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“As are we,” Emeline said tightly. “Perhaps if you hurry, you will find him at your establishment.”
“But then again, we might pass each other as we travel,” Mr. Thornton said smoothly. “And wouldn’t that be a shame?”
“You can stay here and join us for tea while you wait for my brother’s return,” Rebecca said.
“Lovely, just lovely.” Mr. Thornton bowed and sat. “You are graciousness itself, Miss Hartley.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Rebecca said as she poured. “It’s only tea.”
“Yes, but many wouldn’t be so gracious”—he shot a sly look at Emeline—“to a working man and all. Why, I’m a simple cobbler at heart.”
“But you own your establishment,” Rebecca objected.
“Oh, indeed, indeed. I have a grand workshop. But it’s all built up by the sweat of my own brow. My father’s business was quite small.”
“Really?” Rebecca asked politely. “I didn’t know that.”
Mr. Thornton shook his head ruefully as if at the memory of his father’s small business. “I took it over right after I came back from the war in the Colonies. Six years ago, that was. Six long years of hard labor and worry to bring my business to what it is today. Why, I do declare, that I’d kill any man who sought to take my business from me.”
Rebecca was looking curiously at Mr. Thornton now. His words, after all, had been far too emphatic for the conversation. Emeline held her breath, watching the man, and as she stared, he did a very strange thing. He cocked his head at her, grinned widely, and winked one eye.
And Emeline felt a thrill of horror shoot through her completely out of proportion to the gesture he’d made.
SAM RODE HOME through the streets of London in a state of angry frustration. Thornton was neither at his home nor his place of business. Some of the information he’d learned today caused him to be anxious that Thornton might try to flee. This together with a kind of animal instinct made urgent the need to find Thornton immediately. Long years of hunting told him that his prey was about to bolt beyond his grasp. If he couldn’t find Thornton today, he’d have to give up the berths he’d bought for Rebecca and himself on The Hopper, sailing early on the morrow.
Then, too, staying longer in London would mean more days in proximity to Emeline. He wasn’t certain he could bear being close to her without going stark, raving mad.
A street urchin ran almost directly under his horse’s nose. The horse sidestepped nervously, and Sam had to pay attention to the reins for a moment. The child was long gone, of course. The boy had probably had thousands of such near-misses in his young life, for the streets of London seemed more like a surging river than a thoroughfare. Hawkers screamed their wares at corners and indeed in the middle of the street. Carriages trundled like elephants, inevitably blocking the way with their bulk. Chairmen bearing sedan chairs wove nimbly among the crowd. And people—men, women, children; infants in arms to old men with canes; high, low, and the multitude in between—all crowded round, each on their own business, each in a hurry to get there. It was a wonder that the very air wasn’t used up, inhaled by thousands of lungs.
Sam felt his own lungs seize at the thought, the illusion of all the air being sucked from the atmosphere infecting his brain. But that was nonsense. He concentrated on his horse and the path immediately in front of them, trying to block out the rest of the humanity surrounding them. He could breathe. There was plenty of air, though it reeked of sewage, rot, and smoke. There wasn’t anything at all wrong with his lungs.
He repeated these thoughts until the town house came into view. Rebecca would still be packing, but perhaps he could entice her to stop long enough for an early luncheon. He swung down from his horse just as one of the lumbering carriages drew up to the house next door—Emeline’s house. The crest on the polished black door bore Vale’s coat of arms. Sam quickened his step into his own house. There was no point in meeting Vale again; all that could be said had already been said there.
Inside, he gave his hat and cloak to the butler and inquired where his sister was.
“Miss Hartley has just left, sir,” the butler replied.
“Indeed?” Sam frowned. Had she gone to do some last-minute shopping? “How long ago?”
“About a half hour.”
“By herself? Did she walk or take the carriage?”
“She left in a carriage, sir, with Lady Emeline and Mr. Thornton.”
The butler turned away to hang up the cloak and hat, completely unaware of the effect of his words. Sam stared, his gut freezing into ice at the thought that his sister and his heart had somehow climbed voluntarily into a carriage with a rapist and murderer. But of course it couldn’t be voluntary. He hadn’t told Rebecca of his suspicions regarding Thornton, but Emeline knew of them. Why would she leave with Thornton knowing—
“What have you done with her?”
Sam whirled at the voice in time to be shoved roughly against the wall. A picture crashed to the floor, and Vale thrust his horribly bruised face at him. “Emmie came here over an hour ago. Where is she?”
Sam quelled the urge to simply punch the other man in the face. He’d already done that, and it hadn’t made matters any better. Besides, Vale cared for Emeline as well. “Emeline and Rebecca have left with Thornton.”
Vale sneered. “What rubbish. Why would Emmie go anywhere with that popinjay? You’ve got her hidden somewhere.” He propelled himself away from Sam and stood, legs spread wide in the hall. “Emmie! I say, Emmie! Come out at once!”
Wonderful. His only ally was a fool. Sam turned away, starting for the front door. He hadn’t time to convince Vale of what was really going on.
But another voice stopped him. “It’s true, my lord.”
