any idea who her ‘friend in desperate need' might be?”

Both shook their heads. “But you know what she's like,” Heather said. “She's gregarious. She's friends with a lot of young ladies, and quite a large number of the younger gentlemen, too. It could be any of them, yet . . .” Breaking off, Heather exchanged a glance with Eliza, who grimaced and shrugged. Turning back to Devil, Heather said, “To be perfectly honest, it sounds as if she's set off on some adventure.”

“Disappearing from a ton event without trace isn't setting off on an adventure,” Vane growled. “At least not one she'd planned.”

Devil, grim-faced, nodded. He studied the letter again. “She could have been forced to write this.”

“Do you think so?” Head tilted, Helena considered, then shook her head and turned to Celia. “Me, I cannot see it. Can you?”

“Well . . .” Celia was clearly torn by a mother's concern.

But Heather shook her head. “I can imagine her being forced to write the words, but if that were so, she'd be furious, and she'd have made sure to smudge something, or misspell a word, or scratch the paper, or something to show she was upset and acting under duress. Instead”—she waved at the note—“that's written in her usual neat hand, perfectly spelled, and with not so much as an ink splatter.”

Eliza nodded. “I think she wrote it as it appears—of her own accord, and she meant every word, most likely literally.”

“Which,” Horatia said, “means she is indeed up to something.”

Helena nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “That is how it seems to me. At least at the moment.”

None of the ladies dissented. As one, they turned back to the big desk around which their men had congregated.

Only to discover said men had come to quite a different conclusion.

“So we'll continue our search,” Devil stated. “Or, more accurately, our lying in wait. As there've been no sightings of any female who could possibly have been her at any of the posting inns for at least three stages out from the capital, she's almost certainly still within our cordon—still in London.”

The other men responded with grim nods.

“But who could have taken her? And why?” Jeremy Carling glanced at the other men. “Are we correct in assuming her disappearance is connected to the attempts to kidnap Heather and Eliza? Or is this something else entirely?”

“That,” Honoria said, rising from her chair, “is something we can all try to discover. Discreetly, of course.”

“I suggest,” Alathea said, also rising and resettling her shawl, “that we take her assertion that she's gone to help some friend and use it to explain her absence. It won't be hard to imply that her ‘friend' is somewhere in the country, and as Heather just mentioned, Angelica does, indeed, have a lot of friends.”

Using the cane she'd recently taken to wielding, Helena got to her feet. “Indeed. So now we will each, in our own way, try to identify this so-desperate friend.”

Leaving the men to their various plans, the ladies headed for the drawing room to devise their own strategies.

Following the others down the corridor, Eliza linked her arm in Heather's and quietly said, “I just thought—I wonder if Angelica was wearing the necklace at the Cavendish soiree.”

Heather raised her brows. “You gave it to her, didn't you?”

“Yes, when Jeremy and I returned to town. She wore it at our engagement ball.”

“Hmm . . . no point asking Mama. She's upset, and might not remember clearly. Who else from the family was there, do you know?”

“No, but Henrietta should have been, don't you think?”

“Yes, she should. We can ask Louise. And if anyone would have noticed if Angelica was wearing The Lady's charm, it would be Henrietta—”

“Because she's waiting for it to be passed on to her.” Eliza nodded. “We should find her and ask.”

Angelica's sisters halted outside the open drawing room door. Drawing apart, they met each other's eyes.

Heather arched her brows. “Strange and dramatic events seem to overtake whoever wears that necklace.”

“True,” Eliza returned. “But thus far the results have been very much worth the drama.”

“Perhaps Angelica's off on her own adventure.”

“Let's hope so, and that her hero is there to rescue her, too.”

Heather nodded and waved ahead. “Meanwhile, let's see what we can do to help cover her tracks.”

D
ominic and Angelica were debating the merits of riding all the way to the castle when a rap on the door interrupted them. Surprised to feel irritated by the intrusion, Dominic glanced across the room. “Come.”

The door opened to admit Jessup and Thomas.

Sitting back, Dominic beckoned them nearer. “What did you find?”

Coming to stand beside the desk, Jessup shot an uncertain glance at Angelica; eyes downcast, from beneath his lashes Thomas simply stared at her.

Dominic waved. “You may speak openly before Miss Cynster. She's agreed to help us and needs to hear what you've learned as much as I do.”