And Netta was conspicuously absent.
“Where is Netta?” John asked.
“She left.”
John’s stomach clenched. She left to fetch her friend a cup of chocolate, or licorice, he was sure. She wouldn’t be so fool as to—
“She said to tell you she will return later tonight and for you not to wait up for her.”
John blinked, but the little black dots refused to leave his vision. He took a step forward. “Where did she go?”
“That is her business. I did not ask.” Cerise swirled the amber liquid, looking wholly unconcerned.
John took another step. “Why did she leave?”
“He had a message for her, one he told me before he did this.” Cerise gestured to her face. “I assume she left because of it.”
John waited, the seconds ticking past, but the woman said no more. “Well? What was the bloody message?”
Wil stood next to him, his body tense.
Cerise looked at them steadily. “It was for Netta. It is her decision whether to tell you or not.”
John’s fingers itched to shake the woman, but common decency restrained him. That, and the knowledge that Wil would have his throat if he threatened their new stray.
Pinning Cerise with his glare, John said to Wil, “Send messages to my friends. I’m going to need their assistance to find her.”
He would take whatever help he could to track the infuriating woman down.
A bead of sweat rolled down his back. He would find her before she did anything stupid. He would find her safe.
He had to.
And when they found her, he would take great pleasure in personally, and privately, teaching her a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget.
Chapter Twenty-Six
His study had been transformed into a war-room. Montague had taken over his desk, sending out missives just as quickly as he could write them. Rothchild and Sutton pored over a map of London, arguing about the best direction to approach Sudworth’s house. And Dunkeld sat in the corner, cracking each knuckle in his hand, a sure sign that he was willing and ready to crack some heads.
“Are you certain she has gone to his home?” Rothchild asked. “Sudworth has other properties in London.”
“Which she wouldn’t know about.” John paced, trying to loosen his muscles. Fights were won more easily when he was loose. Clear-headed. Indifferent.
With the way he was feeling now, he’d get his arse kicked. “She’s been to his home before.”
Rothchild nodded and continued his argument with Sutton.
Montague sealed another letter. “With this note, every one of my contacts will be on the streets looking for her. But as yet no one has seen her near Sudworth’s house. You must consider the possibility that she just went out for a walk.”
John paused to glare at him. “In the middle of the night?”
Montague leaned back in the chair. “After the behavior at my dinner table tonight, I won’t presume to know what either of you might do for entertainment. A stroll about London in the moonlight seems positively tame in comparison. Your Miss Courtney is something of a free-spirit.”
“Miss LeBlanc,” Sutton corrected. “Courtney was the name Summerset gave her.”
Rothchild shook his head. “LeBlanc isn’t correct, either. He said her true name was something like Ever…Everrose? Everly?”
“Evered,” John gritted out. Who the bloody hell cared about a name? They were wasting time.
