A Proper Companion (29 page)

But he had said it was impossible for him to forget.
Could that searing kiss have been as earth-shattering for him as it
had been for her? Could he possibly care for her as much as she
cared for him? And what if he did? He was bound to another, and
there was nothing to be done.

She caught a glimpse of him as he twirled Lady
Darlington around the dance floor. He looked gloriously handsome
tonight, as he always did in his stark black evening clothes. She
was unconsciously watching him, admiring the seductive grace of his
movements, when her mind was suddenly filled with an image of him
in his shirtsleeves, his hair carelessly tousled and hanging in his
eyes. She could see the taut muscles of his neck and chest, clearly
visible through the open collar of his fine lawn shirt. She could
feel the strength of those muscles beneath her hands, as well as
the soft, curling chest hair that had tickled her fingers. She
remembered the unique musky aroma of shaving oil and brandy. She
could feel the warmth of his lips on hers ...

"Miss Townsend?"

She spun around with a start to find a young footman
looking at her in question.

"Yes, I am Miss Townsend," she replied, quickly
regaining her composure. She realized the footman must be among the
extra staff hired for the evening, as he was unfamiliar to her.

"There's a gentleman, miss, wanting to speak to you,
miss. He asked me to bring you to the yellow salon. Said it was
most urgent."

"Do you know the gentleman's name?" Emily asked,
somewhat puzzled.

"No, miss, he didn't tell me," the young man said,
obviously flustered. "And I... I guess I forgot to ask. I'm that
sorry, miss. I shoulda asked. But he was taller than me and had
yellowish hair, if that helps."

Emily smiled. "Yes, it does. I'll come with
you."

Of course, it could only be Lord Sedgewick. So, he
wished to speak with her in private? It seemed a somewhat
ramshackle way to go about it—sending an unknown servant to haul
her off to a small room on the next floor. Perhaps he was as uneasy
as she was. Indeed, Emily suddenly realized her stomach was in
knots. Was this to be the expected offer at last? She had been
anticipating such a proposal for the last week, was prepared for
it. Why, then, was she so unexpectedly nervous?

He could offer her a future she had long ago ceased
dreaming of. Over and over she had convinced herself that she would
accept him.

But that was before she had fallen completely and
irrevocably in love with Robert.

In that instant, as she made her way to the yellow
salon, she came to a decision. She would not accept Lord Sedgewick.
It would not be fair to accept him when she loved someone else,
regardless of the futility of that love. He was such a dear man. He
deserved someone whose heart was whole—someone who did not harbor a
hopeless, ridiculous passion for another man. She would decline his
kind offer. It was for the best.

She steeled herself to face him.

"In here, miss," the footman said as they reached
the yellow salon.

"Thank you." She heard him quietly close the door
behind her.

The small room was dimly lit by only the glow of a
modest fire in the grate. How odd, she thought, that no candles
were lit. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she looked
around for Lord Sedgewick, but saw no one.

"My lord?"

No one answered. Perhaps he meant to join her. She
supposed she should wait a few moments. In the meantime she would
light a candle or two.

She crossed the room to stand before the fire,
running her hand along the mantel as she searched for spare
candles, and was suddenly and violently grabbed from behind. What
the devil? As she parted her lips to scream, a foul-smelling cloth
was forced over her mouth. Her arms were painfully wrenched behind
her back, and a strong arm beneath her bosom held her in a vicelike
grip. Even so, she twisted and kicked at her unknown assailant with
all her might. But the acrid cloth was making her feel nauseous,
and she began to feel faint and disoriented.

Dear God, what was happening?

She felt as if she were melting. Her muscles had
gone limp and were no longer obeying the commands from her brain.
She couldn't seem to move though she knew she should be fighting
back. Her eyelids had become so strangely heavy that she could no
longer keep them open. She was vaguely aware of being slowly
engulfed in blackness.

As she lost the last thread of consciousness, she
thought she heard a familiar, though muffled, voice.

"And so, Cousin, you shall avoid me no longer."

"Ah,
chérie
, tonight's lobster mousse was
positively divine."

Anatole proceeded to kiss each one of Mrs. Dawson's
fingers as she sat close to him on the steps outside the service
entrance near the kitchen.

"But, love," she said breathlessly as his kisses
moved up her arm, "your veal tenderloins ... that Madeira sauce."
She gasped as his lips moved over her shoulder to her neck.
"Wonderful! Simply wonderful."

"And your duck liver terrine," Anatole crooned as he
nibbled her ear, "wrapped in puff pastry. Ahhh." He traced her ear
with his tongue. "Perfection!"

"Your saddle of lamb ..." she whispered as her lips
burned a trail up his neck.

"Your raspberry bombe ..." He sighed, kissing her
throat.

"Your mushrooms quenelles ..." She moaned, raining
kisses on his face.

"Your bavarian cream ..." He panted, hovering over
her lips.

"Hold on, love," Mrs. Dawson said abruptly, pushing
him away. "What's this?"

Anatole glared at her in frustration, breathing
heavily, and then followed her gaze to the alley adjacent to the
service entrance. A dark, unmarked carriage stood with its door
open while a man approached, carrying what looked to be a woman
wrapped in a cloak. The man had his back to them and was therefore
unrecognizable. As he stopped at the open carriage door, he lifted
his burden a bit higher in order to toss it onto the seat. At that
moment the cloak fell away slightly, and a shimmer of gold thread
on green silk was caught by the light of the moon.

Mrs. Dawson gasped as she recognized the distinctive
fabric she had seen earlier that evening when Miss Townsend had
come to the kitchen to check on the last-minute preparations.

As the man hoisted his burden into the carriage, a
pale, limp arm fell free, knocking loose the hood that had covered
the woman's face.

"
Mon Dieu
!" Anatole sat up straight. "It is
Mademoiselle Townsend!" He scrambled to his feet just as the man
climbed into the carriage.

"The North Road!" the man shouted to the coachman as
he closed the door.

The carriage sped away before Anatole could take
more than a few steps. He turned to Mrs. Dawson with a look of
horror. "Someone has taken away Mademoiselle Townsend," he said in
a confused voice.

"And against her will, I should think." Mrs. Dawson
rose to stand next to Anatole. "She looked like she'd fainted. Or
maybe she was ..." Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, my God! You
don't think—"

"I don't know,
chérie.
" Anatole took Mrs.
Dawson in his arms. "I don't know. But we must alert his lordship,
tout de suite
.
^"
He planted a quick kiss on her
forehead, released her, and dashed down the steps to the
kitchen.

As luck would have it, a liveried footman had just
entered with a tray of empty champagne glasses. Anatole was
relieved to see that it was young Freddie, one of the regular
staff. "Freddie!" he shouted.

The young man gave a start as he saw the wild-eyed
Frenchman heading toward him.

"Freddie," Anatole said as he gripped the boy's arm,
"you must find Mr. Claypool and bring him to me at once!"

"But, Monsieur Anatole," said the footman in a
plaintive whine, "I'm supposed ta be—"

"I don't care!" Anatole roared. "It is a matter of
life and death!"

The young man looked at him skeptically.

"Miss Townsend's life or death," Anatole added
dramatically. That got the boy's attention. All the staff loved
Miss Townsend.

"M-miss Townsend, sir?"

"She is in danger, Freddie," Anatole said, his voice
tight with emotion. "You must drop everything and locate Mr.
Claypool.
Maintenant
!

Freddie hurried out of the kitchen with a terrified
look on his face.

All activity in the kitchen had come to a stop as
every member of the staff stared at Anatole in astonishment He
turned around and saw them all gaping at him and slammed his fist
down on the nearby trestle table with a crash. "Don't stand around
like idiots!" he bellowed. "Get back to work!
Vite, vite,
vite!
'

* * *

Robert was standing among a group of friends—Lord
Sedgewick, Jack Raeburn, Lord Lavenham, Sir John Presley, Lord
Palmerston, and a few others—listening with amusement to Sir John's
tale of a recent confrontation between two of his mistresses.
Suddenly Robert noticed Jack signaling him to look behind him.
Robert swung around and was surprised and somewhat amused to see
Claypool almost collapsing in relief. The man had obviously been
attempting to gain his attention discreetly, but the noise of the
crowd had caused his words to go unheard. It was unthinkable for
the ever proper Claypool to actually touch Robert to get his
attention.

"A word with you, if you please, my lord," the
butler said in a harried tone Robert had never before heard him
use.

Robert swore under his breath and pulled Claypool
slightly aside from the others. "A crisis of some kind,
Claypool?"

"Indeed, my lord." Claypool quickly imparted all the
details of Emily's apparent abduction as told to him by the two
chefs.

"Emily!" Robert felt the blood drain from his face.
"Oh, my God."

Lord Sedgewick was suddenly at his side. "What is it
Rob? What's happened?"

Robert turned a stricken face to his friend and told
him briefly what he'd just learned.

"Good lord." Sedgewick, ran a nervous hand through
his hair. "Who could have done such a thing? Who would want to hurt
Emily?"

"Faversham!" Robert snarled. "Or Pentwick. But
probably Faversham, if my guess is correct."

He began to make his way through the crowded
ballroom, following Claypool. The ingenious placement of topiaries
meant they could not take a straight path to the nearest exit but
were forced to snake their way through the potted shrubs like rats
in a maze. Robert sincerely hoped Claypool knew where he was going.
Sedgewick was suddenly at his shoulder, hurrying along beside
him.

"I'm sorry, Rob." Sedgewick shook his head in
confusion as they walked. "I don't understand. Why would her
cousin, despicable character though he may be, want to abduct
her?"

"Because, my friend, she is an heiress."

Sedgewick stared at him in open-mouthed
disbelief.

"Oh, she doesn't even know it, Sedge. But Faversham
does." Robert explained about her grandfather's will, the marriage
stipulation, and her uncle's trusteeship.

"I suspect," Robert said as they hustled through the
crowd, ignoring all guests who attempted to speak with him, "that
Faversham has abducted her in order to marry her himself. Recall
that my chef heard the directions given to the coachman to head to
the North Road. It all makes perfect sense." They had navigated the
topiaries and the crowd and were now heading up the stairs out of
the ballroom.

"I believe you must be right, Rob," Sedgewick said.
"Faversham is forever under the hatches, if rumor is true. He no
doubt wants that fortune for himself."

"My notion precisely." Robert turned to face
Claypool once they had made the entry hall. "Have my fastest horse
saddled and waiting for me at the front entrance in ten minutes.
And send Luckett to me."

Robert dashed up the stairs two at a time, leaving
Sedgewick behind without a thought. He began stripping off his
evening clothes as soon as he entered his bedchamber. Luckett was
there before he could remove his waistcoat, silently laying out his
riding breeches, coat, and top boots. Robert looked at his valet's
unnaturally dour expression and realized the man was almost as
upset as he was himself. Of course, he knew what had happened. The
entire staff would know by now.

"Thank you, Luckett," Robert said as the valet
handed him the buckskin breeches. While he tugged them on, Luckett
picked up the discarded garments from the floor and shook them out.
Robert sat down on the bed and pulled on his favorite top boots. He
did not change out of the lace-edged evening shirt, which looked
incongruous with his comfortable blue riding coat. But there was no
time to worry about such things. Luckett handed him leather gloves,
then a hat and riding crop. The valet had not spoken a word.

"I'll find her, Luckett."

The valet held open the bedchamber door and said in
a somber voice, "I'm sure you will, my lord. God's speed."

Robert dashed down the stairs to the entry hall,
where Claypool was waiting with his greatcoat. The news of the
abduction had apparently spread, and a small crowd had gathered in
the hall. Damnation! He had hoped to keep it quiet and escape
without a fuss.

As he eased into the greatcoat, Robert spied his
grandmother. She made her way to his side, her face unnaturally
pale and her mouth held in a tight line. She looked up at him with
such pain in her eyes that he almost lost control. He took her in
his arms.

"You know what happened?" he whispered.

She nodded against his chest.

"I must go after her, Grandmother."

She pulled away and looked up at him, searching his
eyes. "I know," she said finally. "I know." She nodded as a look of
deep understanding passed between them. She stepped back, glanced
around the hall, and glowered menacingly at some of the bystanders,
who quickly moved away. "Do you know who did this, Robert?" she
asked in a low voice.