As there were few among the ton likely to decline an invitation to waltz at an event hosted by Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, and her powerful husband, Devil Cynster, the huge room was packed.
The light from the sparkling chandeliers sheened over elaborately coiffed curls and winked and blinked from the hearts of countless diamonds. Gowns in a range of brilliant hues swirled as the ladies danced, creating a shifting sea of vibrant plumage contrasting with the regulation black-and-white of their partners. Laughter and conversation blanketed the scene. A riot of perfumes filled the air. In the background a small orchestra strove to deliver one of the most popular waltzes.
Eliza watched as her elder sister, Heather, circled the dance floor in the arms of her handsome husband-to-be, ex-foremost rake of the ton, Timothy Danvers, Viscount Breckenridge. Even if the ball had not been thrown expressly to celebrate their betrothal, to formally announce it to the ton and the polite world, the besotted look in Breckenridge’s eyes every time his gaze rested on Heather was more than enough to tell the tale. The ex-darling of the ton’s ladies was now Heather’s sworn protector and slave.
And Heather was his. The joy in her face, that lit her eyes, declared that to the world.
Despite Eliza’s own less-than-happy state, much of it a direct outcome of the events leading to Heather’s engagement, Eliza was sincerely, to her soul, happy for her sister.
They’d both spent years — literally years — searching for their respective heroes among the ton, through the drawing rooms and ballrooms in which young ladies such as they were expected to confine themselves in hunting for suitable, eligible partis. Yet neither Heather, Eliza, nor Angelica, their younger sister, had had any luck in locating the gentlemen fated to be their heroes. They had, logically, concluded that said heroes, the gentlemen for them, were not to be found within their prescribed orbit, so they had, also logically, decided to extend their search into those areas where the more elusive, yet still suitable and eligible, male members of the ton congregated.
That strategy had worked for their eldest female cousin, Amanda, and, employed with a different twist, for her twin sister, Amelia, as well.
And, albeit in a most unexpected way, the same approach had worked for Heather, too.
Clearly for Cynster females, success in finding their own true hero lay in boldly stepping beyond their accustomed circles.
Which was precisely what Eliza was set on doing, except that, through the adventure that had befallen Heather within minutes of her taking her first step into that racier world — namely being kidnapped, rescued by Breckenridge, and then escaping in his company — a plot to target “the Cynster sisters” had been exposed.
Whether the targets were limited to Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, or included their younger cousins, Henrietta and Mary, no one knew.
No one understood the motive behind the threat, not even what was eventually intended beyond kidnapping the victim and possibly taking her to Scotland. As for who was behind it, no one had any real clue, but the upshot was that Eliza and the other three “Cynster sisters” as yet unbetrothed had been placed under constant guard. She hadn’t been able to set toe outside her parents’ house without one of her brothers, or if not them, one of her cousins — every bit as bad — appearing at her elbow.
And looming.
For her, taking even half a step outside the restrictive circles of the upper echelons of the ton was now impossible. If she tried, a large, male, brotherly or cousinly hand would close about her elbow and yank her unceremoniously back.
Such behavior on their part was, she had to admit, understandable, but … “For how long?” Their protective cordon had been in place for three weeks and showed no signs of relaxing. “I’m already twenty-four. If I don’t find my hero this year, next year I’ll be on the shelf.”
Muttering to herself wasn’t a habit, but the evening was drawing to a close and, as usual at such ton events, nothing had come of it for her. Which was why she was hugging the wall in the screening shadows of the huge palm; she was worn out with smiling and pretending she had any interest whatever in the very proper young gentlemen who, through the night, had vied for her attention.
As a well-dowered, well-bred, well brought-up Cynster young lady she’d never been short of would-be Romeos. Sadly, she’d never felt the slightest inclination to play Juliet to any of them. Like Angelica, Eliza was convinced she would recognize her hero, if not in the instant she laid eyes on him — Angelica’s theory — then at least once she’d spent a few hours in his company.
Heather, in contrast, had always been uncertain over recognizing her hero — but then she’d known Breckenridge, not well but more than by sight, for many years, and until their adventure she hadn’t realized he was the one for her. Heather had mentioned that their cousin by marriage, Catriona, who, being an earthly representative of the deity known in parts of Scotland as “The Lady,” tended to “know” things, had suggested that Heather needed to “see” her hero clearly, which had proved very much to be the case.
Catriona had given Heather a necklace and pendant designed to assist a young lady in finding her true love — her hero; Catriona had said the necklace was supposed to be passed from Heather, to Eliza, to Angelica, then to Henrietta and Mary, before ultimately returning to Scotland, to Catriona’s daughter, Lucilla.
Raising one hand, Eliza touched the fine chain interspersed with small amethyst beads that circled her neck; the rose quartz pendant depending from it was hidden in the valley between her breasts. The chain lay concealed beneath the delicate lace of the fashionable fichu and collar that filled the scooped neckline of her gold silk gown.
The chain was now hers, so where was the hero it was supposed to help her recognize?
Obviously not here. No gentleman with hero-potential had miraculously appeared. Not that she had expected one to, not here in the very heart of the upper echelons of tonnish society. Nevertheless, disappointment and dragging dejection bloomed.
Through finding her hero, Heather had — entirely unintentionally, but nevertheless effectively — stymied Eliza. Her hero did not exist within tonnish circles, but she could no longer step outside to hunt him down.
“What the devil am I to do?”
A footman drifting around the outskirts of the ballroom with a silver salver balanced on one hand heard her and turned to peer into the shadows. Eliza barely glanced at him, but seeing her, his features relaxed and he stepped forward.
“Miss Eliza.” Relief in his voice, the footman bowed and offered the salver. “A gentleman asked that this be delivered to you, miss. A good half hour ago, it must be now. We couldn’t find you in the crowd.”
Wondering which tedious gentleman was now sending her notes, Eliza reached for the folded parchment resting on the salver. “Thank you, Cameron.”
The footman was from her parents’ household, seconded to the St. Ives’ household to assist with the massive ball. “Who was it, do you know?”
“No, miss. It wasn’t handed to me but to one of the others. They passed it on.”
“Thank you.” Eliza nodded a dismissal.
With a brief bow, Cameron withdrew.
With no great expectations, Eliza unfolded the note. The writing was bold, a series of brash, black strokes on the white paper.
Very masculine in style.
Tipping the sheet to catch the light, Eliza read:
Meet me in the back parlor, if you dare. No, we’re not acquainted. I haven’t signed this note because my name will mean nothing to you. We haven’t been introduced, and there is no grande dame present who would be likely to oblige me. However, the fact I am here, attending this ball, speaks well enough to my antecedents and my social standing. And I know where the back parlor is.
I believe it is time we met face-to-face, if nothing else to discover if there is any further degree of association we might feel inclined to broach.
As I started this note, so I will end it: Meet me in the back parlor, if you dare.
br />
I’ll be waiting.
Eliza couldn’t help but smile. How … impertinent. How daring. To send her such a note in her cousin’s house, under the very noses of the grandes dames and all her family.
Yet whoever he was, he was patently there, in the house, and if he knew where the back parlor was …
She read the note again, debating, but there was no reason she could see why she shouldn’t slip away to the back parlor and discover who it was who had dared send such a note.
Stepping out from her hiding place, she slipped swiftly, as unobtrusively as she could, around the still crowded room. She felt certain the note-writer was correct — she didn’t know him; they’d never met. She didn’t know any gentleman who would have thought to send such an outrageous summons to a private tryst inside St. Ives House.
Excitement, anticipation, surged. Perhaps this was it — the moment when her hero would appear before her.
Stepping through a minor door, she walked quickly down a corridor, then turned down another, then another, increasingly dimly lit, steadily making her way to the rear corner of the huge mansion. Deep in the private areas, distant from the reception rooms and their noise, the back parlor gave onto the gardens at the rear of the house; Honoria often sat there of an afternoon, watching her children play on the lawn below the terrace.
Eliza finally reached the end of the last corridor. The parlor door stood before her. She didn’t hesitate; turning the knob, she opened the door and walked in.
The lamps weren’t lit, but moonlight poured through the windows and glass doors that gave onto the terrace. Glancing around and seeing no one, she closed the door and walked deeper into the room. Perhaps he was waiting in one of the armchairs facing the windows.
Nearing the chairs, she saw they were empty. She halted. Frowned. Had he given up and left? “Hello?” She started to turn. “Is there anyone —”
A faint rush of sound came from behind her.
She whirled — too late.
A hard arm snaked about her waist and jerked her back against a solid male body.
She opened her mouth —
A huge palm swooped and slapped a white cloth over her mouth and nose. And held it there.
She struggled, breathed in — the smell was sickly sweet, cloying …
Her muscles went to water.
Even as she sagged, she fought to turn her head, but the heavy palm followed, keeping the horrid cloth over her mouth and nose …
Until reality slid away and darkness engulfed her.
Eliza swam back to consciousness on a sickening sway.
She was rocking, swinging; she couldn’t seem to stop. Then her senses steadied and she recognized the rattle of coach wheels on cobbles.
A coach. She was in a coach, being taken …
My God — I’ve been kidnapped!
Shocked surprise, followed by pure panic, shot through her. And helped focus her wits. She hadn’t yet tried opening her eyes; her lids felt weighted, as did her limbs. Even shifting a fingertip took effort. She didn’t think her hands or feet were bound, but as she could barely summon enough strength to think, that was of little immediate relevance.
Besides, there was someone … no, two someones, in the coach with her.
Remaining as she had been when she’d awoken, slumped in a corner, her head hanging forward, she reached with her other senses. When that told her no more than that there was a person on the seat beside her, with another on the seat opposite, she let her head loll with the next big sway of the coach, then forced her lids up enough to look out from beneath her lashes.
A man sat opposite, a gentleman by his dress. The planes of his face were austere, rather long, his chin square. His hair was dark brown, wavy, well cut. He was tall, well built, lean rather than heavy. She suspected it was his body she’d been hauled back against in the back parlor. His large hand that had held that horrible-smelling cloth over her nose …
Her head throbbed; her stomach pitched at the memory of the vapor from that cloth. Breathing deeply through her nose, she pushed the remembered sensations aside and shifted her attention to the person alongside her.
A woman. Without turning her head, she couldn’t see the woman’s face, but the gown covering the woman’s legs suggested she was a lady’s maid. An upper-class lady’s maid, a dresser, perhaps; the black fabric of the gown was of better quality than a mere housemaid would have.
Just as with Heather. Her sister had been provided with a lady’s maid for her kidnapping as well. Their family had taken that as proof that it had been an aristocrat behind the kidnapping; who else would have thought of a maid? That seemed the case this time, too. Was the man sitting opposite her their aristocratic villain?
Studying him again, Eliza suspected not. Heather had been abducted by hirelings, and although — from what she could see compared with Heather’s descriptions — this man, and the maid, too, looked to be a cut above those who’d kidnapped Heather, they nevertheless struck Eliza as people employed to do a job.
Her mind was clearing; it was becoming easier to think.
If this was a repeat of Heather’s kidnapping, they would take Eliza north to Scotland. Shifting her gaze, she surveyed the street beyond the coach’s window. Still feigning unconsciousness, she surreptitiously watched; it took some time, but finally she was certain the coach wasn’t on the Great North Road. It was following the road her family took when visiting Lady Jersey at Osterley Park.
They were taking her west. Or were they not taking her far from London at all?
If they didn’t take her north, would her family know in which direction to search for her? They would assume she’d been taken north … when they eventually realized she’d been kidnapped at all.
Whoever these people were, they were bold and clever. Eliza’s brothers and cousins had been watching her, of all the Cynster girls, most assiduously, but the one place in which they’d assumed she would be safe had been St. Ives House, and they’d relaxed their vigilance.
No one would have imagined that kidnappers would dare strike inside that house, of all houses, and especially not tonight. The mansion had been teeming with guests, with family, with the combined staff of various Cynster households, all of whom knew her.
Despite her earlier griping, she would have given a great deal to see Rupert or Alasdair, or even one of her arrogant cousins, come racing up on a horse.
After being such pests, where were her protectors now that she needed them?
She frowned.
“She’s awake.”
It was the man who’d spoken. Clinging to her pretence, Eliza let her features slowly ease, as if she’d frowned in her sleep. Letting her lids close fully, she made no other movement, gave no sign she’d heard.
The woman shifted nearer; Eliza sensed she was peering at her face.
“Are you sure?”
The woman was definitely a dresser; her diction was good, her tone that of an upper servant to an equal.
Which confirmed Eliza’s suspicion that the man was a hireling, too, not the mysterious laird they’d thought had been behind Heather’s kidnapping.
After an instant, the man replied, “She’s faking it. Use the laudanum.”
Laudanum?
“You said he told you no drugs, no harm to her.”
“He did, but we need to move fast and we need her asleep — and he’ll never know.”
He who?
“All right.” The woman was rummaging in some bag. “You’ll have to help me.”
“No!” Eliza came to life, intending to convince them not to drug her again, but she’d overestimated her recovery. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She tried to push away the woman, black-haired, dark-eyed, leaning toward her with a small medicine glass containing a pale liquid, but her arms had no strength.
Then the man was on her; manacling her wrists in one hand, with the other he caught her chin, tipped her face up.
“Now! Pour it down her throat.”
Eliza fought to shut her mouth, but the man pressed his thumb to the corner of her jaw and the woman deftly tipped the dose between her lips.
Eliza tried not to swallow but the liquid trickled down …
The man held her until her muscles went lax and the laudanum dragged her down.
The next time Eliza managed to gather her wits enough to think, days had passed. How many, she had no real idea; they’d kept her drugged, propped in the corner of the coach, and had driven on, as far as she knew without any real halt.
Her whole body felt ridiculously weak. Keeping her eyes closed, she let her mind slowly sort through and align the jumbled snippets of information and sparse observations she’d managed to glean in the fleeting moments between the long stretches of drugged insensibility.
They’d taken her out of London on the westward road; she remembered that. Then … Oxford at daybreak; she’d caught a brief glimpse of the familiar spires against a lightening sky.
After that first dose of laudanum, they’d been judicious in its use, forcing her to down only enough to keep her woozy and sleepy, unable to do anything, much less escape. So she had faint memories of passing through other towns, of church spires and market squares, but the only place she recalled with any certainty was York. They’d passed close by the Minster … she thought it had been earlier that morning. The pealing bells had been so loud the sound had hauled her to wakefulness, but then the coach had turned and passed out of the town gate, and she’d slid back into slumber.
That had been the last time she’d woken. Now … letting her head loll, with her lids still too weighty to lift, she reached with her other senses.
And smelled the sea. The distinctive briny scent was strong, the breeze slipping past the edge of the carriage door sharp and fresh. She heard gulls, their raucous caw unmistakable. So … past York and out along the coast.
Where did that leave her?
So far from London, once off the Great North Road her knowledge of the region was spotty. But if they’d traveled to Oxford, then to York … it seemed likely her captors were indeed taking her into Scotland, but avoiding the Great North Road, no doubt because her family would search its length for her.