Page 90 of One Night with a Rake

One needed a prospective bridegroom in order to steal away to Scotland. Where did a lady go when she wanted to steal herself?

Maybe Paris…

Her imagination whirred like a windmill in a gale.

She’d go to Paris. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it was a start.

To travel in safety, Georgette would need some portable wealth. She was wearing a strand of pearls with a ruby clasp. The locked jewelry chest in her chamber held a diamond brooch and a pair of emerald earbobs that were so heavy it hurt to wear them for an entire evening. The matching choker was fashioned of goodly sized gems. All told, the contents of her jewel box were enough to keep her comfortably for years.

“Maybe I can start a ‘House of Sirens’ type rehabilitation school for the demimonde of France,” she whispered to herself. Then because she couldn’t bear to give up completely on the dream of personal happiness, she added, “And maybe Nathaniel will come find me there.”

She dropped the curtain and turned away from the window, only to almost run headlong into Roger Fishwick.

“My lord, what are you doing here?” Georgette stumbled back a pace in surprise. She hadn’t heard his footfalls behind her and she was sure she’d not seen his name on the guest list.

“My apologies.” He executed a perfectly correct bow, but the bead of perspiration trickling from his temple marred the image of gentility he was trying to project. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy, and truth to tell, I had the devil’s own time getting past your staff, but I had no choice. I had to see you.”

A pompous blast of Purcell wafted up to the second-story parlor. The duke must have arrived. At any moment, the Handel tune that was her cue to appear would sound with a squeal of trumpets and full-throated strings.

“Now is not the most opportune—” she began.

“Oh, I know,” Roger interrupted and started pacing, wringing his hands as he went. “Do you think I don’t? This evening is supposed to be your great triumph, and believe me, the last thing I want to do is interfere.”

Then why was he, devil take the man? Roger had no way to know he was interfering with her determined flight away from her supposed “great triumph,” but he was still keeping her from her hastily assembled plans.

“I suppose they figured since you and I were childhood friends, I was the natural choice,” he mumbled.

The natural choice for what? The Purcell ended with a flourish and the silence from below was pregnant with anticipation. Once the Handel began, if Georgette didn’t appear, her mother would send a legion of servants to collect her. If she was going to make good her escape, she still needed to steal up to her chamber for the rest of her jewelry.

“They who?” she asked with undisguised impatience. “What are you talking about?”

“This.” He pulled out a bedraggled object that was tucked inside his waistcoat. The confection of lace was misshapen, as if it had been smashed by a carriage wheel, but Georgette recognized the cheerful scarlet tulle and tiny chain of embroidered daisies on the netting.

It was Mercy’s new bonnet.

She took it from his hands. “Where did you get this?”

“The hat was delivered to my house this evening along with a note.” He fished in his pockets, his expression more panicked each time he turned out one and it came up empty. “Don’t tell me I’ve lost it. Oh, no.”

He put both hands to his temples, clearly distressed. “I was certain I had it when I left the house, honestly. Oh, milady, please forgive me.”

“What did the note say?” Georgette demanded. A hollow sickness spread through her belly. Something horrible had happened to Mercy. She wouldn’t have parted with her beloved bonnet otherwise. “Has there been an accident?”

“An accident? No.” Roger rubbed his forehead as if he’d massage the information from his brain. “More like an abduction. The note said something on the order of how if you want your maid back, you must deliver a certain sum to a certain place by the stroke of midnight or…I’m sorry, milady. I can’t remember more.”

Georgette wanted to shake Roger Fishwick till his teeth rattled, but she forced herself to an outward show of calm. “What about Mr. Darling? The footman she was with is quite a formidable fellow.”

“They didn’t mention a footman.”

Some evil must have befallen Reuben Darling too. He’d never have let anything happen to Mercy otherwise. “Do you think you might have left the note at your home?”

His expression brightened at that, his pale eyes going round. “You know, I may have. I was in that much of a hurry to reach you with this news.”

A trio of brass trumpeted in the parlor below. Georgette bid her scheme of running away to France adieu and screwed up her courage to do what was necessary for Mercy.

“Will you take me to your town house so we can look for the note?” Georgette asked.

“Oh, most assuredly,” Roger said.