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“I’m afraid Cringlewood will try to get her alone out on the terrace,” Vivien urgently added, “or even the gardens.”
“Dammit, I told her why she had to avoid him. She couldn’t possibly be that daft.”
Vivien’s eyes popped wide. “You told her about Ainsley?”
“Only in general terms.”
She slapped a frustrated hand to the top of her head, dislodging one of her feathers. “Sabrina would be infuriated by that, you idiot. She probably felt compelled to confront Cringlewood herself.” Vivien grimaced. “She wouldn’t even recognize the danger, she’s so self-confident.”
Like Ainsley had been, before her assault.
Graeme took Vivien’s arm and hurried her down the stairs. She glanced over her shoulder. “I could sneak up and see where the thief went, if you like.”
“Absolutely not. You need to find Aden, tell him I’ve gone after Sabrina, and say that one of the thieves is upstairs. He’ll know what to do.”
“I’m quite capable of . . . Oh, hello, Lord Fotherby,” she said as they all but ran over a portly gentleman huffing up the stairs.
The old fellow plastered himself against the banister. “Lady Vivien, goodness gracious!”
“Sorry,” she called back. “Graeme, dear, we’re attracting attention.”
“As usual.” He pulled her over to the butler, who regarded them with genteel alarm. “Lady Vivien needs to find her husband immediately. Help her do so.”
“Of course, sir.”
Graeme spun on his heel and strode toward the back hall, ignoring the splutters of the outraged guests he pushed out of his way.
* * *
Sabrina ignored the thumping of her heart as she allowed Cringlewood to escort her from the ballroom. His lordship was famous for his handsome face and charming smiles, but now all she could see was the snake lurking beneath the polished façade.
If she had anything to say about it—and she had quitea lotto say about it—the snake would soon be slithering its way out of London, never to return. Sabrina intended to make it abundantly clear to the disgusting marquess that his days in thetonwere over.
“How delightful that you decided to stay a little longer, my dear,” Cringlewood purred, pressing her hand. “I had assumed you had departed with your dear papa. Imagine my joy to discover that such was not the case.”
Sabrina resisted the impulse to yank her hand away. “As I mentioned a few moments ago, I believe we should have a little chat.”
His gaze turned wary, but then he graciously inclined his head. “How delightful. Shall we stroll to the drawing room?”
“I thought perhaps the terrace. It’s quite stuffy in the house, and I noticed some of the guests availing themselves of the cooler air.”
Interest sparked in his eyes, which made her grind her back molars. Now he looked positively smug.
Though Sabrina needed a quiet spot to say what she needed to say, she wasn’t fool enough to go off alone with the brute. Lady Peregrim’s terrace was always popular during her summer parties, especially with the younger guests. There, they could chat with their chaperones close by, yet still have a bit of privacy.
“A little fresh air will be just the thing,” the marquess agreed in an oily tone.
The spacious terrace could be reached from the hallway, and they came out at the far end, where shallow steps led down to the gardens below. It was a little more private, but well within sight of the ballroom and its open French doors.
The terrace was illuminated only by light streaming from the ballroom and a few lanterns placed on wrought-iron tables. Sabrina blinked to clear her vision. When it cleared, she had to swallow an oath.
There were only two other people there—a couple who quickly scampered down another set of stairs into the darkness of the garden.
Drat and double drat.
Cringlewood chuckled. “A stroll in the garden under the moonlight. Perhaps we should do the same.”
“What an inappropriate suggestion,” Sabrina said in a clipped tone.
