It occurred to Evelyn, with a surge of dread, to wonder whether they had similarly abducted her own coachman. Was he left at the roadside with the barouche? Had they harmed him?
Please,she begged inwardly,let someone look for me. Let someone find me.
Only Gemma knew where she was going. She had not dared confide in anyone else at Brentfield. Nicholas was away in London; William, she barely knew. And not a soul—not even Gemma—knew James was hiding in the house. Only her maid knew, and Evelyn trusted her not to tell anyone.
Her thoughts raced. Gemma would not expect her back until well after nightfall—perhaps not even then. She might assume Evelyn intended to spend the night in London at the townhouse. She would not think to send help until the following morning… and by then, it might be far too late.
A sob tore from Evelyn’s throat.
The coach hurtled onward, heedless of the rain. Her fear of what awaited her at their destination was overtaken by a more immediate terror—that the carriage might overturn entirely. Whoever drove it had no care for safety. Through the narrow gap she could see only blurred impressions of dripping branches; somehow, they seemed to be closer to London than she had realised.
A violent jolt sent her sliding from the seat to the floor. She cried out as she fell. The coach was moving too quickly for her to climb back up, so she remained where she had landed, huddled against the door, staring into the dim interior.
On and on the coach rattled, until her mind grew numb—or she thought it had. Then the carriage slowed, lurched, and turned sharply. She screamed.
“Help!” she cried out.
But even if someone outside heard her, she doubted they would intervene. She considered pounding on the door, but the memory of the armed man’s warning froze her hand.
She crawled toward the window and peered through the gap. Buildings crowded close; streets grew narrower. They were in London.
The coach slowed again, turned, slowed more still. Evelyn peered through the sliver of light, heart hammering.
They had driven into one of the worst districts of the city.
Smoke thickened the air; grime darkened the walls. The buildings leaned toward each other, shutting out the sky. Voices echoed everywhere—children shouting, adults arguing, the ceaseless clamour of crowded streets. The coach crept forward, nearly at a stop.
Evelyn shrank against the door, trembling. She could not imagine what awaited her.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the door flew open. Strong hands seized her from behind, dragging her from the coach. A coarse bag was yanked over her head, plunging her into darkness.
Evelyn screamed. Terror sharpened into a desperate will to fight. She kicked, twisted, struck out blindly, trying to break the grip on her arms. But she could not escape. A door creaked open; she was thrust inside; the door slammed and locked behind her.
She ripped the covering from her head and looked around.
The room was small but not too horrific: a chair, a fireplace, bare wooden boards. Neglected, dusty, but not oppressive—merely shabby. The ordinariness of it eased her terror by the smallest margin. She sank to the floor beside the fireplace, drew her knees to her chest, and tried to think—trulythink—of a way to escape.
But her mind would not obey. All she could see—clearly, painfully—was Sebastian’s face.
How desperately she longed to see it again.
A sob rose in her throat.
She loved him.
Shetrulydid.
It was the worst possible moment for the truth to settle inside her heart—but there it was. Irrefutable. Overwhelming.
She shut her eyes, swallowing her terror.
She had to find a way out.
Chapter Twenty
Sebastian gazed out of the window. He had retreated to the one room in the club where he could expect a measure of peace—the library. A small chamber with a fireplace and two upholstered chairs, it was almost always empty; most men who frequented the club possessed their own libraries and preferred, while here, to play cards or drink.
As he had anticipated, he was alone. He sank into the chair by the fire, staring out over the rain-washed city. Drizzle blurred the rooftops and pattered against the windowpanes, echoing the heaviness inside him. He was miserable.
