What Price Love? (43 page)

Vane looked at Dillon. “Planning aside, have you had any indication he's preparing an attack?”

Dillon shook his head. “This is all conjecture on our part—we've no evidence he'll try to take revenge at all.”

Barnaby snorted. “If he doesn't, I'll eat my hat. The fact he's lain low and not acted precipitously only confirms that he's a cool, careful schemer.”

“The most dangerous sort.” devil looked at Dillon. “Be careful.”

Dillon met that direct, faintly disconcerting glance, and nodded. The group parted, donning their affably charming social masks and
going their separate ways, but devil's glance—and the injunction that lay behind it—remained in Dillon's mind.

Before Pris had come into his life and become such an essential part of it, he would have recognized devil's look, and understood the implication, but not truly felt it, not as a threat. Now he did. He looked over the heads, and found Pris—the one thing he had to take greatest care of, as devil had intimated. She was engaged with a bevy of guests, Rus by her elbow, her father nearby, fondly looking on.

Conscious that something within him eased, like a beast settling back to semislumber, Dillon smiled at Lady Folwell and stopped by her side to chat.

Pris was safe, the night would soon be over, and their wedding would be one day closer. Despite his impatience to have Mr. X act, be identified, and dealt with, he was equally impatient to dispense with town and head back home with Pris. If Mr. X didn't act soon, he would consign the substitution racket and its perpetrator to the past, and leave it behind. He and Pris had too much to do, too much to look forward to, to waste time on a ruined villain.

The ball was a certified crush, the evening declared a huge success. Horatia and Flick were both beaming. Dillon danced with them both, grateful but wary, too. Flick informed him that Pris intended to ask Prue to be a flower girl along with Pris's sisters; he asked if she didn't think it dangerous to be encouraging Prue to think of weddings—and set her laughing. He didn't think, faced with the same question, that Demon would even chuckle.

Twirling herself, Pris saw Dillon circling with a delighted Flick in his arms, and smiled.

“Mr. Caxton is indeed a lucky man.”

The comment had her refocusing on her partner, Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace. Pris inclined her head and glanced over his shoulder as he steered her through the turn at the end of the room.

Rus's words returned to her mind; without looking back at Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace, she tested Rus's hypothesis that she didn't truly see men other than Dillon. Abercrombie-Wallace was a typical London gentleman, in age somewhere between Dillon and Demon. He was dark-haired, not quite so tall, a trifle heavier…her physical description wavered at that point. She supposed he had a typical english
face, passable enough, with features that owed much to his aristocratic background. He was, she'd gathered, wellborn and well connected, from one of the older families of the haut ton; the quality of his clothes, the diamond in his cravat, smacked of wealth and affluence.

His address was polished, his character rather mild for her taste. He seemed, not shy, but reserved.

Her gaze sliding past his face, she inwardly shrugged. It was hardly a surprise he didn't impinge on her mind.

“Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace…I wonder, sir, what are your interests in the capital?” She quizzed him with her eyes. “Is it business or plea sure that claims you?” She'd noticed him at the balls they'd attended over the past days; her money was on plea sure.

He might not impinge on her mind, but she'd instantly and completely claimed his. His gaze—he had pale brown eyes—locked on hers. After a moment of rather disconcerting staring silence, he replied, “As it happens, it's a mixture of both.”

His voice sounded faintly strained; it had been melodically smooth until then. Pris widened her eyes. “Indeed? How—oh!”

She stumbled and nearly fell. Abercrombie-Wallace caught her, steadied her, even while he apologized profusely for his clumsiness; he'd stepped on her skirt. Pris looked down at the lace trailing beneath her hem, and swallowed a curse. She'd have to pin it up.

“Forgive me, dear lady.” Wallace had paled. “If I might suggest, if you have pins, there's a parlor across the corridor—just through that door.” He nodded to a door in the paneling nearby. “You could repair the damage without having to fight your way up the ballroom first.”

They were at the far end of the ballroom; Pris glanced at the door, then eyed the throng between her and the ballroom steps. “That would be best.”

Abercrombie-Wallace opened the door for her, then followed her through. He closed the door, leaving the corridor dimly lit by a distant sconce. “Over there.” He gestured to a door a little way along the corridor.

Holding her skirt with the damaged petticoat to one side, keeping the trailing lace clear of her feet, Pris headed that way. Wallace reached past her to open the door.

She walked in, one glance verifying that the room was a small parlor looking out on the side garden. The lace caught the toe of her shoe; she looked down, untangling it, then released her skirt and turned to thank Wallace and shut the door.

He was right there—almost face-to-face. The door was already shut.

She opened her lips to send him away—the words died in her throat as he drew something from his pocket and flicked; a long black scarf uncoiled from his fingers.

Hands rising defensively, she dragged in a breath, glanced at his face as she opened her mouth to scream.

He moved like lightning. He wound the material about her head and face, smothering her cry—smothering her. She was immediately short of breath, had to struggle to draw air through the fine-woven material.

“Indeed.” The voice, steely and controlled, came from behind her, a cold whisper by her ear. “If you have any sense at all, you'll save your energies for breathing.”

What?
Who?
Blind, dumb, and close to deaf, Pris couldn't get the words past her lips. But she could guess the answers.

He caught her hands, useless with her senses blocked and in turmoil; he swiftly secured them behind her back, then, holding her before him, guided her forward. He opened a door; faint, her head spinning, unable to do anything but follow his directions, she swayed, stepped out—and felt cool stone beneath her soles.

 

T
he waltz came to an end. Releasing Flick, Dillon escorted her back to the chaise where Horatia and Eugenia sat. He allowed them to twit him, then moved away. Instinctively, he scanned the room.

He couldn't see Pris.

He halted, scanned again, more carefully, telling himself that his suddenly screaming instincts couldn't possibly be correct…then he saw something that made his heart stop.

Rus—like him searching the guests, unlike him, openly perturbed.

By the time Dillon reached him, Rus was frowning. “Do you know where she is?” he asked without preamble.

“No.” Dillon looked into Rus's eyes. “I don't think she's here, in the house.
Is she?
”

Rus blinked. His gaze grew distant, then, lips setting grimly, he shook his head. “I can't…sense her. But it's just a feeling. Perhaps—”

Fiercely, Dillon shook his head. “She's not here. I know it, too.”

He glanced around. They stood near the steps and the main doors. None of the others were in sight. “Come on!”

They had to act now, seize the moment, take the risk.

He went up the steps two at a time. Rus at his heels, he strode through the foyer and hurried down the stairs.

Highthorpe was in the front hall.

“Have you seen Lady Priscilla?” Dillon asked.

“No, sir.” Highthorpe glanced at his minion manning the doors; the footman shook his head. “She hasn't been this way.”

Dillon hesitated, thinking, imagining, then he swore, and strode out of the doors, down the steps into the street. The nearer curb was lined with carriages; on the opposite side a little way back stood a lone black carriage, curtains drawn, the driver and a groom alert on the box. Turning in the other direction, Dillon saw a single hackney idly waiting for some gentleman to leave the ball; the hackney stood opposite the entrance to the lane that ran alongside the Cynsters' garden wall. He headed for the hackney.

Seeing him coming, Rus at his back, the driver stirred and sat up, gathering his reins. He touched his cap as Dillon reached him. “Where to, guv?”

“Did you see a carriage pick up someone in the lane?”

The driver blinked. “Aye—a friend o'mine picked up a fare there not two minutes since. He—m'friend—was in line ahead of me. A gent flagged him over into the lane. He had a woman with him, a lady—she looked poorly.”

“Poorly how?” Rus asked.

The driver frowned. “Well, she had a veil thing over her head, and she seemed unsteady—the gent had hold of her. He helped her into the carriage.”

“What color was her gown?” Dillon asked.

“Darkish—green, I think.”

Rus swore. “What of the man?”

“Never mind that,” Dillon cut in. “Did you hear the direction?”

The driver blinked. “Aye. Tothill way. The gent said as how he'd direct Joe when they got there.”

Dillon wrenched open the hackney door and waved Rus in. “Can you follow him?”

The driver's eyes lit. “Easy enough—I know the route he'll take.”

“Ten sovereigns when you catch him.” Dillon leapt into the carriage, slammed the door on the driver's cheery, “Right you are!” and slumped onto the seat as the hackney lurched into motion.

He and Rus clung to the straps as the driver set off to claim his reward. They rocked down the lane, clattered down a street, then turned into a more crowded thoroughfare—Piccadilly. They joined the slow river of carriages edging along. Rus swore, and looked out of the window.

The trap in the roof slid open; the driver called down, “I can see Joe ahead of us, sir, but I won't be able to get up to him 'til we're out of this crush.”

“Just keep him in sight. As long as we catch him when he stops, the money's yours.”

“Right!”

A moment later, the driver spoke again, his tone more careful. “Ah…I don't know as how I should mention this, sir, but there's a carriage following us. It's the one that was outside the house when you came out. I wouldn't mention it, but…I recognize the driver.”

Dillon hesitated, then said, “I know who it is. They're supposed to be following us.”

“Supposed to be?” The driver sounded intrigued, but relieved. After a moment, he called, “Right you are, sir.” The trap dropped back into place.

Rus looked at Dillon. “Who's in the other carriage?”

“Most likely a man called Tranter, and some of his men. They won't bother us, and if we need help, they'll be there.”

Rus studied him. After a moment, he said, “Who is he—the man who grabbed Pris?”

Across the carriage, Dillon met his eyes. “I don't know his name, but I'd wager my life he's Mr. X.”

 

I
n the carriage ahead of them, Pris gave up trying to surreptitiously free her hands. He'd used silk to bind them, too; her efforts had only pulled the knots tighter. Relaxing as best she could against what she assumed was a hackney's seat, she forced herself to calm, to take stock.

She'd nearly fainted when he'd bundled her into the carriage. He'd loosened the silk wrapped about her head, but ruthlessly replaced it once she was breathing normally. The folds were now tight around her eyes, less tight about her lips, and not at all over her nose. She could breathe, but she couldn't cry out. The best she could do was mumble.

“Why?” She knew he sat opposite her. Was he who she thought he was? Could the Honorable Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace, tallish, dark-haired, slightly heavier in build and older than Barnaby, scion of a noble house, truly be Mr. X?

“I'm quite sure, my dear, that you're intelligent enough to work it out—your fiancé wouldn't have missed the chance to crow, to portray himself as a vanquishing defender of the turf.”

His voice was cool, detached. No hint of humanity colored his tone.

“You're…?” It was too difficult to manage whole sentences.

“Indeed.
I'm
the one he vanquished.”

She could feel his eyes on her, cold, assessing. “So…?”

“So now I'm
ruined
!” His façade cracked; emotion spilled through—fury, malevolence, naked hate. Suddenly, he was raging. “Completely and utterly! Like many of my peers, I've lived my life on tick, so the fact their bills haven't been paid hasn't immediately alerted my creditors. By the time they realize that this time is different, that this time they won't be paid at all, I'll be far away.
However,
I'm
not
delighted to be forced to leave my life here, so comfortable and accommodating, and disappear. Yet
that
—” His voice cracked as he spat the word, dripping with malice.

He paused; Pris heard him draw a deep breath, sensed him struggle to resume the mild, debonair mask he showed the world. “Yet that”—his voice was once again a smooth, melodic, well-conditioned drawl—“is what your fiancé has reduced me to. I'll have to scurry off
to the Continent, and live hand to mouth until I can find some gullible soul to supply my needs. But that degrading scenario is not, in itself, why you're here. You see, now I haven't even the illusion of funds, I can't gamble.”

Pris frowned.

“No—not the horses. Cards are my vice, and a very expensive mistress she's proved to be. But I could keep her, could feed and clothe her as long as I could tap funds from somewhere. And yes, that's where the horses came in. I care nought for the racetrack, but I found it, and those drawn to it, so useful. So easily twisted to my purpose. It was all working so well, until…until your fiancé, and if I have it correctly, your brother, intervened.”