Uncertainly, Susannah’s hand slid from her shoulder. She gazed at Catherine anxiously, her teeth biting her lower lip until she tasted a drop of blood. “All right, if that is what you want. Just remember, Catherine, you have many friends who care for you.”
Catherine opened her eyes and smiled mistily at Susannah. “I know that cousin, I know that, and believe me, it is appreciated.”
Susannah nodded, looked as if she were going to speak again, then changed her mind and turned away, walking quietly out the door. Catherine watched her go, then sank down into her favorite armchair by the fireplace and let her head sink into her hands.
“Her cousin just came out of the library, but our little wren is still in there,” Kirkson informed Panthea as he walked past her.
“How convenient,” she murmured. She continued down the hall, stopping by the library door and glancing back briefly. She smiled assurance, then pressed the latch and went inside.
From the mansion’sdeep shadow, Stefton cursorily watched the fidgety behavior of a team that drew up before Harth House. A woman and a man soon came down the townhouse's steps escorting a swooning woman swathed in a voluminous dark cloak. They placed her in the carriage. Then the gentleman jumped in, leaning out for a brief word with the lady who had aided him and ordered the driver on with a wave of his hands.
There was something about the stance and posture of the woman left behind that was familiar, but Stefton couldn’t place it however much it nagged at the fringes of his memories. Heraked a hand through his hair, causing several locks to fall and curl across his brow. The woman stood for a moment on the flagway, watching the carriage turn the corner at the end of Upper Grosvenor, before turning back to the house. It was then, by the light of the flambeau at the doorway, that Stefton saw her face. It was Lady Welville.
Suddenly, an awful, cold feeling grabbed at his insides and twisted them tight, the pain shooting down through his toes and upward into his brain. His breathing became harsh. He leaned out of the shadow and into the street light, his face transformed into a mask of steel and his eyes to obsidian. He ran back to Harth House, taking the steps two and three at a time.
No one was waiting by the door to let guests in and out, and the hall, shadowy and dark from guttered candles, was strangely deserted. The clutching cold feeling grew, spreading through his limbs. He fought against the lethargy it threatened. He ran across the hall and up the stairs to the ballroom. He stopped abruptly at the doorway, his breathing rapid now, sweat glistening on his brow. Panthea was just easing into a conversation with the dowagers. A nice touch, that, Stefton thought grimly, but he was not one to be intimidated by haughty dowagers or public scenes. Not now. If he was correct, there wasn’t time for niceties.
He strode over to Panthea, grabbed her by the shoulder, and twirled her around. “Where’s he taking her?” he ground out, his face a death’s-head white.
“Oh, la, Oliver, you startled me,” began Panthea coyly, batting her lashes at him.
His expression did not change. “Do not try it,” the Marquis warned softly. “Where is he taking her?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Panthea said with a touch of nervous asperity.
“Panthea, do not make me do something that you will have cause to regret.”
His unwavering gaze unnerved Panthea. She absently plucked at the folds of her gown. “What do you see in her anyway?” Panthea demanded petulantly. “She is just a little brown wren.”
They were beginning to draw a crowd. Even the orchestra stopped playing. The Marquis continued to stare silently.
“It was his idea,” protested Panthea helplessly.
“I am warning you, Panthea, you’ll tell me now what I want to know or suffer the consequences as his accomplice in a kidnapping.”
“Easy, man,” murmured the Earl of Soothcoor, coming up to his side.
She licked her lips nervously and looked around at the crowd. She was backed into a corner. “Oh, Stefton, it was just that Miss Shreveton!” she said lightly. “She and Kirkson are just running off. They say they can’t put up with such formality any longer. I can’t say that I blame them. It is a pretty stuffy lot.”
The Marquis’s fingers curled around her upper arm. “No games, Panthea,” he said harshly, shaking her like a doll.
All eyes were turned upon them.
Tears began to roll down Lady Panthea’s cheeks, and for once they were not artifice. “All right, all right,” she wailed weakly. “He is taking her, and not by her consent, but I swear to you, I don’t know where! He wouldn’t tell me. He said it was safer if I do not know.” Her hands covered her weeping eyes.
A murmur of horror swept the company. Stefton flung her arm aside, his mouth working furiously before any words would come out. He turned and scanned the assembly. “Soothcoor! Find Chilberlain and meet me at Vauden as soon as possible. We haven’t a moment to lose!”
He turned back to glance briefly at Panthea, his eyes empty. “I recommend you seek a warmer climate for your health, one where your devious charms can be appreciated.” Suddenly he was gone, and the muted whisperings increased in volume.
Frantic, Panthea looked around for a sympathetic face. There were none. Each face read condemnation clearer than the last. Panthea whimpered, screamed, and fainted.
“I’m sorry,milord, but the gray’s come up lame,” the groom said when Stefton asked for his favorite mount. “Lame! When did that happen?”
The man shrugged, suddenly nervous before the Marquis’s probing gaze. “I—I don’t know, milord. Mr. Friarly took him out to exercise earlier, and when he brought him back, he was favoring that leg.”
"Seems Kirkson’s paying your man."The memory rang a warning bell in the Marquis’s head. “Where’s Friarly?"
"In his quarters, milord. Shall I fetch him?”
