Boxly appeared from the shadows.
"Is she asleep?" Kesseley asked.
The butler bowed, then reached for Kesseley's coat. "Miss Watson has not come home."
Kesseley yanked himself free. "But...she never came home?"
"No, my lord."
Kesseley tore off his hat and threw it against the wall. He ran his hands through his wet hair, then down his cheeks.
Where could she have gone? He had run up and down the streets of Piccadilly looking for her for at least thirty minutes. If she had taken a hackney, she would have been home. Surely she wouldn't have done something so foolish as to walk home on the London streets at night.
He sank onto the sofa, hung his head in his hands and waited. Nothing seemed louder than the quiet tick of the mantel clock. It continued, mercilessly.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Thirty minutes passed. Terrifying thoughts began to gather in the corners of his mind. He pushed them back. Thirty minutes passed. Terrifying thoughts began to gather in the corners of his mind. He pushed them back.
Tick. Tick. Tick. For a torturous hour. Then Kesseley called for his horse. For a torturous hour. Then Kesseley called for his horse.
The rain fell in sheets, whipped by the wind. It flooded the brim of his hat and soaked beneath his wool coat. He clenched the reins. His wet gloves did little to protect his hands. He navigated the grids of Mayfair to Cavendish Square at a gallop, looking into every hackney that passed. "No, Lady Winslow did not return this evening, my lord," her butler told him. "No, a young lady did not come by."
Nor was the princess at her home in Berkeley Square. The butler said she had stopped by momentarily, then left in the company of Lady Kesseley and a gentleman. What did he look like? Gray hair in a queue, a scar down his left cheek. No, he had not seen a young lady with black hair. No, he didn't know where they had gone.
Kesseley returned home, hoping she had come back.
Just silence. Another hour passed.
He could no longer hold back his fears, as irrational as they were. Hurt. Raped. Alone. Dead. The image of brutal masculine hands restraining her smaller ones. Smeared blood on her pale skin. Crying out for help.
Goddamn it, get a hold of yourself!
There was only one more person she may have gone to.
The rain was almost impenetrable, coming down on Kesseley like bullets. He could scarce see in front of him.
Kesseley tied the beast to the iron gate outside Edward's townhome in Lincoln's Inn Fields. He said a silent prayer and slammed the knocker down so hard the adjoining houses could hear.
Edward opened the door. He wore a collarless shirt and black pantaloons. Ink stained his fingers. His face changed from anger to puzzlement, then back to anger. "What are you doing here?"
"I can't find Henrietta," Kesseley shouted above the rain.
Edward grabbed his arm and hauled him inside. A light flickered from the front parlor, casting the shadow of a female form onto the entrance hall walls.
"Is she here?" Kesseley cried.
"No."
Kesseley's words fell out in a jumble. "I can't find her. She left the duke's ball and didn't come home. She is upset. I hurt her."
A thin female stepped in from the parlor. Lady Winslow! Her curls hung loose, all haughtiness gone from her face. She looked almost fragile. Edward took her hand. "Henrietta's missing."
Her eyes widened with alarm. She fixed them on Kesseley. "You never found her! But we thought-"
"Where's Mama? Do you think she went back to her?" He was almost screaming.
"I don't know. We left the ball and went to the princess's. Then Eleanora and the princess went to Lord Damien's home. And I came here. No one said anything about Henrietta. We had assumed she was with you."
"Where the hell does Lord Damien live?"
"I don't know."
"How did Henrietta know him? Where did they meet?"
"I didn't know she knew him," she replied.
Kesseley banged his hand on the wall. "What the hell do you know?"
Edward took a step forward, putting his face less than an inch from Kesseley's. "Watch yourself."
"I'm sorry." Kesseley backed away and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Forgive me. I have to go."
"I'll go with you," Edward said.
"There are several parties this evening," Lady Winslow said. Kesseley could hear the fear quivering in her voice. "I could-"
"No, it's too dangerous out tonight," Edward interrupted. "I would feel better if you stayed here."
"But she could be in trouble," she cried.
He kissed her cheek. "We're going to find her. Don't worry."
He turned to Kesseley. "Where should I go?"
"I don't know." Kesseley blurted out his worst fear. "London Hospital." Where the bodies were taken.
Lady Winslow stifled a cry in her hand.
"Get a hold of yourself, man." Edward slapped Kesseley's shoulder, hard. "I'll wager she rejoined your mama at that Lord Damien's. Go back to your home and see what you can find, an address or something. I'll ride over to the duke's and talk to the footman."
Kesseley galloped home. He rushed to the parlor and tore open his mother's bureau. One by one, he pulled out each paper until every drawer and shelf was empty. Not a damn thing about a Lord Damien. Who the hell was this man?
He stumbled to the sofa, quaking. It was two in the morning. In his mind, her eyes were filled with terror in some dark place where he couldn't find her.
The candles flickered and spitted, about to burn out. Something red glinted under the bureau. He got down on his knees and ran his fingers along the floor, feeling cold metal. He slowly pulled out Henrietta's necklace.
He clutched the ruby pendant and held it to his lips.
The front door opened. Kesseley's sharp laugh sounded like something echoing down the halls of Bedlam. He ran out into the entrance hall.
That Lord Damien fellow stood with his mama, her head on his chest as he stroked her hair. When the blackguard saw him, he tightened his arm about her, as if to protect her from her own son.
"Where the hell is Henrietta?" Kesseley demanded.
His mother stepped from her lover's embrace. She appeared confused, as if she had just woken up. "You didn't take her home?"
"No!" Kesseley yelled. "I can't find her anywhere."
Damien tried to put his hand on Kesseley's shoulder. Kesseley slung it off. "Get your goddamned hands off me!"
Lady Kesseley pulled her son to her. Her warm, sugary scent made him feel like a small boy. Tears sprung in his eyes.
"I think she said her father was in town. She might have gone to him." She tried to smooth over the worried edge in her voice.
"Where is he staying?"
"I don't know. She just said her father was coming to London to look for comets or whatever he does-"
"He has proven another planet exists behind Uranus," Kesseley shouted.
"She said she would be leaving with him."
Kesseley bolted upstairs, yanked a candle from the sconce on the corridor wall and went into her chamber. A brush rested on the commode, books were stacked by her bedside table beside a cracked portrait of her mother-all waiting for her to come back. He pushed aside the feeling that he was somehow violating her and opened the lid to the delicate writing desk. Her correspondences were neatly stacked in a pile, beside two pens and blank stationery. He lifted the first letter and scanned Van Heerlen's eloquent hand. Self-loathing washed over Kesseley. This man could have written "I love you" on every line.
He pulled out the next letter. It was from her father. His eyes scanned the lines until he found what he needed. They were staying at an inn called The Green Man.
He flew down the stairs, calling to anyone to supply a dry coat.
The knocker banged.
Let it be her!
Damien opened the door. A courier waited on the step, rain dripping from his hat. He bowed quickly, handed Damien a letter.
Kesseley snatched it from the man's fingers. He popped the seal while Damien paid the courier.
Lord Kesseley, Miss Watson has returned to the responsible care of her father and myself. Please send her belongings to The Green Man on Blackheath Hill. I ask that you spare a female servant for two days to assist her. Her arrival is most unexpected, and we were unable to provide proper preparations for her greatest comfort at the inn.
If it is of any concern to you, please be assured that Miss Watson is safe and well.
We shall meet at a later date to discuss the neglect and mistreatment she has suffered under your guardianship.
Sincerely, Mr. Pieter Van Heerlen He felt his mother's arm brush his.
"Is she safe?"
He handed her the letter. "Please send a footman to Mr. Edward Watson's home," he said. "Tell him that his cousin was safely recovered." Then Kesseley walked upstairs to his chamber.
He laid the necklace on his desk, sat down and studied the ruby sparkling in the candlelight. Samuel, who had been shivering in his bed by the fire, padded over and put his nose in his master's lap.
"She's gone, Samuel."
The hound whimpered.
Over his head, the portrait of his father hung. Kesseley gazed beyond his father's gray eyes, seeing the remainder of his own life. It wasn't the lush fields of Norfolk, the feel of the tilled earth under his boot, the expansive skies heavy with the clouds that rolled in from the sea. No, it was a blur of smoke, brandy, cards flipping in his hands, hungry eyes of moneylenders.
There was a rhythmic tap on the door. "Lord Kesseley," a low rumbling voice said. "I thought we might talk."
"Not now."
The door cracked, and Damien peered cautiously from the shadows. "She loves you."
Kesseley was too tired to be polite. "Pardon me, but who the bloody hell are you?" he demanded, rising from his chair.
The man must have viewed Kesseley's rude remarks as an invitation to enter, for he sauntered in, impervious to the hostility in the air. He looked about the room. His eyes stopped on the portrait of the late earl, darkened, then drifted to Kesseley. He considered him for a moment.
Kesseley leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and glared at the man. "You are an angry one," Damien said.
"I think you are going to tell me who you are."
The man shook his head and sighed. He sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders sloped, hands clasped together. Then he took a deep breath as if to begin a long story.
"Let's see, years ago, before you came along, I was just an orphan coming to live with my uncle, Lord Damien. I was quite a serious, introspective young man, burning with so many questions. You really don't care about that part, do you?"
"No."
He opened his hands. "Your mother and I were young and...well, we fell in love. So when your grandfather arranged the marriage with Lord Kesseley, I said we would steal away. I was naive then, and bullheaded. I thought I was stronger than this world. Your mother wouldn't go. She cried when she turned me away. And I accused her of-oh I don't want to remember the words. You would think what happened decades ago wouldn't hurt anymore." He looked sideways at Kesseley. "No, I see you don't. You are not as foolish as myself."
Kesseley's fists balled with an urge to land this man a facer.
The man laughed, as if he read Kesseley's thoughts. "So she went to London and well, I went on being a charity case. But anger consumed me. I became obsessed with my own misery, blaming Eleanora for the torment I inflicted upon myself. Then several unexpected tragedies befell my uncle's family, and suddenly, I was Lord Damien." He shrugged. "I didn't give a damn about an estate and tenants. I was as noble as that Lord Kesseley, and raging inside. I wanted to make Eleanora hurt as much as I had hurt."
"Get out."
Damien raised a bushy brow. "Are you so innocent, my young nobleman? Have you not damaged someone?" He paused to let his meaning wash over Kesseley. "I was handsome then and the London ladies-the married ones-were very receptive. Your mama was so beautiful, more beautiful than when we had parted, and I prided myself when I seduced her. Why should she be any different from the other ladies? You couldn't have been a year old."
"Did you come here so I would kill you?"
"That is a possibility," he said, then continued unfazed by the prospect of his pending death. "Eleanora confided that she'd always loved me. She cried, telling me how much she despised her husband. She wanted to take you, and we would all run away to the continent. I agreed. Then on the night we were supposed to meet..." He paused, straining under his words. "I never left a brothel."
Kesseley yanked him up by his cravat. "Very little is keeping me from putting a bullet through you. I suggest you leave with your life."
The man didn't fight. He met Kesseley eye for eye.
"Where were you the night Henrietta told you she loved you? Ah, look at that face. You are a fierce one. I would never fight you in an alley." Kesseley pushed him away, his ragged breath hissing through his clenched teeth. Damn this man.
"Tell you what, why don't you let me finish? Then you can kill me."
Damien paced for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back. "One night I attended a notorious party at a hunting box in Leicestershire. Your father was there with this beautiful young courtesan. I had drunk too much, eaten opium. I don't think I need to explain more. So some words were exchanged between your father and me about that pretty little prostitute, and I told him..." He rubbed his mouth and let out a long breath. "I told him I had slept with his wife. I don't know, maybe I wanted him to kill me."