“But—” began Taviot.
“Or would you rather stay and face Lord Wrexford’s wrath?”
“You promised that I was protected—”
“And you will be, but only if you do exactly as I say.”
Charlotte heard hurried footsteps moving away.
A pair of gloved hands seized her shoulders and lifted her up from the sofa. “Move.” Her captor hustled her through the French doors leading out to a terrace and then down several shallow stairs to a garden walkway.
He let out a low whistle, and a moment later the crunch of gravel announced that someone was approaching.
“Take her to the carriage hidden behind the mews,” said her captor as a shadowed figure came close. “Once you are out of Town and come to a secluded spot, you know what to do.”
As the newcomer grabbed her roughly, Charlotte forced her eyes open and saw the silhouette of her captor—a broad-shouldered man—retreating into the night mist.
“Stop!” she ordered, though the word came out as a pitiful croak.
The effort earned her a hard slap from the man who now held her prisoner. “Shut your mouth.”
Deciding that she was likely going to die anyway, Charlotte began to struggle. Tears—mingling fear and rage—wet her cheeks as she thought about all the reasons she had for living.
I will not go without a fight.
Another blow from the man stunned her, allowing him to muscle her past the mews and into the hidden carriage.
He rapped on the trap, signaling the driver to crack his whip, and sank back to the seat just as Charlotte recovered enough to renew her attack.
Punch, scratch, poke—fired on by desperate fury, Charlotte flailed at him, hoping to seize an instant in which she could fling open the door.
Wishful thinking.
The man easily caught her hands and used his superior weight and strength to pin her back against the squabs. Leaning in close—so close that his hot-as-Hades breath tickled against her cheek—he growled an oath and punctuated it with a teeth-rattling shake.
“Sheath your claws, Lady Wrexford. I’m trying to help you, but you must be still.”
* * *
Head bowed, deep in thought, Wrexford followed the curve of the wrought-iron fence that circled the lush garden centered in Berkeley Square. The clatter of a late-night reveler’s curricle racing over the cobbles made him pause before crossing the carriageway to his townhouse. He looked up and felt his spirits lift, despite the tangled worries weighing on his mind.
Home. It was now so much more than an elegant building filled with tasteful furnishings and pleasing art. The mellow light warming the windows was a beacon of . . .
How to describe its glow?He was not a poet. His eloquence was in observing and analyzing things that one could see and measure. Emotions were more elusive. But as he stared up at the limestone and granite façade of his residence, Wrexford felt a surge of wordless wonder at the joy of having Charlotte and his family as part of his very being.
He couldn’t imagine his world without them.
“I have,” Wrexford whispered, “become a sentimental fool.”
The thought made him smile, but after spending another moment savoring the light through the scrim of flitting shadows, he crossed the cobblestones and let himself in through the front door.
It was late. He lit a candle from the entrance table and headed for his workroom, wishing to finish sorting his thoughts before heading upstairs to Charlotte, who was likely asleep by now. As he turned down the corridor leading to the rear of the townhouse, a flutter of lamplight through the half-open door caught his eye.
He quickened his steps. Perhaps Tyler had discovered some further clue in the chemical sample found at Taviot’s secret laboratory. However, as he entered the room, he stopped short.
The work counters, usually a scene of cheerful disarray, had been neatly organized, the unruly piles of paper on his desk shuffled into order, the curio cabinet dusted—
“Ye heavens, what prompted this burst of activity, Mac?” he asked wryly, seeing the maid crouched in front of the hearth, stirring the coals to life.
