What Price Love?

“Indeed.” The voice, steely and controlled, came from behind her, a cold whisper by her ear. “If you have any sense at all, you’ll save your energies for breathing.”

What? Who? Blind, dumb, and close to deaf, Pris couldn’t get the words past her lips. But she could guess the answers.

He caught her hands, useless with her senses blocked and in turmoil; he swiftly secured them behind her back, then, holding her before him, guided her forward. He opened a door; faint, her head spinning, unable to do anything but follow his directions, she swayed, stepped out-and felt cool stone beneath her soles.

The waltz came to an end. Releasing Flick, Dillon escorted her back to the chaise where Horatia and Eugenia sat. He allowed them to twit him, then moved away. Instinctively, he scanned the room.

He couldn’t see Pris.

He halted, scanned again, more carefully, telling himself that his suddenly screaming instincts couldn’t possibly be correct…then he saw something that made his heart stop.

Rus-like him searching the guests, unlike him, openly perturbed.

By the time Dillon reached him, Rus was frowning. “Do you know where she is?” he asked without preamble.

“No.” Dillon looked into Rus’s eyes. “I don’t think she’s here, in the house. Is she? ”

Rus blinked. His gaze grew distant, then, lips setting grimly, he shook his head. “I can’t…sense her. But it’s just a feeling. Perhaps-”

Fiercely, Dillon shook his head. “She’s not here. I know it, too.”

He glanced around. They stood near the steps and the main doors. None of the others were in sight. “Come on!”

They had to act now, seize the moment, take the risk.

He went up the steps two at a time. Rus at his heels, he strode through the foyer and hurried down the stairs.

Highthorpe was in the front hall.

“Have you seen Lady Priscilla?” Dillon asked.

“No, sir.” Highthorpe glanced at his minion manning the doors; the footman shook his head. “She hasn’t been this way.”

Dillon hesitated, thinking, imagining, then he swore, and strode out of the doors, down the steps into the street. The nearer curb was lined with carriages; on the opposite side a little way back stood a lone black carriage, curtains drawn, the driver and a groom alert on the box. Turning in the other direction, Dillon saw a single hackney idly waiting for some gentleman to leave the ball; the hackney stood opposite the entrance to the lane that ran alongside the Cynsters’ garden wall. He headed for the hackney.

Seeing him coming, Rus at his back, the driver stirred and sat up, gathering his reins. He touched his cap as Dillon reached him. “Where to, guv?”

“Did you see a carriage pick up someone in the lane?”

The driver blinked. “Aye-a friend o’mine picked up a fare there not two minutes since. He-m’friend-was in line ahead of me. A gent flagged him over into the lane. He had a woman with him, a lady-she looked poorly.”

“Poorly how?” Rus asked.

The driver frowned. “Well, she had a veil thing over her head, and she seemed unsteady-the gent had hold of her. He helped her into the carriage.”

“What color was her gown?” Dillon asked.

“Darkish-green, I think.”

Rus swore. “What of the man?”

“Never mind that,” Dillon cut in. “Did you hear the direction?”

The driver blinked. “Aye. Tothill way. The gent said as how he’d direct Joe when they got there.”

Dillon wrenched open the hackney door and waved Rus in. “Can you follow him?”

The driver’s eyes lit. “Easy enough-I know the route he’ll take.”

“Ten sovereigns when you catch him.” Dillon leapt into the carriage, slammed the door on the driver’s cheery, “Right you are!” and slumped onto the seat as the hackney lurched into motion.

He and Rus clung to the straps as the driver set off to claim his reward. They rocked down the lane, clattered down a street, then turned into a more crowded thoroughfare-Piccadilly. They joined the slow river of carriages edging along. Rus swore, and looked out of the window.

The trap in the roof slid open; the driver called down, “I can see Joe ahead of us, sir, but I won’t be able to get up to him ’til we’re out of this crush.”

“Just keep him in sight. As long as we catch him when he stops, the money’s yours.”

“Right!”

A moment later, the driver spoke again, his tone more careful. “Ah…I don’t know as how I should mention this, sir, but there’s a carriage following us. It’s the one that was outside the house when you came out. I wouldn’t mention it, but…I recognize the driver.”

Dillon hesitated, then said, “I know who it is. They’re supposed to be following us.”

“Supposed to be?” The driver sounded intrigued, but relieved. After a moment, he called, “Right you are, sir.” The trap dropped back into place.

Rus looked at Dillon. “Who’s in the other carriage?”

“Most likely a man called Tranter, and some of his men. They won’t bother us, and if we need help, they’ll be there.”

Rus studied him. After a moment, he said, “Who is he-the man who grabbed Pris?”

Across the carriage, Dillon met his eyes. “I don’t know his name, but I’d wager my life he’s Mr. X.”

In the carriage ahead of them, Pris gave up trying to surreptitiously free her hands. He’d used silk to bind them, too; her efforts had only pulled the knots tighter. Relaxing as best she could against what she assumed was a hackney’s seat, she forced herself to calm, to take stock.

She’d nearly fainted when he’d bundled her into the carriage. He’d loosened the silk wrapped about her head, but ruthlessly replaced it once she was breathing normally. The folds were now tight around her eyes, less tight about her lips, and not at all over her nose. She could breathe, but she couldn’t cry out. The best she could do was mumble.

“Why?” She knew he sat opposite her. Was he who she thought he was? Could the Honorable Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace, tallish, dark-haired, slightly heavier in build and older than Barnaby, scion of a noble house, truly be Mr. X?

“I’m quite sure, my dear, that you’re intelligent enough to work it out-your fiance wouldn’t have missed the chance to crow, to portray himself as a vanquishing defender of the turf.”

His voice was cool, detached. No hint of humanity colored his tone.

“You’re…?” It was too difficult to manage whole sentences.

“Indeed. I’m the one he vanquished.”

She could feel his eyes on her, cold, assessing. “So…?”

“So now I’m ruined!” His facade cracked; emotion spilled through-fury, malevolence, naked hate. Suddenly, he was raging. “Completely and utterly! Like many of my peers, I’ve lived my life on tick, so the fact their bills haven’t been paid hasn’t immediately alerted my creditors. By the time they realize that this time is different, that this time they won’t be paid at all, I’ll be far away. However, I’m not delighted to be forced to leave my life here, so comfortable and accommodating, and disappear. Yet that-” His voice cracked as he spat the word, dripping with malice.

He paused; Pris heard him draw a deep breath, sensed him struggle to resume the mild, debonair mask he showed the world. “Yet that”-his voice was once again a smooth, melodic, well-conditioned drawl-“is what your fiance has reduced me to. I’ll have to scurry off to the Continent, and live hand to mouth until I can find some gullible soul to supply my needs. But that degrading scenario is not, in itself, why you’re here. You see, now I haven’t even the illusion of funds, I can’t gamble.”

Pris frowned.