“Three dances tonight,” Peter said to Brennan, or maybe himself. “Then I’ll marry her first and figure out the solution after.”
He was a mess. But deep in his belly, he thought she would say yes.
“Good plan,” said Brennan, and opened the door.
Peter ran.
*
He climbed thestairs to the musician’s balcony to check their position, because if Henrietta was in trouble, then Celia was in trouble and he would keep her safe.
Not pleased. Spread too wide for tactical maneuvers. Mrs. Thompson at the rear right, surrounded by other matrons, nowhere near any of her charges. Charlotte Bigelowe, center left, looking like she was trying to extract herself from a conversation and failing entirely. Rose, coming out from the rear on a gentleman’s arm, looking miserable. Francis, upstairs.
He was watching so closely, he wasn’t sure he saw it—canary bright coat, slicked-back hair, that particular swagger.
It couldn’t be Hargreaves. The Pipperlys were enough of a problem for tonight.
But Peter was a strategist, and he knew how to manage assaults from more than one front.
Aha—Bigelowe, near the patio doors in the far center. Alone.
Where in seven hells was Celia?
Peter ran down the stairs and dived into the crowd, searching for any sensible gentleman.
“Did you see Lord Edmund?” he asked. And to the next one—“Did Edmund Hargreaves have an invitation?”
The second question was a resounding no, but a couple people thought they might have seen him. Wasn’t too hard to get in without an invitation; these crushes were always short on eligible men.
Peter thanked them, and spotted Charlotte Bigelowe heading in his direction. She raised a hand in greeting and darted through a chattering group, plowing her way towards him.
Peter had never even been introduced to Charlotte, but elbowed through the crowds to get to her. She burst around a portly gentleman, half falling into Peter.
“Clarence came!” Charlotte clutched his elbows, her eyes dark with fear. “We can’t—maybe you—”
Peter pulled them off to the side, supporting her, making soothing sounds. “You were right. I will help. Take a breath. There now. Another breath.”
“Celia was dancing with my husband.” Charlotte pulled herself upright, pressing her hand against her side. “He was going to bring her back to my mother, but Clarence—Lord Kilairne, I mean—caught them by the doors and said he wished to take her walking, since he cannot dance with her. My husband tried to argue, but his lordship has both rank and family connection, and it was just her brother. We were watching for Lord Edmund, weren’t we?”
Peter didn’t know what they were planning. “You were right to come. I don’t trust her brother.”
“He struck her!” Charlotte flushed. “Twice!”
Peter could not become any more angry than he already was, but he was even more determined to get Celia back.
Actually, he was more angry.
Not his Celia. He was a grown man now, and he would not watch this story play out again.
“We’ll fetch her here,” Peter snapped. “Where’s Bigelowe?”
Charlotte gestured towards the rear. “He’s finding her uncle. And he said he’d meet her under that coat of arms, so…”
“Good. Have him hold that position. Always must leave a sentry at the reconnaissance point.”
“Yes…?”
“You and I are going out to find her. Wait—don’t go alone. Get Rose. Stay together.”
