“So when our villain arrives…” Christian pulled a face, the equivalent of male pouting. “I don’t know about you, but I have a deep-seated aversion to letting St. Austell have all the fun.”
“Indeed. Which is another excellent reason for finding Ben with all possible speed-not that we need another reason, but still-so we can race down to Cornwall and be in at the end ourselves.”
“Not another reason,” Christian said. “A carrot. Dealing with the villain will be our reward for finding Ben quickly.”
Senses pricking, Gervase looked up and saw Madeline framed in the doorway. He smiled and rose. “There you are-come and join us.”
“Thank you.” Madeline smiled warmly, her heart unexpectedly aglow. She’d come downstairs overwhelmed by concern and incipient panic, then she’d heard Gervase’s words, his description of her, his and his colleague’s clear confidence that they would find Ben and deal with the villain; she’d drawn breath, felt their implied assurance sink in, felt their confidence buoy and steady her. Walking into the room, she transferred her gaze to the other gentleman, who had smoothly risen to his feet.
“Dearne, Miss Gascoigne.” He bowed, then smiled engagingly. “But I hope you’ll call me Christian.”
There was something in his manner-a gentle air, an invitation to laugh at all and everything-that had her smiling easily in return. She inclined her head. “Madeline, please.” She sat in the chair Gervase held for her, glanced around to see him head for the sideboard-decided to let him feed her and turned her attention to his friend. “I understand you’re another member of this rather strange club.”
“Indeed. I won’t bore you with the details of its founding, but it has, I would say, served its purpose well.” He smiled at her in a way that made her wonder just what the true purpose of the club was.
Before she could think of how to ask, Gervase returned to the table. “I’ve rung for tea.” He set a plate piled with kedgeree, ham and a fat juicy kipper before her.
She looked at it, and wondered when she’d mentioned she loved nice kippers; she couldn’t recall ever doing so, so how had he guessed? Inwardly shrugging, she murmured her thanks, picked up her knife and fork, and sampled the kedgeree. It was delicious-and she realized she was starving.
Accustomed to the table habits of males, she barely noticed the silence that enveloped the table. Gervase was still absorbed with his sausages, while Christian sat back and sipped coffee with the air of a man satisfactorily replete.
From under her lashes, she studied him, curious to observe another of Gervase’s cronies. Like Gervase and Charles, Christian had much the same build; she recalled Gervase had originally been in the guards, and suspected the same held true of the others-they all had the classic guardsmen build, that of tall, broad-shouldered, saber- swinging horsemen.
As for the rest…gray eyes, a certain self-deprecating streak, as if he were cynically amused with himself, but underneath she could readily see the same reliably ruthless strength she’d come to value in Gervase, that unswerving commitment to defending and protecting, be it the weak, the helpless, their friends, their family or their country.
It was all the same to them; it was simply who they were.
And nothing would ever change them.
Nothing would ever soften them.
To her mind, that was as it should be; the thought was more comfort than threat.
She forked up the last tiny piece of kipper just as Gervase pushed away his plate. She looked up and smiled as Gasthorpe poured tea for her; she patted her lips with her napkin, picked up the delicate cup and sipped-and nearly closed her eyes and sighed.
She glanced around, but Gasthorpe had gone. She turned to Gervase and Christian. “I don’t know where you found him, but Gasthorpe is a treasure. I don’t know how he managed it, but he found this gown.” She broke off to explain to Christian that they’d set out on their pursuit without baggage. She glanced again at the gown. “He said it belonged to the lady who used to live next door-he borrowed a maid from there for me, and to adjust the size and let down the hem.”
“The lady would be Leonora,” Christian said. “Now Countess of Trentham.”
“Trentham.” Madeline looked at Gervase. “He’s another of your members, isn’t he? He married the lady next door?”
Gervase nodded.
Finishing her tea, she set the cup down. She felt fully restored, ready to face the world and any villain in her quest to rescue Ben. She glanced at the men.
As usual Gervase, sipping his coffee, seemed to read her mind. “I’ve already told Christian the whole story.” At his words, somberness settled about them, upon them. “We need to decide how best to search for Ben. Christian agrees he’s unlikely to be released until the afternoon.”
Christian leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. He met Madeline’s gaze. “I’ve been thinking, evaluating the ways-the best ways-to locate Ben.” He glanced at Gervase, then looked again at Madeline and went on. “It’s likely that when they release Ben, they’ll set him free in a slum, in the stews. They won’t want him found too quickly-the villain wants you to stay in London for a few days at least. So we should assume that Ben will suddenly find himself alone on the street in a dangerous part of town.”
Again Christian paused, then said, “I have contacts, numerous acquaintances, in London’s underworld. What I propose is that I contact those who are essentially the overlords of each of the slums, and alert them to the situation-send them a description of Ben, and tell them we want him back unharmed. They’ll put the word out, and their people will all be on the lookout for Ben. The chances of them finding him quickly, and unharmed, are high.”
Madeline studied the gray eyes fixed unwaveringly on hers. “What’s the drawback? Obviously there is one.”
Christian’s lips quirked; he inclined his head. “Indeed. I won’t send out that message unless you approve. The drawback is that, to be rescued by the overlords of London’s underworld, Ben would, necessarily, come into contact with them and their minions-and I wouldn’t be truthful if I didn’t say that some of them are more than revolting enough to make any lady swoon.”
She studied him for a moment, then said, “A delicate lady, perhaps. Even me, perhaps. But what of an innocent but insatiably curious, country-bred ten-year-old boy?” When Christian raised his brows, surprised by her tack, she glanced at Gervase. “You know what you’re talking about, have experience of it-I don’t. But you should be able to remember being a ten-year-old-would you at ten have been shocked and horrified, or would you have thought it a grand lark to be consorting with villainous underworld figures?”
Gervase grimaced. He looked at Christian. “I don’t know about you, but it would have been a lark to me.”
Christian pulled a face. “Me, too.”
“And what’s the alternative?” Madeline asked. “Trust to chance that someone kind and honorable happens to find him first? I’ve never been in any slums or stews, but I don’t think I’d be happy taking that approach.” She pushed back from the table. “How do we go about sending these messages? Perhaps I can help write them?”
Christian glanced at Gervase. “So we do it?”
Rising, Gervase waved to the door. “So the lady decrees. Let’s adjourn to the library.”
They did. They spent some time drafting their message, then Christian and Madeline, seated on opposing sides of the desk, started copying it in neat, legible script.
Gervase paced and looked over their shoulders. There was no place for him to sit to help them, and his scrawl wasn’t all that neat.
“We’ve plenty of time,” Christian said without looking up. “Those areas don’t stir until noon-as long as we send out these notes by then, they’ll have plenty of time to spread the word before Ben is let loose in their domain.”
Gervase humphed and kept pacing. He and Christian had agreed that it would most likely be later in the afternoon rather than earlier that Ben would be released. Which meant there would be hours yet to wait…
The distant sound of the front door knocker had him turning expectantly to the door.
Christian glanced that way, too, then, as the sound of firm footsteps on the stairs reached them, he set down his pen.
Her concentration absolute, Madeline continued transcribing.
She heard the door open, heard Gasthorpe announce, “Mr. Dalziel, my lords.”
Blinking, she glanced up as a deep, dark voice drawled, “Dearne. Crowhurst. I understand there’s something
