She whimpered, but nodded.
“Now pick it up.”
She hesitated.
“Pick it up!”
With an intake of air, she dropped to the ground and grabbed the pieces with her bare hands. He hoped they slashed her fingers. He hoped she bled.
Wiping perspiration from his forehead, he ducked through the doorway, jogged down the stairs, and lit a candle before he entered the dark room.
Eliza was sitting up now, back in the corner, with that filthy blanket draped across her shoulders. Vomit puddled on the stone floor next to her.
Well then. She had been more determined against the opium than he had realized—but no matter. She had won this battle. She would not win the next.
“Come here, Miss Gillingham.”
She didn’t stir at first, but at his second command, she pushed herself to her feet. She walked toward him slowly, head high, and didn’t so much as flinch when he seized her arm. At least she was clever enough not to fight.
They ascended the stairs together. He caught faint, pleasant scents from her hair. Rose water? No wonder his deuced nephew stayed so close to the girl. Or woman, that is.
When they passed Miss Reay, she kept her head down and made no protest.
A sharp sound left Eliza. She stumbled.
“Whatever is the matter, Miss Gillingham? Glass in your foot?”
She limped on without further sound, and two minutes later they were seated beside one another, with Breage whipping the horses and the carriage rumbling into motion.
He removed his beaver hat, took in a second deep breath of night and Miss Gillingham’s rose water. “I trust you are comfortable?”
She looked away. Not in fear, as Miss Reay. But in defiance.
Defiance he would break.
If it was the last thing he ever did.
“My lord, she is gone.”
Lord Gillingham snapped shut his book and stood from the plush library chair. Already, some of the color drained from his face. “Eliza?”
“She was taken last night.” Felton had difficulty pushing out the words. “A man named Bowles. David Bowles. I am going for her now.”
“I am going with you.”
“I do not know what we are up against. If you were to ride for the constable—”
“I shall send a servant for the constable.” The viscount pushed through the library doors and said again, “I am going with you. Where does Bowles live?”
“South end of the village.”
“Mrs. Eustace”—his lordship paused and glanced up at the housekeeper at the top of the stairs—“I need you to send a manservant for the constable. Tell him to gather as many men as possible and head for the residence of David Bowles. Quickly.”
“Yes, my lord. Is something the matter?”
The viscount pointed Felton to the entrance doors. “Run to the stables, Northwood, and have Curry saddle my mare. I shall meet you outside in two minutes. I must retrieve my gun.”
“My lord?” Felton grabbed the man’s arm before he could rush away. “There is one thing I must tell you first.” His voice was unsteady. “About Bowles and how I know who has taken Eliza. About my father and mother and your wife—”
