“About bloody time you showed up,” Vincent all but growled.

  “What’s climbed up your arse? I’m the one you’ve been hunting down. Can’t walk into a single establishment in the entire city without someone telling me that you wish to speak to me!” Ettinger groused. “And you look like hell. Did you even win a bout?”

  “I won the fourth one. I lost the fifth. The first three I was too drunk to remember.”

  Ettinger’s mouth dropped open. “How many did you fight?”

  “This last one was number six.”

  “Win, lose or draw?”

  Vincent sighed. “He knocked me on my ass.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Not especially, no. But what I really want to know is what you’ve discovered.” Vincent began unwrapping the bindings on his hands as they walked toward his waiting carriage.

  “There’s more than three dead. And more than one beaten within an inch of her life. This has been going on for the past two years. But dead prostitutes do not garner a lot of sympathy or attention, sadly.” Ettinger opened the carriage door, holding it wide so that Vincent might climb in.

  It was lowering to realize that his legs were shaking as he did so. Never, in the entirety of his life, had he fought six matches in a single night. It had been a foolhardy attempt to erase her image from his mind. And, quite obviously, it had failed.

  “How many?”

  “Ten,” Ettinger answered, biting off the word. “Ten in all. Two still live. Sally Dawson and Rosie Higgins. Sally’s not up for talking to me just yet. But I’ll go see Rosie later today and find out what I can. But I do not work for you. This is a simple favor that I am doing because I know the parties involved. That is all.”

  Vincent didn’t smile. One, it would have hurt to do so. Terribly. Two, he knew that Ettinger was hooked. The case had sparked his interest whether he wanted to admit it or not. The man loved a riddle or a mystery. He was like a dog with a bone, now, and would work it to the bitter end.

  “You’ll keep me updated on anything you get from Rosie.”

  “I will,” Ettinger agreed. “What is this really about? You have a temper to be sure and a fight now and again is the perfect cure for that. But this kind of abuse—it’s not like you. You don’t do a damn thing unless you’re getting something out of it. What does letting a queue of pugilists beat you beyond recognition do for you?”

  It’s a distraction. It’s the only thing that offers momentary relief from thoughts of her. “Leave it alone, Joss. I do not poke at your scars. You do not poke at mine.”

  Ettinger settled back against the seat, clearly wanting to say more. But after a moment, nodded. They remained silent as the carriage wound its way through the dirty, narrow lanes and alleys of the city and back to the more pristinely kept cobbled streets of Mayfair.

  “You can take the boy out of the gutter, Ettinger,” he mused, “But you sure as hell cannot keep him out of it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Her sister had departed hours earlier, hoping that her husband would have already left for his club for the day. It was a sound strategy on Henrietta’s part—to avoid contact with him as much as possible. Through the remainder of the day, Honoria had brooded about their visit. She’d brooded about other things, as well.

  Knowing how deeply unhappy Henrietta was, she could not help but compare it to the misery she had felt during her own marriage. She had felt trapped. No, she had been trapped. It wasn’t simply what she had perceived but actual fact. The law did not allow women to simply leave their husbands, regardless of how terrible those husbands were. The burden of proof for women to justify such a measure was exhaustive—likely on purpose. No doubt the laws had been written to discourage such behavior. But soon that would not matter.

  Prior to Henrietta’s departure this morning, they had reviewed their plan. All was set and in motion. Her sister would have her freedom, no matter what the cost. She would leave for the Continent and Honoria would use the terribly scandalous things she’d learned about Lord Daventry, an acquaintance of Lord Ernsdale whose feelings toward him had soured, to persuade him to act as her sister’s representative and challenge the legitimacy of the marriage.

  Blackmail was an ugly word, but under the circumstances, there was no other option. If there was one benefit to having spent so much time with the soiled doves who worked the streets in Soho and St. Giles, it was that she’d learned a great deal about the men who frequented them for services—men in very high positions who would not want their darker proclivities to be known.

  Until she’d discovered the truth of just how horrific Henrietta’s marriage was, it had never occurred to her to use that knowledge for her own benefit. But she would now. Whatever it took, she would see her sister freed from him.

  You know someone who could make that happen . . . if you asked him.

  That little voice whispering in her mind spoke more frequently than she would like. Since he’d escorted her home that night—after—she’d been plagued by such thoughts. Wayward and terribly tempting, they had come upon her time and again. As had vivid memories of what had already passed between them . . . and what might still if she only had the courage.

  From the first night she’d met him on that dirty street, this outcome had been inevitable. He’d been an irresistible force. But such an event should not have altered her life so dramatically. It defied reason that he should have then crossed her mind almost daily. But he did. More than once per day if she were honest. And now she feared that would always be the case.

  Every man she encountered compared unfavorably to him. Thinking of poor Mr. Walpole, the young man had not stood a chance. He was too young. His hair was too light. His features were too delicate. His hands were too soft. His voice lacked the rich timbre that she could feel as much as hear. And he had most decidedly lacked that edge of danger and excitement that tormented her so.

  Perhaps she truly was a perverse sort of creature. For the very things that made him unsuitable were the same things that made her long to be near him. Nothing had ever affected her as much as that first kiss had. Not until the second, at any rate. It had not been an aberration, as both of them had clearly hoped. And giving in to the temptation that had dogged her constantly, to share such previously unimaginable intimacies—well, she would simply never be free of him. He was a part of her now and always would be. She’d been right to be hesitant, to be cautious. Though in the end it hadn’t mattered. Like a boulder rolling downhill—it might be slowed but it would not be stopped.

  He’d said much the same that night when he’d demanded a kiss as payment. Curiosity had spurred him on, had made him issue that ridiculous challenge. And in the aftermath of their most intimate encounter, they’d both had to face the undeniable truth that something existed between them—something that could only lead to disaster.

  “Mrs. Blaylock? Ma’am?”

  Honoria, grateful for the distraction from her own thoughts, looked up to see a maid entering the small drawing room that had been receiving her domestic attentions. But it was not one of her maids. No, the woman who stood so timidly in the doorway was Henrietta’s lady’s maid, a shy and hesitant young woman who had a way with hair dressing and was quite skilled with her needle and thread. Immediately, alarm raced through Honoria. For Foster to be there, something had occurred. Something terrible.

  “What is it? What is wrong, Foster?” Honoria asked.

  “Lady Ernsdale, ma’am . . . she’s gone.”

  Honoria’s heart thudded in her chest and then seemed to stop. Everything felt tight, squeezed in the vice of panic. “Gone? What does that mean, Foster?”

  “She never came home, ma’am. I know she left to pay a call here this morning, but she had planned to return immediately after as she intended to spend the day preparing for the Scarsdens’ ball tonight. I was given very specific instructions on what to prepare for her to wear. She’d had a new gown made for it in the loveliest shade of green . . . I just know she’d not have missed out on the chance to wear it for any reason.”

  Honoria felt the breath rush out of her. When Foster had said that Henrietta was gone, her first thought was that her sister was dead. After all, her husband had proven himself to be a cruel man. With the deaths of his first two wives remaining shrouded in mystery and scandal there was precedent for drawing such conclusions.

  Honoria knew only too well just what sort of damage a man could inflict when the law was on his side. Not to mention the fact that there was a coldness in Lord Ernsdale that had worried her from the start. He’d buried two wives already. A third would surprise no one. “Has Lord Ernsdale sent anyone out to search for her?”

  Foster, teary eyed, shook her head. “No, ma’am. But a letter came, and I heard him say he’d not pay a dime for her, then he threw it in the fire. But I rescued what I could of it, and I brought it with me. I can’t read, so I don’t know what it says.”

  Honoria accepted the proffered letter, her stomach tight with fear. Nothing good could come from any of this, she was certain.

  There were two pieces of the missive. Apparently, Lord Ernsdale had torn it in half before tossing it, with thankfully abysmal aim, into the fire. Holding the scorched document carefully, she pieced it together as best as possible. A word was missing, others were difficult to decipher. But not impossible. After studying it for a few moments, it was still perfectly legible given context and content. But it took her several passes of reading it for it to make sense. Not because of the words written, but because of the unimaginable reality they represented.

  As she scanned the contents for possibly the fifth time, the realization of just what had happened finally settled in. The hot fear which had gripped her suddenly went cold. It congealed inside her, even her blood seeming to slow to a sluggish pace as it moved through her veins. The entire world slowed down, becoming indistinct as the letter before her became the sharp and ugly reality.

  If you want to see —— again, it will cost you £5,000.

  One sentence scrawled across that page. One line of sweeping script that told a terrible tale. The single word in the middle, missing with the edges blackened, could have said your wife. It could have said her. It could have even been her sister’s name. Regardless, they all meant the same thing. Someone had taken Henrietta and was demanding an impossible ransom for her return. Five hundred pounds, she could have managed. One thousand pounds, if she’d robbed Peter to pay Paul, would have been possible. But five thousand? The jointure provided for her by her husband’s will paid for household expenses, wages for servants and one hundred pounds per month. It was, by the standards of most, incredibly generous. It also hadn’t been his choice. Her father had negotiated those amounts in the marriage contracts. But generous or not, it would not be enough. Not in the face of such demands. Even with the amount she had scrimped and saved by cutting corners in order to provide for Henrietta’s escape, she could not hope to pay it—certainly not in the time allotted.

  “What does it say, ma’am?” Foster asked, clenching and unclenching her hands in fear.

  Pulled back from the brink of complete despair by that question, Honoria’s mind began to work again. The haze of fear that had frozen her to the spot was not lifted precisely, but no longer held her completely in its sway. “She’s been kidnapped. Abducted for ransom,” Honoria stated, as if somehow saying the words aloud would make the reality of it easier to fathom. Her mind was spinning, a dozen thoughts popping in and then just as quickly dismissed. In a matter of seconds, her entire world had shifted into some nightmare realm.

  The maid gasped and then began to sob. “Oh, no! He’ll never pay a ransom for her. He’ll let her die sure as anything, ma’am! What will you do?”

  Honoria nodded firmly. He would let her die. “I know, Foster. I know what he is. So, I must ask for help from another quarter, from someone who cannot be cowed by him.”

  “Who is that, ma’am?”

  Glancing up at the wide-eyed maid, there were some secrets that should not be shared. They would be too damning for all of them. Also, she wasn’t entirely certain of his assistance. He had made no attempt to contact her, just as she had not tried to contact him. She had made the very deliberate choice not to see him ever again. After all, he posed too great a threat to her hard-won peace of mind. He posed a threat to every part of her—body and mind, as well as heart and soul. But he was the only man in all of London to whom she could turn in the face of what she had just learned.

  Dread filled her. His aid was not a foregone conclusion. He could just as easily tell her to go to the devil. After she had walked away from him, would it be any great surprise if he refused her now?

  Honoria shook her head. “Someone who would not wish to be named.”

  “I know she’s my employer . . . but she’s also my friend. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to her,” Foster sobbed.

  That sentiment echoed Honoria’s own feelings on the matter. Sister. Confidante. Friend. The only family she had. What would she do without her? And that gave her the resolve she needed to face him. “You will not have to find out, Foster. Henrietta will come home. I will not entertain any other possibility. Whatever it takes, she will come home.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Evening was approaching and Vincent, who’d indulged in copious amounts of brandy in order to dull some of the pain from the beating he’d taken, had finally slept. It was not a peaceful or restful sleep. Even battered, bruised, and half drunk, she invaded his dreams.

  It was almost a relief when he was awakened by the pounding, not in his head, but at his door. Rolling onto his back, he stared at the gilded bed crown and the rich, crimson bed curtains that hung from it. His head ached, but not so terribly that he couldn’t function. Just enough, he thought, to give him the devil’s own mood. His ribs were another matter entirely. Bruised but not broken, they still hurt like the devil.

  Getting to his feet, he grabbed his discarded trousers and put them on, moving as quickly as his battered body would allow. Generally speaking, people pounding at one’s door wanted something. Being caught in such a situation would leave him at a disadvantage. He’d learned long ago to keep the upper hand. Always.

  Striding from the bedroom and through the sitting room, he yanked the door open with such suddenness and force that the person pounding upon it stumbled forward. Honoria Blaylock, garbed once more in head to toe black, fell against him. He caught her, his hands grasping her upper arms and her body pressed to his naked chest.

  A curse escaped him—bitter and beleaguered.

  It should have been a moment that he enjoyed, that he savored. He’d certainly imagined it often enough. The now familiar feel of her against him was enough to stir the embers of desire. And at any other time, he likely would have prolonged that contact. But her obvious distress took any pleasure he might have experienced from such nearness and dissolved it entirely. Her eyes were dry, but they were still red from crying. Whatever had caused her tears, she would not weep before him. Not before him nor anyone else, he was certain.

  “What has happened?” he demanded, as he set her back on her feet.

  “She was taken,” Honoria answered breathlessly.

  Perhaps it was the fact that he’d just been awakened, or it might have been the previous night’s inebriation, or possibly even the numerous punches he’d taken, but the statement left him puzzled. “Sally?”

  “No, my sister. Henrietta, Lady Ernsdale. She’s been taken.”

  “Taken by whom?”

  “I do not know,” she answered, reaching into her pocket and producing the charred remnants of a letter. “That is the ransom demand that was sent to her husband . . . and that he has refused to pay.”

  Handling the badly singed foolscap with care, he turned it over in his hands and examined it front and back. Certain things were instantly apparent. The person who had written it was well educated—their penmanship was precise and well practiced. The stationery, despite its current damaged state, had been of good quality. There was also the amount of ransom demanded. People in the lower classes could likely not even conceive of such an amount. It was more money than most would see in their lifetime. Five thousand pounds to someone in a rookery was an astronomical sum. Even to those in society, it was no small amount, but it was an amount that most people of a certain station, would be able to raise.

  “I cannot pay them. It’s impossible. The trustees of my late husband’s estate would never permit it,” she said. “One thousand pounds I could possibly raise. But five? Never.”

  His brows flew upward as he stared at her in shock. “Are you asking for a loan?” The very idea of it rankled.

  If she needed something, he would provide it.

  That thought shocked him more than a little. He was not her husband. He had no desire to be anyone’s husband. She was not his wife that he should attend to her needs in such a manner. And yet, it was gut deep. He wanted to take care of her, and that was absolutely terrifying. It was a weakness—a vulnerability to be exploited.

  “I’ll repay it. Whatever they are asking for, I will—I must—give it to them. I would give them anything they require that is within my power and perhaps even things that are not—I just need to know who they are in order to do so. And nothing of this sort happens in London without your knowledge and approval.”

  Vincent shook his head. “This is not an action that was undertaken with my awareness. Had I been consulted, I would have refused.”

  “Why?”

  That single word was uttered so softly that at first he wasn’t certain he had heard it or simply that he wished to have. Regardless, he answered, “You know why . . . I do not know your sister, but I certainly know who she is. And for better or worse, the protection I granted to you extends to her. No one who works for me or ever wishes to do so would raise a hand against either of you.”