“Finished?”
She nodded mutely. He retied her wrists, yanking the knot tight in a silent show of domination, then peeked beneath the blanket near her feet.
Her heart pounded at the thought that he might have discovered her duplicity.
When he reached the door, he turned back to face her. “You know, I’m not nearly the simpleton you think I am. But you’ll learn that over time.”
And he turned and left, locking the door behind him.
FORTY-SEVEN
COLIN STRODE out the door of the town house, his stomach churning with anxiety and frustration. Amy-Amy-Amy-Amy-Amy, repeated over and over in his brain, accomplishing nothing but the beginnings of a massive headache.
He had to find her, but how? London was bursting at the seams with buildings and humanity, and Robert could have taken her anywhere.
Assuming it was Robert who had taken her. And assuming they were still in London. The sheer number of possibilities was overwhelming.
Leaning against the stable wall while his horse was resaddled, Colin forced his pulse to steady and his head to clear. He took slow, deep breaths, rubbing the white star on Ebony’s forehead in a soothing rhythm.
Robert. How could he find Robert?
The man must have family somewhere. And that family would be jewelers, no doubt. Robert had been Hugh Goldsmith’s apprentice, and if Colin understood how the guild system worked, apprenticeships were arranged between families well nigh at birth. He would lay odds that Robert’s father was in the same business.
He just had to find the elder Mr. Stanley.
ROBERT RETURNED several hours later, his freckled face scrubbed clean, his damp orange hair slightly curling at the ends. He was dressed in an immaculate brown suit, the jacket’s wide cuffs trimmed in icy blue, the loose breeches beribboned with poufs of blue loops. As he entered, he unfastened his knee-length cloak and folded it over the back of a chair, revealing a starched white, lace-bordered cravat tied neatly at his throat and secured with a diamond brooch. His wide-brimmed hat boasted a blue ostrich plume and a jeweled hatband. He swept it off his head and tossed it on the battered wooden table with a flourish.
“I’m ready,” he announced.
Amy eyed him dubiously. Clearly he was decked out for an important occasion—he almost looked handsome in his finery. She lifted her head to inspect him more closely. “Ready for what?”
“Our wedding.”
Nonplussed, she dropped her head back to the dirty pillow. A puff of dust whooshed out, clogging her nostrils and making her cough. How could he think she would agree to marry him now, after a forcible abduction? It was beyond her comprehension.
This was hardly her idea of courtship.
When she offered no comment, he continued, his cheerfulness unabated. “Of course, today’s Sunday, so we’ll have to wait until tomorrow. But I decided to ready myself now, since I don’t plan to leave you again beforehand. It makes me nervous.”
So now she was stuck with him. This turn of events was unlikely to facilitate her escape, which she was more determined than ever to achieve. In the course of the past twenty-four hours, she’d decided that besides harboring an unforetold capacity for violence, Robert was quite obviously insane.
A shadow of discomfort crossed his face. He flexed his shoulders restlessly before dropping onto a chair. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“I’m not marrying you,” she said bluntly.
In answer, he rose from the chair and reached behind his back, drew a pistol from the waistband of his breeches, and set it on the table. Softly, but she heard the metallic thud. “Yes, you are marrying me.”
Amy was fairly certain he’d never use the gun on her—or anyone else, for that matter. She doubted he knew how to load it, let alone shoot it. But apparently she wasn’t able to hide her apprehension, because Robert reseated himself with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
“We’ve an appointment at St. Trinity tomorrow morning,” he explained. “I have two witnesses meeting us here. We’ll tie you up and cover you with my cloak. The proprietor here already believes you’re ill; he’ll think naught when we carry you out and over toward the church.”
St. Trinity was in the Minories. If he planned on carrying her there, they must still be in the City, or at least somewhere in greater London. That was welcome news.
Robert would have to leave sometime, at least to order some food, and perhaps she could untie herself, knock him senseless upon his return, steal the key and escape, losing herself in the rabbit warren of streets that made up London. She’d take his cloak to cover her nightgown…
“…gown and slippers will be delivered for you within the hour,” Robert was saying. So she’d have something to wear. Things were looking up. “I’ve arranged for food to be delivered.” Gad. There went his reason for leaving. “Are you hungry?”
“It doesn’t signify. I wouldn’t sit at table with you in either case.”
“You’re right. You’re staying in that bed.”
They glared at each other. Robert looked away first.
Amy kept her gaze on him. “No banns have been posted.”
“No matter. It’s a privileged church. You’ve heard of them, I presume?”
She nodded curtly. “I won’t say ‘I will.’”
“Oh, you’ll say it.” He picked up the pistol and hefted it as emphasis to his words. “I doubt the curate cares what you say, anyway. So long as he gets his blunt.”
He had an answer for every protest. Nonetheless, from somewhere deep inside, Amy was confident she’d find a way out.
The alternative was too ghastly to consider.
FORTY-EIGHT
“I DON’T KNOW where he is, my lord. I’m sorry.”
“Think, Mr. Stanley. Please,” Colin begged. “I must find her. I—I love her.”
There. He’d said it. Out loud, to another human being.
Sadly, his confession, however difficult,
