Regency Rogues and Rakes: Silk is for Seduction / Scandal Wears Satin / Vixen in Velvet / Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed / A Rake's Midnight Kiss / What a Duke Dares. Loretta Chase
streets.”
“She’s afraid of the dark,” Marcelline said. Her voice shook and her eyes were red, but she didn’t weep. “She’s afraid of the dark.” Her sisters went to her and put their arms about her, the way they’d done the night of the fire.
He couldn’t pull her into his arms. He couldn’t comfort her.
The pain of not doing that was almost as sharp as the fear for Lucie.
“We’ll find her before dark,” Clevedon said. “I should be a good deal more worried if she’d bolted from your old shop on Fleet Street.”
St. James’s was safer, he told himself. Much safer. A royal palace was mere steps away. The clubs were there as well. While it wasn’t completely respectable, it wasn’t the back-slums. And she was a child, on foot. She couldn’t go far.
But she could be taken. And then…
No. No one would take her. He knew where she was going. And he’d find her.
Half past three o’clock, Monday morning
Nothing.
No sign of her.
Police. Private detectives. Clevedon and Longmore’s servants. They’d all searched. They’d knocked on doors and accosted passersby. They’d stopped carriages and hackneys.
No one had seen Lucie.
Clevedon, Longmore, and Marcelline had walked Bennet Street and St. James’s Street, parting company to enter clubs and shops, and rejoining to traverse the alleys and courts in the vicinity. They’d combed St. James’s Square.
He’d tried to send her home to wait when darkness fell, but she said she couldn’t bear to stay home and wait. She walked until she was shivering with fatigue. Even then he had the devil’s own time persuading her to get into the carriage, though it was an open one, and she might spot Lucie as easily—perhaps more easily—from its height than from the pavement.
At three o’clock he’d taken her home. “You’ll be no good to anybody if you don’t get some rest,” he told her.
“How can I rest?”
“Lie down. Put your feet up. Take some brandy. I’m going home to do the same thing. The search hasn’t stopped. It won’t stop. Longmore and I will come back for you in a few hours. When it’s light.”
“She’s afraid of the dark.” Her voice wobbled.
“I know,” he said.
“What shall I do?” she said.
What shall I do if she’s dead?
The unspoken question.
“We’ll find her,” he said.
The conversation played through his mind again and again while he lay on the library sofa. He closed his eyes but they wouldn’t stay closed.
He rose and paced.
He had to think the unthinkable. He had to allow for the possibility she’d been taken. Very well. But all was not lost. A ransom would be sought. Who’d keep a well-dressed child, who spoke with the accents of the gently bred, when money might be made?
Had the police thought of that? He rose and went to his desk. He started making notes and planning strategies while he waited for the sun to rise.
A loud cough woke him.
Clevedon opened his eyes. His mouth tasted gritty and his head ached and he thought at first he’d been on a prime binge. Then he realized his head wasn’t on a pillow but on his desk. Then he remembered what had happened.
He jerked his head up from the desk.
Halliday stood on the other side.
“What?” Clevedon said. “What? What time is it?” He looked toward the window. Dawn had broken, but not long ago. Good.
“A quarter past seven, your grace.”
“Good. Thank you for waking me. I did not want to oversleep.”
“There’s someone to see you, sir,” said Halliday.
“From the police?” Clevedon said. “Have they found her?”
He saw that Halliday was having difficulty maintaining his composure.
Clevedon leapt up from his chair. There was a great rushing noise in his head. His heart pounded. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“If I may, sir.”
“May what?”
But Halliday went out.
“Halliday!”
The house steward came back in. He was carrying a very dirty, very wet little girl.
“His majesty presents his compliments, your grace, and requests to know whether this article belongs to you,” Halliday said.
The Duke of Clevedon’s carriage arrived later than promised. The sun was climbing upward, and Marcelline had already tried and failed to eat the tea and toast her sisters made for her. She hadn’t slept a wink. She’d been afraid to.
She was ready and waiting, pacing the closed shop, when the carriage stopped at the front door. She ran out, and nearly collided with Joseph hurrying toward her. “It’s all right, Mrs. Noirot,” he said. “We’ve got her safe and sound and his grace sends his compliments and apologizes for not bringing Miss Erroll straightaway, but she wouldn’t come. And so I was to come and ask would the mountain please come to Mahomet? That is to say, those were his words exactly, madam.”
Marcelline found them in the drawing room—one of the drawing rooms. They were on the rug. Strewn about them were tin soldiers, horses, miniature cannons, and all the other artifacts of war.
Lucie was wearing what appeared to be page’s livery, a coat and breeches made for a boy some inches taller. She had on red stockings and no shoes. Her hair had been tied up behind with what seemed to be a man’s handkerchief. She was watching Clevedon line up some cavalrymen. He looked up toward the door first, and hastily rose.
Lucie looked up then. “Mama!” she cried.
Marcelline crouched down and opened her arms. Lucie jumped up and ran into them.
“My love, my love,” Marcelline said. She nuzzled Lucie’s warm neck, and inhaled her familiar scent, mixed with something flowery. Perfumed soap. Her hair was damp.
She held her tight for a long time, until Lucie grew impatient and pulled away. “We’re playing soldiers,” she said.
Marcelline grasped her shoulders and looked into her vivid blue eyes, her grandmother DeLucey’s eyes.
“You ran away,” Marcelline said. “You frightened Mama and your aunts to death.”
Lucie’s lower lip jutted out. “I know,” she said. “His grace says I am not to do it again, and ladies do not climb out of windows. But I was desperate, Mama.”
“And then you wouldn’t come home,” Marcelline said. “I had to come for you. What next, Miss Lucie Cordelia?”
“I’m Erroll. I had to have a bath. I was very dirty. I hid in the stables when they tried to take me home. I fell in a trough.”
Marcelline looked to Clevedon. He’d risen when her daughter ran toward her. He still had a cavalryman in his hand and he was turning it this way and that.
“As near as we can ascertain, she made very good progress toward Clevedon House until she reached Pall Mall East,” he said. “It would appear she turned into that street instead of Cockspur Street and wandered in the new construction until she ended up in the Queen’s Mews. Naturally, she was soon noticed: Solitary children aren’t thick on the ground thereabouts. But by this time, she’d found out