“Good move.” Dalziel stepped down and followed Christian to the door.
As he had in Curzon Street, Christian hammered on the front door until it swung open. A butler stood in the doorway, all but frozen in shock at the sight of the four large and menacing men crowding the front porch.
“Where’s your master?” Christian’s growl suggested-accurately-that he wished to rend said master limb from limb.
The butler swallowed and found his voice. “He’s not here. He lives in London for much of the time-in Curzon Street.”
“We’ve just come from Curzon Street-he left there, apparently for here.”
The butler had caught sight of their steaming horses. “Perhaps he’s still on the road?” He lifted his gaze to Christian’s face. “He doesn’t like rattling along-it makes him ill.”
That was the best bit of news Christian had had all day. Yet even traveling slowly, Swithin should have been there. He glanced at Dalziel, who met his gaze. Neither of them thought the butler was lying.
“All that means”-Dalziel swung back to the forecourt-“is that he hasn’t come through his front door.”
“And if he had a struggling prisoner in tow, he wouldn’t.” Tristan went back down the shallow steps. The others followed; the butler, puzzled, came out in their wake.
Justin came striding around the side of the house, greatcoat flapping, Barton at his heels. A bevy of stableboys rushed past, racing to take the high-stepping horses in charge.
“He’s here,” Justin bellowed as soon as he was in earshot. Halting, he beckoned. “The stableman says he arrived about five minutes ago-with a lady.”
Moments later they all stood in the stableyard, where two carriage horses were being watered.
“The lady wasn’t well,” the stableman said. “Fainting and weak-she could barely stand. The master had to half carry her up to the house.”
“He didn’t go in through the front door.” With the others, Christian turned to look at the house. “The butler hasn’t seen him.”
The stableman frowned. “That’s odd. The state the lady was in, I’d’ve thought he’d have her inside right away.”
From where they stood, the side door of the house was visible. Dalziel pointed. “Did you see him go through that door?”
The stableman shook his head. “Saw him head off in that direction, but…” He waved to the wide vistas rolling away to either side, then at the horses nearby. “I was busy with these-he could have gone anywhere, for all I know.”
“Could any of your boys have seen which way he went?” Justin asked.
The stableman shook his head. “They were inside, mucking out.”
Frustrated, ridden by a sense of time running out, of being near yet not near enough, Christian strode back out of the stableyard. Just beyond the arch, he halted and looked about. The others ranged around.
“So he’s here, with her.” And she was still alive. “I’ll check to see if he went in through the door.” Christian glanced at Dalziel.
Who nodded. “The rest of us will scout outside. Whoever sights him, yell.”
Christian left them to sort out who would look where. He jogged to the house, scanning the ground along the way for any signs of a struggle or fresh footsteps.
He reached the door. There might have been a scuffle just outside it, but the grass was thick; he couldn’t tell who might have stood there or how long ago it had been.
Opening the door-unlocked, as most doors in the country were-he stepped inside, into a shallow hall with two corridors leading off, one to the left, one to the right. He debated for an instant, then turned left, away from the front of the house. The other corridor almost certainly led to the front rooms the butler watched over, and presumably Mrs. Swithin would be somewhere in that region, too.
If Swithin had brought Letitia inside, he would have gone somewhere else-somewhere away from all others.
It wasn’t that large a house, but a modest, relatively modern manor in the Palladian style. The first stretch of floor beyond the hall was covered by a runner, but beyond the runner’s end, bare floorboard stretched.
Noting a darker mark on the wood, Christian crouched, touched a finger to it; his fingertip came away damp, slightly green.
The grass outside the door had been damp.
Moving faster, he went on-and found an even clearer set of footprints around the corner, at the base of a set of bare wooden stairs-servants’ stairs, leading up. There were two sets of footprints, the larger clear and well-defined, the smaller smudged and muddled, as if Letitia had been tripping over her own toes.
Christian swore beneath his breath and started up the stairs. The blackguard must have drugged her.
He didn’t yell for the others; they almost certainly wouldn’t hear him, but the servants would-and so would Swithin.
Reaching the first floor landing, he forced himself to search for footprints to show him the way-along the corridor or up the next flight of stairs. His inner clock told him time was running out; panic threatened-but now more than ever he couldn’t afford to go the wrong way.
But there were runners all about, even on the stairs.
“Swithin!”
The hail came from outside.
Two strides took Christian to the landing window. Looking out, he saw Dalziel, hands on his hips, looking up and shouting-at the roof.
Christian swore and bolted up the stairs. If Swithin had taken Letitia onto the roof…there was only one possible reason he would.
And she was drugged.
On a narrow ledge a bare yard wide, just behind the low parapet encircling the roof, Letitia struggled-wrestled- for her life.
Her wrists were still tied-she hadn’t been able to do anything about that-but by pretending she couldn’t get up the stairs, she’d forced Swithin to unhobble her ankles.
So she could balance well enough to counter his shoves, pull back enough when he tried to yank her forward. But bit by bit, his jaw set, his fingers biting into her arms, he maneuvered her closer to the edge.
She’d pretended to be drugged as long as she could, used her slumping weight, her inability to walk, to slow them.
He might not be anywhere near Christian’s size, but Swithin was still heavier and stronger than she; fighting him in the carriage wouldn’t have worked-she’d been afraid he might simply have drugged her again. But Swithin had managed her exit from his carriage well, making sure she was out of sight and too distant from his stablemen for there to be any chance of escape. Not with his pistol pressed to her side.
So she’d worked and worked, forcing her panicking wits to find ways to slow them as much as possible.
But now she had to fight to keep him from flinging her over the edge.
Screaming hadn’t been an option, not with that pistol digging into her ribs and no one nearby, but he’d had to put the pistol away so he could use both hands to seize her.
What right did Swithin have to take her life from her-and for such a nonsensical reason?
Temper, as ever, was her strength. She used it, drew on it, worked to keep it stoked.
Desperate, she wrestled, fought as well as she could with her hands tied-would have kicked but she had to keep her balance.
Swithin pushed-she pushed back.
But she couldn’t keep going forever.
She was weakening; just as she started to wonder if Christian would be too late, yells came from below.
She recognized Dalziel’s voice. If he was there, Christian was close.
Swithin knew; his face empurpled, then contorted in a snarl. He steeled himself, locked his fingers even more tightly on her arms.
