Charlotte nodded, biting her lip. “It’s cold out there. I will gather some shawls before I go.”
Before Peter could exhort her to hurry, she took off down a side hall at an actual run. No wonder Celia liked the woman; she was made of stern stuff.
First, he needed to find Penrose, Francis, and Giles Thompson. If Peter went out alone, his presence would compromise Celia, and he didn’t want to force her into anything. He’d gather a group, they’d go walking in the garden. Giles would be the family connection, keep things respectable. Just happen across Kilairne, fall into step with him until Celia was back in the ball. If Hargreaves was out there too, he’d quail at being outnumbered. Under all his bluster, man was a Scaramouche.
The next set was starting and people were everywhere, laughing and fluttering, making it hard to get anywhere.
Upstairs, he poked his head into three doors until panic took over. He didn’t know where Latham was having his private get-together; Peter could spend the next hour opening every door in the house.
Back to the top of the stairs, checking locations. Where was Penrose? He was supposed to be courting Celia—couldn’t he even pay attention to her for one solid hour? Did the man not have a single corner of his totty-headed brain-box devoted to preventing incipient disaster?
Celia’s aunt was sipping lemonade and laughing, apparently unaware that she was two girls down. Why wasn’t she scanning the room and counting? One two three, one two three. Wasn’t that hard.
Once he got her back inside, Peter would tie Celia to Mrs. Thompson with a goddamnrope, if that’s what it took. For the love of mercy. Tomorrow, he’d get a special license. He was done with trusting these fools, over it. Finished.
Brennan must still be managing the Henrietta situation. It took a few questions, but Peter determined that Giles Thompson had gone home and Thompson himself was in the card room, besides being less useful than a pile of toenail clippings. He checked a couple acquaintances from his clubs, light, teasing, testing. But cork-brain Pipperly had been such a blackguard lately that no one trusted Hughes anymore; no one wanted to leave a pleasant party to walk around a damp garden with someone who hadn’t been any sort of dependable.
What a night for Leavenworth to not receive an invitation. If Leavenworth were white he’d be here and they’d already be scouring the gardens, and nobody—nobody—got past Peter and Leavenworth together.
The country dance started. So she’d been out there for a quarter hour, maybe more.
Peter clambered onto a glazed planter, clinging to the palm stems for balance. His heart was pounding, every sense in high awareness.
Kilairne was not here. Celia was most definitely not here.
Charlotte was at the French doors to the garden, arms full. Rose broke away from the dance lines, limping dramatically. She joined Charlotte, linked arms, and they headed out with their steps as steady as drumbeats. Subtle, that girl was not.
His eyes already trained on the doors, Peter caught movement. Small man, dark hair, familiar jut of the shoulders,slipping into the side hallway. It was Clarence, Lord Kilairne,and the thrice-damned fool was alone.
Peter leapt down and made a beeline for the patio. Time was out.
He pushed into the chill of the extensive pleasure gardens. Moderate moonlight, meandering paths, hedges everywhere. If he had a party of ten, they could fan out and find her in minutes, but he did not.
Charlotte and Rose were headed left. Peter went right. He would have to run as fast as ten men, that was all. Knife made too much mess, so he paused to unscrew a piece from a cast-iron gate, weighing it in his hand as he jogged.
This was battle and Peter’s mind was clear.
He loved Celia, and no one else would care for her as he would. No one. He would go into that garden, he would find her. Maybe, she was just sitting by some fountain, contemplating something her brother had said. Maybe, he would have to kill Hargreaves.
Then, he was going to marry Celia.
Then, they were going to figure out how to take care of both Elinor and Marianne and everyone who needed them. Side by side, together.
Peter ran, breath smooth and slow. A wolf on the hunt.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Our Heroine’s Fate
Celia’s feet wentabruptly, shockingly cold.
This was not the main garden path, this was wet lawn. Tall yews blocking the moon, a folly tucked to the left of the garden room—it was one marble wall with artfully disintegrating Doric columns. Celia stumbled and Lord Edmund spun to face her, grabbed both elbows, and half-dragged, half-carried her towards it—no more my darling, my pretty—her chignon tumbled down, mantle slid under their feet, his boot rapped her shin.
He slammed her against the wall, hard. Celia’s head snapped backwards and the ragged stones scraped through her delicate gown. One of his hands pressed her arm into the cold stone, the other palm flat on the wall beside her head. Trapping her.
“Just where your aunt wanted to find you, isn’t it, my dear?” Lord Edmund waggled his eyebrows.
Celia shook her head, tried to pull away from the clammy stone. Clarence had said she would be fine. He had promised she would be safe.
